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. . . . . \ : 


OF  THE 

U N I VERS  ITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 


57 

435 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/cornpletepoetical00burn_1 


1 


THE 


COMPLETE 

flnetical  ani(  f) rxrjse  ®nrls 

OF 

ROBERT  BURNS: 

WITH 

LIFE,  NOTES,  AND  CORRESPONDENCE* 


A.  CUNNINGHAM,  Esq.. 


WITH 


Original  |pim8  from  % Collection  of  Sir  Cgerfon  §rgl>ges,  §art 

AND 

ILLUSTRATIONS. 


WORLD  PUBLISHING  HOUSE, 
139  Eighth  Street, 
NEW  YORK. 

1 8 7 6. 


Contents. 


life  nf  Entort  38mm 


PA.QE 


Initiatory  Remarks  • • • • 1 

Life 8 

Letter  of  a Lady  to  the  Dumfries  Journal 
on  the  Character,  &c.,  of  Burns  . 68 

An  Enquiry  into  the  Literary  Merits  of 
Burn*  «•••••  71 


pa  on 

Addenda : — 

Letter  of  Gilbert  Burns  to  Dr.  Carrie  87 
Second  Letter  of  Gilbert  Burns  . 88 

Widow,  Children,  and  ETother  of 

Burns 94 

Phrenological  Development  of  Burn*  , H 


ijMiral  ttfnrks  nf  Enbert  38mm 


The  Death  and  Dying  Words  of  Poor 
Mailie  ...•••  101 

Poor  Mailie’s  Elegy  • • • .102 

Epistle  to  Davie  . . • • • 102 

Address  to  the  Deil  • . • .103 

The  Auld  Farmer’s  New-Year  Morning 
Salutation  to  his  Auld  Mare  Maggie  105 
Halloween  .«••••  106 

A Winter  Night  . . . . . 108 

Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik  . . . . 109 

To  the  Same  . . . • ; 110 

To  William  Simpson  • • • .111 

Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook  . . . 113 

The  Holy  Fair  ......  114 

The  Ordination  . • • . . 117 

To  James  Smith  • . • • . . 118 

The  Jolly  Beggars— A Cantata  . • il9 

Man  was  Made  to  Mourn  • • .123 

To  a Mouse  ••••••  124 

The  Vision  : 124 

The  Author’s  Earnest  Cry  and  Prcyer  127 

Scotch  Drink 129 

Address  to  the  Unco  Good  • « • 130 

Tam  Samson’s  Elegy  . . . ,130 

Despondency  . . . . , 131 

The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night  • • • 132 

To  a Mountain  Daisy  . . . . 134 

Epistle  to  a Young  Friend  . . .135 

A Dedication  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.  136 
A Dream  ..•••••  137 
A Bard’s  Epitaph  • « • • 13S 

1 


The  Twa  Dogs  •«••••  139 
Lament  •••*••  141 

Address  to  Edinburgh  • . . .142 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr  ....  142 

On  Captain  Matthew  Henderson  . , 145 

Tam  O’  Shanter  • . . • * 146 

Tragic  Fragment  . . . . , 148 

Winter,  a Dirge 148 

A Prayer  under  the  Pressure  of  Violent 

Anguish 149 

A Prayer  on  the  Prospect  of  Death  • 149 

Stanzas  on  the  same  Occasion  . • 149 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Robert  Ruisseaux  149 

The  Calf 150 

The  Twa  Herds,  or  the  Holy  Tulzie  • 150 
Holy  Willie’s  Prayer  . . • • 151 

Epitaph  on  Holy  Willie  . . . .152 

Epistle  to  John  Gondie  of  Kilmarnock  152 
Epistle  to  John  Rankine  . . • 152 

Third  Epistle  to  John  Lapraik  . . 152 

Epistle  to  the  Rev.  John  M’ Math  • .153 

The  American  War  . . . . 154 

Second  Epistle  to  Davie,  a Brother  Poet  154 

To  Ruin 155 

The  First  Six  Verses  of  the  Ninetieth 
Psalm  .,,•••  155 

The  First  Psalm  • • • * .155 

To  a Louse  .;••••  156 

The  Inventory  .....  156 

A Note  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.  . 157 

Willie  Chalmers  • • • • • 157 

* 


yiii 


CONTENTS. 


FA.GK  I 

Lines  Written  on  a Bank  Note  • . 158 

To  a Kiss . 158 

Verses  Written  under  Violent  Grief  . 158 
Verses  Left  at  a Friend’s  House  where 
the  Author  Slept  one  Night  . . 158 

To  Mr.  M‘Adam 159 

Lines  on  Meeting  with  Basil,  Lord  Daer  159 
Epistle  to  Major  Logan  . • . 159 

I , ament  on  Leaving  Scotland  • «.  .ICO 

On  a Scotch  Bard  ....  160 

Written  on  a Blank  Leaf  of  a Copy  of  Poems  161 

The  Farewell 161 

To  a Haggis 161 

To  Miss  Logan,  with  Beattie’s  Poems  • 162 
Extempore  in  the  Court  of  Session  . 162 

To  the  Guidwife  of  Wauchope  House  . 162 
Verses  Written  under  the  Portrait  of 
Fergusson  the  Poet  . . . 163 

Inscription  on  the  Headstone  of  Fergusson  163 
Prologue,  Spoken  by  Mr.  Woods  on  his 

Benefit  Night 163 

Epistle  to  William  Creech  . . . 164 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  James  Hunter  Blair  165 
On  Scaring  some  Water-Fowl  in  Loch- 

Turit 165 

The  Humble  Petition  of  Bruar  Water  . 166 

The  Hermit 166 

Verses  written  over  the  Chimney-piece 
of  the  Inn  at  Kenmore,  Tay mouth  . 167 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Lord  Dundas  • 167 

Verses  written  by  the  Fall  of  Fyers  . 168 

On  Reading  of  the  Death  of  John  M‘Leod  168 
On  William  Smellie  . . . . 168 

Address  to  Mr.  William  Tytler  • .168 

A Sketch 169 

To  Miss  Cruikshanks  ....  189 
An  Extempore  Effusion,  on  being  Ap- 


pointed to  the  Excise  . . . 169 

To  Clarinda,  with  a Present  of  a Pair  of 
Drinking  Glasses  . . . .169 

To  Clarinda,  on  his  Leaving  Edinburgh  169 
Epistle  to  Hugh  Parker  . . . 170 

Written  in  Friar’s  Carse  Hermitage,  on 
. the  Banks  of  Nith  ....  170 
Extempore  to  Captain  Riddel  • . 171 

A Mother’s  Lament  . • • #171 

Elegy  on  the  Year  1788  • • 171 

Address  to  the  Tooth-Ache  . . . 172 

Ode,  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  Oswald  17? 
Letter  to  James  Tennant  . . . 172 

A Fragment,  Inscribed  to  the  Right  Hon. 

C.  J.  Fox 173 

On  Seeing  a Wounded  Hare  limp  by  me, 
which  a Fellow  had  just  Shot  • 173 

The  Kirk’s  Alarm,  a Satire  • • *174 

To  Dr.  Blackiock  ....  175 

Delia  175 

Sketch,  New-Year’s  Day  • . * 175 

Prologue,  spoken  at  the  Dumfries  Theatre  176 
Prologue,  for  Mr.  Sutherland’s  Benefit 
Night,  Dumfries  . . . . .176 

Written  to  a Gentleman  who  had  sent 
the  Poet  a Newspaper  . • • 177 

Peg  Nicholson  . • • • .177 

To  My  Bed 173 

First  Epistle  to  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry  • 178 
The  Five  Carlines  . . . . 179 

Second  Epistle  to  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry  180 

On  Captain  Grose’s  Peregrinations 


through  Scotland  9 • • .181 


Written  in  an  Envelope,  enclosing  a 
Letter  to  Captain  Grose 
Address  of  Beelzebub  to  the  President  of 
the  Highland.  Society 
Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  . . 

The  Whistle 

Elegy  on  Miss  Burnet  of  Monboddo 
Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn  . 
Lines  sent  to  Sir  John  Whiteford,  Bart. 
Third  Epistle  to  Mr  Graham,  of  Fintry 
Fourth  Epistle  to  Mr.  Graham,  of  Fintry 
The  Rights  of  Woman  .... 

A Vision  ...... 

Liberty,  a Fragment  .... 

To  Mr.  Maxwell,  on  his  Birth-Day 
On  Pastoral  Poetry  .... 

Sonnet,  on  Hearing  a Thrush  Sing  . 
The  Tree  of  Liberty  .... 

To  General  Dumourier 

Lines  sent  to  a Gentleman  whom  he  had 

Offended  

Monody  on  a Lady  Famed  for  Her  Caprice 
Epistle  from  iEsopus  to  Maria 
Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  Captain  Riddel  . 
Impromtu  on  Mrs.  Riddel’s  Birth-Day 
Verses  to  Miss  Graham  of  Fintry  . 
The  Vowels,  a Tale  ..... 
Verses  to  John  Rankine  • • 

On  Sensibility 

Address  Spoken  by  Miss  FonteneUe  on 
her  Benefit  Night  .... 

To  Chloris 

Address  to  the  Shade  of  Thomson 
Ballads  on  Mr.  Heron’s  Elections,  Ballad 

First • 

Ballad  Second,  The  Election 

Ballad  Third,  An  Excellent  New  Song  . 

On  Life 

Inscription  for  an  Altar  to  Independence 
On  the  Death  of  a Favourite  Child  . 

To  Mr.  Mitchell  • 

The  Ruined  Maid’s  Lament  • 

The  Dean  of  the  Faculty 

Verses  on  the  Destruction  of  the  Woods 

near  Drumlanrig 

On  the  Duke  of  Queensberry 
Verses  to  John  M‘Murdo  . . • 

On  Mr.  M‘Murdo,  Inscribed  on  a Pane 
of  Glass  in  his  House  . • 

Impromtu  on  Willie  Stewart  . • 

To  Miss  Jessy  Lewars  . • . 

Tibbie,  I hae  seen  the  Day  . . . 

Montgomery’s  Peggy  • • : 

Bonny  Peggy  Alison  .... 
Here’s  to  thy  Health,  my  Bonny  Lass 

Young  Peggy 

John  Barleycorn  ..... 
The  Rigs  o’  Barley  . • • • 

The  Ploughman  . • • • 

Song  composed  in  August  • • • 

Yon  Wild  Mossy  Mountains  . • 

My  Nannie,  O . . . • . 

Green  Grow  the  Rashes  • • • • 

The  Cure  for  all  Care  . • • • 

On  Cessnock  Banks  • • • • 

The  Highland  Lassie  . » • • 

Powers  Celestial  . . • « • 

From  thee,  Eliza  . » • • 

Menie  . ..•••• 

The  Farewell  • • & * < 


PAGl 

182 

182 

182 

183 

181 

ls4 

185 
183 
188 

186 
187 
187 

187 

188 
188 
188 
189 

189 
139 

190 

191 
191 
191. 

191 

192 
192 

192 

193 
193 

193 

193 

194 

195 
195 

195 

196 
198 
198 

197 
197 
197 

197 

198 
198 
198 
198 
198 

198 

199 

199 

200 
200 
200 
20L 
201 
202 
201 
203 
203 
203 
203 
203 

m 


CONTENTS. 


i* 


Flie  Braes  o*  Ballochmyle  • 

The  Lass  o’  Ballochmyle  . . • 

The  Gloomy  Night  is  Gathering  Fast 
The  Banks  o’  Doon  . . . • 

The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy  . ; • 

I’m  owre  Young  to  Marry  Yet  • » 

M‘Pher son’s  Farewell  . . . 

How  Long  and  Dreary  is  the  Night  • 
Here’s  a Health  to  Them  that’s  Awa 
Strathallan’s  Lament  . • • • 

The  Banks  of  the  Devon  . 

Braving  Angry  Winter’s  Storms  ; 
My  Peggy’s  Face  .... 
Raving  Winds  around  her  Blowing  .» 
Highland  Harry  .... 
Musing  on  the  Roaring  Ocean  • • 

Blythe  was  She  . . . . 

The  Gallant  Weaver  . . • . 

The  Blude-red  Rose  at  Yule  may  Blaw 
A Rose-bud  by  my  Early  Walk  • • 

Bonnie  Castle  Gordon  . . • 

When  Januar’  Wind  ...» 
The  Young  Highland  Rover  • • 

Bonnie  Ann  . • • • • 

Blooming  Nelly  . • • • 

My  Bonnie  Mary  • . • • 

Ane  Fond  Kiss  . • • • 

The  Smiling  Spring  • • • • 

The  Lazy  Mist  .... 

Of  a’  the  Airts  the  Wind  can  Blaw  • 
Oh,  were  I on  Parnassus’  Hill  • 
The  Che vallier’s  Lament  . • • 

My  Heart’s  in  the  Highlands  • 
John  Anderson  . . • • • 

To  Mary  in  Heaven  • • • 

Young  Jockey  . • . • • 

The  Day  Returns  . • • • 

Oh,  Willie  Brew’d  . . • 

I Gaed  a Wafu’  Gate  Yestreen  • 
The  Banks  of  Nith  .... 
My  Heart  is  a-breaking,  Dear  Tittie 
There’ll  never  be  Peace  . . • 

Meikle  thinks  my  Love  . . • 

How  can  I be  Blythe  and  Glad  • • 

I do  Confess  thou  art  sae  Fair  • 
Hunting  Song  . . . • • 

What  can  a Young  Lassie  • • 

The  Bonnie  Wee  Thing  • • • 

Lovely  Davies  ..... 
Oh,  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  • • 

Kenmure’s  on  and  Awa  . . • 

Bess  and  her  Spinning  Wheel  . . 

Oh  Luve  will  Venture  in 
In  Simmer,  when  the  Hay  was  Mawn 
Turn  again,  thou  Fair  Eliza  . 

Willie  Wastle 

Such  a Parcel  of  Rogues  in  a Nation 

Song  of  Death 

She’s  Fair  and  Fause  ... 
Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton  . • . 

The  Lovely  Lass  of  Inverness  . 

A red,  red  Rose  ..... 
Louis,  what  Reck  I by  Thee  • . 

The  Exciseman  . . • . . 

Somebody  ..... 
I’ll  aye  ca’  in  by  yon  Town  • • 

Wilt  thou  be  my  Dearie  ? . . 

Oh,  Wat  ye  Wha’s  in  yon  Town  . 
But  Lately  Seen  .... 
Could  ought  of  Song  .... 


FA.QS 

201 

205 

205 

205 

205 

206 
206 
206 
206 
207 
207 
207 

207 

208 
208 
208 
208 
20* 
209 
209 
209 

209 
2 0 

210 

210 

211 
21! 
211 
211 
211 
212 
212 
212 
213 
213 
213 
213 

213 

214 
214 
214 

214 

215 
215 
215 
215 

215 

216 
216 
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217 
217 
217 

217 

218 
218 
218 
219 
219 
219 

219 

220 
220 
220 
220 
220 
221 
221 
221 
221 


rial 

Oh,  Steel  her  up  . . . • .223 

It  was  a’  for  our  Rightfu’  King  • 2 23 

Oh,  ivha  is  She  that  Loes  me  ? . ( 223 

Caledonia 223 

Oh,  lay  thy  Loof  in  Mine,  Lasa  • . 223 

Anna,  thy  Charms  • • • • 223 

Gloomy  December  .....  223 

Oh,  Mally’s  meek,  Mally’s  sweet  • 2^4 

Cassillis’  Banks  .....  224 

My  Lady’s  Gown,  therj’s  Gairs  upon’t  224 
The  Fete  Champetre  ....  224 

The  Dumfries  Volunteers  ...  225 

Oh,  wert  Thou  in  the  Cault  Blast  • • 225 

Lovely  Polly  Stewart  ....  225 

Yestreen  I had  a Pint  o’  Wine  . . 2 <6 

The  Lea  Rig  . * • • . 2.6 

Bonnie  Lesley  . . . . .2  /3 

Will  ye  go  to' the  Indies,  my  Mary  T . 226 

My  Wife’s  a Winsome  Wee  Thing  . . 227 

Highland  Mary  . . • •«  • 227 

Auid  Rod  Morris  • • • • • 227 

Duncan  Gray  . • . . • 227 

Poort  th  Cauid  • . . . • 228 

Gala  Water  ......  228 

Lord  Gregory  •••••.  2^8 

Mary  Morison  .....  228 

Wandering  Willie  .....  229 

The  Soldier’s  Return  ....  229 

Biythe  hae  I been  on  yon  Hill  • • 230 

Logan  Braes 230 

Oh,  gin  my  Love  were  yon  Red  Rose  . 23C 

Bonnie  Jean 230 

Meg  o’  the  Mill  • . • • • 231 

Open  the  Door  to  me,  oh  * • . 23 1 

Young  Jessie 231 

Adown  winding  Nith  I did  Wander  . 231 

Had  I a Cave  ......  233 

Phillis  the  Fair 233 

By  Allan  Stream  I chanc’d  to  Rove  . 233 
Come  let  me  take  Thee  to  my  Breast  . 232 

Whistle  and  I’ll  Come  to  you,  my  Lad  . 233 
Dainty  Davie  • • • . • 233 

Bruce’s  Address  • • • • . 23$ 

Behold  the  Hour  • • • • 233 

Auld  Lang  Syne  • • . . . 234 

Where  are  the  Joys?  . • • . 231 

Thou  hast  Left  me  Ever  ....  234 
Deluded  Swain,  the  Pleasure  • • 234 

Thine  I am,  my  Faithful  Fair  • .234 

My  Spouse,  Nancy  ....  2 >5 

The  Banks  of  Cree  .....  235 
Oil  the  Seas  and  Far  Away  . . 235 

Ca’  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes  . . , 236 

She  says  she  Loes  me  Best  of  A*  . • 236 

Saw  ye  my  Philly  ? 236 

How' Long  and  Dreary  is  the  Night ! . 2a6 

Let  not  Woman  e’er  Complain  . . 237 

Sleep’st  thou,  or  Wak’st  thou  . . 237 

My  Chloris,  mark  how  Green  the  Groves  237 
It  was  the  Charn>:3g  Month  of  May  . 237 
Farewell,  thou  Stream  that  Winding 

Flows 237 

Lassie  wi’  the  Lint-white  Locks  . . 238 

Philly  and  Willy 238 

Contented  wi’  Little  ....  238 
Lan’st  thou  Leave  me  Thus  my  Katv?  239 
For  a’  That,  and  a’  That  . . . .239 

My  Nannie’s  Awa  ....  239 

Craigieburn  \V  ood  • • . : j 240 

Oh  Lassie,  art  thou  Sleeping  yet  • 244 


CONTENTS. 


s 


TAGE 

Addiess  to  the  "Woodlark  • . • 240 

On  Chloris  being  111  ...  • 240 

Their  Groves  o’  Sweet  Myrtle  • • 241 

How  Cruel  are  the  Parents  . . . 241 

’Twas  na  her  Bonnie  Blue  Ee  was  my 

Ruin • 241 

Mark  yon  Pomp  of  Costly  Fashion  • 241 

Oh,  this  is  no  my  Ain  Lassie  . . . 241 

Now  Spring  has  Clad  the  Grove  in  Green  242 

Oh,  Bonnie  was  yon  Rosy  Brier  . • 242 

Forlorn  my  Love,  no  Comfort  near  • 242 
Hey  lor  a Lass  wi’  a Tocher  • • 243 

Last  May  a Braw  Wooer  • • • «,  243 

Fragment  •..•••  243 

Jessy 243 

Fairest  Maid  on  Devon  Banks  • « 244 

Handsome  Nell  . . • • • 244 

My  Father  was  a Farmer  • « . 244 

Up  in  the  Morning  Early  • • • 245 

Hey,  the  Dusty  Miller  . • • • 245 

Robin  . . . . . • • 245 

The  Bells  of  Mauchline  • • • 245 

Her  Flowing  Locks  • • • • 245 

The  Sons  of  Old  Killie  • • • • 246 

The  Joyful  Widower  • • • • 246 

O,  Whare  did  you  Get  t • • • 246 

There  was  a Lass  . . * « ,246 

Landlady,  Count  the  Lawin  • • 246 

Rattlin’  Roarin’  Willie  . • • • 247 

Simmer’s  a Pleasant  Time  . • • 247 

My  Love  she’s  but  a Lassie  yet  • • 247 

The  Captain’s  Lady  . . . • 247 

First  when  Meggy  was  my  Care  • • 247 

There’s  a Youth  in  this  City  • • 248 

Oh  aye  my  Wife  she  Dang  me  • • 24s 

Eppie  Adair  ...•••  248 

The  Battle  of  Sheriff-Muir  . • . 248 

The  Highland  Widow’s  Lament  • • 249 

Whare  hae  ye  Been  1 . . • • 249 

Theniel  Menzie’s  Bonnie  Mary  • • 249 

Frae  the  Friends  and  Land  I Love  • 250 
Gane  is  the  Day  • • • «,  • 250 

The  Tither  Morn  • . « • • 250 

Come  Boat  me  o’er  lo  Charlie  • • 250 

It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  Bonnie  Face  • *250 

I hae  a Wife  o’  my  Ain  . • • 251 

Withsdale’s  Welcome  Home  • • .251 

My  Collier  Laddie  • • • • 251 

As  1 was  a -Wandering  • • • .251 

Ye  Jacobites  by  Name  • • • 252 

Lady  Mary  Ann  • • • • • 252 

Out  over  the  Forth  . . • • 252 

Jockey’s  taen  the  Parting  Kiss  • • 252 

The  Carles  o’  Dysart  . . • • 252 

Lady  Onlie  . . . . • • 253 

Young  Jamie,  Pride  of  a’ the  Plain  • 253 

Jenny’s  a’  wat,  Poor  Body  • • • 253 

The  Cardin’  o’t  .....  « 253 

To  thee.  Loved  Nith  • • • • 253 

Sae  Far  Awa  . . » « • 253 

Wae  is  my  Heart  . . • • • 254 

Amang  the  Trees  . • • . 254 

The  Highland  Laddie  ' . • • • 254 

Bannocks  o’  Barley  • • • • 254 

■Robin  Shure  in  Hairst  . • . • 254 

Sweetest  May  . • . . . 255 

The  Lass  of  Ecclefechan  • • • 255 

Here’s  a Bottle  and  an  Honest  Friend  255 
On  a Ploughman  • • • . . 255 

Xhe  Weary  Pund  o’  Tow  • • • 25$ 


The  Laddies  bj  the  Banks  o’  Nith  • 25S 

Epigrams,  &c 256 

On  Captain  Grose  . . . .256 

On  a Henpecked  Country  Squire  . 258 

Another  on  his  Widow-.  . . . 256 

On  Elphinstone’s  Translations  of  Mar- 
tial’s Epigrams 256 

On  Miss  J.  Scott,  of  Ayr  . . . 258 

On  an  Illiterate  Gentleman  . . 256 

Written  under  the  Picture  of  Miss 

Burns  256 

Written  on  the  Window  of  the  Inn  at 

Cnrron 256 

Written  on  a Pane  of  Glass  in  the  Inn 

at  Moffat 257 

Fragment 257 

On  Incivility  shown  him  at  Invernary  257 
Highland  Hospitality  ...  257 

Lines  on  Miss  Kemble  ....  257 
On  the  Kirk  at  Lamington  . . 257 

The  Solemn  League  and  Covenant  • 257 
On  a certain  Parson’s  Looks  . . 257 

On  Seeing  the  Beautiful  Seat  of  the 

Earl  of  * • * * 257 

On  the  Earl  of  • • • • . . . 257 

On  the  Same 257 

To  the  Same,  on  the  Author  being 
threatened  with  his  resentment  . 257 

On  an  Empty  Fellow  ....  258 
Written  on  a Pane  of  Glass,  oh  the 
Occasion  of  a National  Thanksgiving  258 
The  True  Loyal  Natives  . • . . 258 

Inscription  on  a Goblet  • . . 25$ 

Extempore  on  Mr.  Syme  • • • 258 

To  Mr.  Syme  . . • • • 258 

The  Creed  of  Poverty  ....  258 
Written  in  a Lady’s  Pocket  Book  • 258 

To  John  Taylor  • . • . • 258 

To  Miss  Fontenelle  • • • • 258 

The  Toast  . . • . • « • 259 

Excisemen  Universal  . . . 259 

To  Dr.  Maxwell,  on  Miss  Jessy  Staig’s 

recovery 259 

On  Jessy  Lewars  . • . • .259 

Toast  to  the  Same  • • • . 259 

Epitaph  on  the  Same  • « . . 259 

To  the  Same  . • • • . 259 

Graces  before  Meat  • • • • 259 


Epitaphs  . . . • • • 260 

On  the  Author’s  Father  . . . 2 CQ 

On  a Henpecked  Country  Squire  • 260 

On  a Celebrated  Ruling  Elder  • « 260 

On  a Noisy  Polemic  . • • • 260 

On  Wee  Johnny 260 


On  John  Dove,  Innkeeper,  Mauchline  260 
For  Robert  Aiken,  Esq.  ...  260 
On  a Friend  . • • • • 260 

For  Gavin  Hamilton  . . . . 260 

On  Wat  360 

On  a Schoolmaster  in  Cleish  Parish, 


Fifeshire  .....  261 

On  Mr.  W.  Cruikshanks  . • .261 

For  William  Nicol  . • . . 261 

On  W 261 

On  the  Same  ....  .261 

On  Gabriel  Richardson,  Brewer  . • 261 

On  John  Busby,  Writer,  Dumfries  . 261 
On  the  Poet’s  Daughter  . . . 26! 


On  a Picture  representing  Jacob’s 
Dream  • • « . e « 


CONTENTS. 


*X 


nf  %nm. 


PAGE 

Tc  Mr.  John  Mur/ loch,  Schoolmaster  • 265 

To . [An  cany  Love  Letter]  . 266 

To  the  Same  ••••••  266 

To  the  Same  • • • • • 267 

To  the  Same  ..;•••  268 
To  Mr.  James  Burness,  Writer  . • 268 

To  Mr.  James  Burness,  Montrose  • • 269 

To  the  Same 269 

To  Mr.  James  Smith,  Mauchline  • • 270 

To  Mr.  John  Richmond,  Edinburgh  . 270 

To  Mr.  John  Kennedy  . . • • 271 

To  Mr.  Robert  Muir,  Kilmarnock  • 271 

To  Mr.  Aiken ,271 

To  Mr.  M’Whinnie,  Writer,  Ayr  • 272 

To  Mr.  John  Kennedy  . . • • 272 

To  Mr.  John  Ballantine,  of  Ayr  • • 272 

To  Mr.  David  Brice  . • • ,272 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of  Dunlop  . , 273 

To  Mr.  John  Richmond,  Edinburgh  • 273 
To  Mr  David  Brice,  Shoemaker  • 273 

To  Mr.  John  Richmond  . . • .274 

To  Mr.  Robert  Muir,  Kilmarnock  , 274 

To  Mr.  John  Kennedy  . • • .274 

To  Mr.  Burness,  Montrose  • , • 274 

To  Mr.  Robert  Aiken  . . « .275 

To  Mrs.  Stewart,  of  Stair  • • , 276 

In  the  name  of  the  Nine  . • • 276 

To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  Mauchline  . 277 

To  John  Ballantine,  Esq.,  Banker,  Ayr  . 277 
To  Mr.  WilUam  Chalmers,  Writer,  Ayr  278 
To  Dr.  Mackenzie,  Mauchline  , • 278 

To  John  Ballantine,  Esq.  • • • 278 

To  the  Earl  of  Eglinton  , , , 279 

To  John  Ballantine,  Esq.  , , .279 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . . , • . 279 

To  Dr.  Moore  ..••••  280 
To  the  Rev.  G.  Lawrie,  Newmills  . 281 

To  James  Dairy mple,  Esq.,  Orangefield  . 281 

To  Dr.  Moore 282 

To  John  Ballantine,  Esq.  , • . 282 

To  Mr.  William  Dunbar  • , • 28  i 

To  the  Earl  of  Glencairn  • . . 283 

To  Mr.  James  Candlish,  Student  in  Physic  283 

To , on  Fergusson’s  Headstone  . 283 

To  the  Earl  of  Buchan  • • • 284 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . , , , . 285 

To  the  Same  .,,•••  285 
To  Dr.  Moore  , • • , • 286 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop 286 

To  James  Johnson,  Editor  of  the  “Scots 
Musical  Museum  ” . . • 286 

To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Hugh  Blair  . . . 287 

To  William  Creech,  Esq.,  Edinburgh  . 287 

To  Mr.  James  Candlish  ....  287 
To  Mr.  Patison,  Bookseller,  Paisley  . 287 

To  Mr.  W.  Nicol,  Master  of  the  High 
School,  Edinburgh  ....  288 

To  William  Nicol,  Esq 288 

To  Mr.  W.  Nicol,  Master  of  the  High 
School,  Edinburgh  ....  288 

To  William  Cruikshank,  St.  James’s 
Square,  Edinburgh  . . . . 289 

To  Mr.  John  Richmond  • • • . 289 

To:  Robert  Ainslie,  Esq.  . • , 290 

To  the  Same  ......  290 


To  Mr.  Robert  Muir  • 

• 

• 

290 

To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq. 

• 

291 

To  Mr.  Walker,  of  Blair  Athole 

# 

292 

To  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns 

# 

• 

292 

To  Miss  Margaret  Chalmers 

• 

293 

To  the  Rev.  John  Skinner 

, 

• 

293 

To  James  Hoy,  Esq.,  Gordon  Castle 

294 

To  the  Same 

• 

294 

To  Robert  Ainslie,  Esq.,  Edinburgh 

295 

To  the  Earl  of  Glencairn 

, 

• 

295 

To  Charles  Hay,  Esq.,  Advocate 

296 

To  Miss  M N.  . . 

• 

296 

To  Miss  Chalmers  • 

• 

• 

296 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

• 

296 

To  the  Same  . • » 

• 

• 

297 

To  the  Same  . . ; 

• 

* 

297 

To  Sir  John  Whitefoord 

• 

i 

298- 

Miss  Margaret  Chalmers 

, 

*98 

To  Miss  Williams,  on  reading  her  Poem 

299 

To  Mr.  Richard  Brown,  Irvine 

300 

To  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton  • 

# 

301 

To  Clarinda  . • . 

• 

301 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

302 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

302 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

303 

To  the  Same  • . • 

• 

304 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

305 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

305 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

306 

To  the  Same  . • • 

• 

307 

To  the  Same  . • , 

• 

• 

308 

To  Mrs  Dunlop  • » 

• 

308 

To  Clarinda  • • • 

• 

• 

309 

To  the  Same  • • • 

309 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

* 

310 

To  th$  Same  . • • 

• 

310 

To  the  Same  « • • 

• 

• 

310 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

311 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

• 

312 

To  the  Same  • • • 

312 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 

312 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  • • 

• 

313 

To  Clarinda 

. 

313 

To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintry 

313 

To  the  Rev.  John  Skinner 

% 

314 

To  Richard  Brown 

314 

To  Mrs.  Rose,  cf  Kilravock 

• 

314 

To  Clarinda  . . . 

315 

To  Miss  Chalmers  , • 

• 

• 

315 

To  Richard  Brown  • 

• 

316 

To  Miss  Chalmers  • • 

• 

• 

316 

To  Clarinda  . • 

316 

To  Mr.  William  Cruikshank  • 

317 

To  Robert  Ainslie,  Esq. 

, 

317 

To  Clarinda  . . • 

• 

• 

318 

To  Richard  Brown  • 

• 

319 

To  Mr.  Muir  • s • 

• 

3i9 

To  Clarinda  • • 

• 

320 

To  Miss . . . 

• 

320 

To  Miss  Chalmers  • 

320 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  • • 

• 

• 

321 

To  Richard  Brown  . 

• 

321 

To  Mr.  Robert  Clegliorn 

• 

: 

321 

To  Miss  Chalmers 

. 

322 

To  Mr.  William  Dunbar,  Edinburgh 

CONTENTS. 


jdi 


#aOB 


To  Mrs  Dunlop  • • • 

. 

, 

323 

To  Mr  James  Smith,  Avon  Printfield 

323 

To  Professor  Dugald  Stewart  . 

. 

. 

324 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  • • « • 

324 

To  Mr  Robert  Ainslie  • « 

• 

. 

324 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . • • • 

324 

To  the  Same  . . • • 

• 

# 

325 

To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie  • • • 

325 

To  the  Same  . • • • 

• 

326 

To  the  Same  . . • • • 

326 

To  Mr.  Peter  Hill  . . . 

• 

. 

327 

To  Mr.  George  Lockhart  • • 

328 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . » 

• 

, 

328 

To  Mr.  William  Cruikshanks  » 

329 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  • . • 

• 

, 

329 

To  the  Same  . • ; • • 

330 

To  Mr.  Beugo  .... 

• 

, 

331 

To  Miss  Chalmers,  Edinburgh  * 

332 

To  Mr.  Morrison,  Mauchllne  . 

• 

333 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of  Dunlop  . . 

333 

To  Mr.  Peter  ITill 

. 

. 

334 

To  the  Editor  of  “ Edinburgh  Evening 

Courant  ” 

335 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  • • • 

• 

. 

336 

To  Mr.  James  Johnson  • . 

336 

To  Dr.  Blacklock  . • • 

337 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  • . • • 

337 

To  Miss  Davies  • • 

• 

. 

338 

To  Mr.  John  Tennant  . . . 

338 

To  the  Rev.  F.  Carfrae  • . 

• 

339 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . . • • 

: 

339 

To  Dr.  Moore  . . • • 

• 

, 

340 

To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie  . • • 

341 

To  Professor  Dugald  Stew&rt  • 

, 

341 

To  Bishop  Geddes  • • • • 

342 

To  Mr.  James  Burness  • • 

• 

342 

To  Mrs  Dunlop  • • • . 

343 

To  Mr. .... 

i 

344 

To  Dr.  Moore  • • • • 

344 

To  Mr.  Hill  .... 

# 

. 

345 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . . . • 

346 

To  Mrs  M’Murdo  . • • 

. 

346 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  . . • 

346 

To  Mr.  Samuel  Brown,  • . 

. 

347 

To  Richard  Brown  . . • 

347 

To  Mr  James  Hamilton  . • 

# 

348 

To  William  Creech,  Esq.  . • 

348 

To  Mr.  M’Auley,  ot  Dumbarton 

. 

. 

348 

To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie  • • • 

349 

To  Mr.  M’Murdo  . • • 

# 

319 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  .... 

350 

To  Miss  Williams  • • • 

• 

. 

350 

To  Mr.  John  LogaB  • • • 

351 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  ... 

. 

351 

To  Captain  Riddel,  CarM  • • 

352 

To  Captain  Riddel  . . • 

. 

. 

352 

To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie  . • • 

353 

To  Mr.  Richard  Brown  • • 

. 

. 

353 

To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.  • 

354 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop 

. 

. 

354 

To  Lady  Winfred  Maxwell  Constable 

355 

To  Provost  Maxwell  . • 

. 

. 

354 

To  Mr.  Sutherland,  Player  . • 

356 

To  Sir  John  Sinclair  . 

. 

. 

357 

To  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns  . . • 

357 

To  Mr.  William  Dunbar,  W.S. 

* 

. 

358 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  .... 

358 

To  Mr.  Peter  Hill,  Bookseller,  Edinburgh 

359 

To  Mr.  W.  Nicol  . . 

• 

. 

360 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  • 9 • 

• 

361 

To  Mr  Hill  • • « • 

• 8o2 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  ; • „ 

. 362 

To  Mr.  Collector  Mitchell.  • 

. 363 

To  Dr.  Moore  . . « 

# 3C4 

To  Mr.  Murdoch,  London,  « 

, 364 

To  Mr.  M’Murdo  . • • 

• 865 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  • • • 

. 365 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  • • 

5 365 

To  Dr.  Anderson  . • 4 

. 366 

To  Crauford  Tait,  Esq.  ; 

# 3G6 

To  Dr.  Blacklock  . • • 

, 367 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . , « 

# 367 

To  Charles  Sharpe,  Esq.  . . 

. 368 

To  Lady  W.  M.  Constable  . 

. 368 

To  Mr.  William  Dunbar,  W.S. 

i 369 

To  Mr.  Peter  Hill  • . 

. 369 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  • • 

. 370 

To  A F.  Tytler,  Esq.  . . 

. 370 

To 

, 370 

To  the  Rev.  G.  Baird  . • 

, 370 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . • • 

. 371 

To  the  Rev.  Arch.  Alison  • 

# 37  L 

To  Dr.  Moore  . . . • 

, 372 

To  Mrs.  Graham  . . • 

# 373 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  . . 

. 373 

To  Mr.  Alexander  Dalziel  • 

. 374 

To  Mrs  Dunlop  . . # 

. 374 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  • i 

# 375 

To  the  Earl  of  Buchan  • • 

. 375 

To  Lady  E.  Cunningham  i 

. 376 

To  Mr  Thomas  Sloan  • i 

i 376 

To  Colonel  Fullarton  • • 

. 376 

To  Miss  Davies . • • • 

. 377 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . • • 

# 377 

To  Mr.  Ainslie  . • • • 

s 

. 378 

To .... 

. 373 

To  Francis  Grose,  Esq.,  F.S.A. 

# 379 

To  Mr.  William  Smellie,  Printer 

. 379 

To  Mr.  William  Nicol 

. 379 

To  Francis  Grose,  Esq.,  F.S.A. 

. 380 

To  Mr  J.  Clarke  . • • 

. 381 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . • • 

. 382 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  . • • 

. 383 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • 

. 384 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

. 384 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . • < 

. 385 

To  the  Same  . . # • 

. 3J-5 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • 

. 385 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

# 386 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

s 387 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

. 387 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  # 

. 383 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

. 389 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

# 389 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . • • 

. 389 

To  R Graham,  Esq.,  Fintry 

. 390 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  • . • 

. 3;  0 

To  the  Same  .... 

. 391 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

. 391 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  ^ 

, 392 

Poster. ipt,  from  the  Hon.  A.  Erskine  . 392 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

. 393 

To  Clarinda  . . • • 

. 393 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  . • 

. 391 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  » • 

, 394 

To  Miss  Benson  . . • 

. 393 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

. 395 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • 

. 3f  r 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • « 

» 396 

To  Patrick  Miller,  Esq.  9 

9 397 

CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

T*.  John  Francis  Erskine, 

. 397 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • « 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns 

. 399 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  « « 

# 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  # 

, 399 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • » 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

. 400 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • • 

# 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • 

. 400 

Burns  to  Mr  Thomson  » « 

To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie. 

. 400 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • « 

• 

To  Miss  Kennedy  . • 

. 401 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  # » 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

. 402 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • • 

• 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

. 402 

Mr  Thomson  to  Burns  » • 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns 

. 402 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • a „ 

• 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

. 403 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 0 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

. 403 

To  Peter  Miller,  Jun.,  Esq.  • • 

• 

Mr  Thomson  to  Burns  • 

. 404 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • « 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

. 404 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • • 

i 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

. 404 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  * • 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns 

. 40.3 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • « 

• 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

. 405 

Burns  to  Mr  Thomson  • • 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

. 4)5 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • • 

• 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

. 406 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

. 406 

To  Mrs.  Riddel  • • • • 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

. 406 

To  the  Same  • • • • 

To  Miss  Craik  . • 

. 406 

To  Mr.  Heron,  of  Heron  • • 

• 

To  Lady  Glencairn  . • 

. 407 

To  Miss  Fontenelle  • • • 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns 

. 408 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • • 

# 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

. 408 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

. 409 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • * . 

• 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • 

# 409 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  # • 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

. 410 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • • 

• 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

• 411 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • 

Mr.  Thomsen  to  Burns 

. 412 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • • 

# 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  . 

. 412 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

* 413 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • • 

• 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • 

. 413 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . • • • 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns 

. 4 4 

To  Mr.  Alexander  Findlater  . • 

To  John  M’Murdo,  Esq.  . 

. 414 

To  the  Editor  of  the  “Morning  Cliron 

licle” 

To  the  Same  . • # 

. 415 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . . . • 

To  Captain # • • 

. 415 

Address  of  the  Scotch  Distillers  • 

# 

To  Mrs.  Riddel  . • 

# 415 

To  the  Hon.  the  Provost,  Bailies, 

and 

To  a Lady  • 

. 416 

Town  Council  of  Dumfries  • 

To  the  Earl  of  Buchan. 

. 416 

To  Mrs.  Riddel  • • • • 

# 

To  Captain  Miller  • • 

. 416 

To  Mrs  Dunlop  • • • * 

To  Mrs.  Riddel  • • 

• 416 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • • 

To  the  Same  • • • 

. 417 

Burns  to  Mr  Thomson  • • 

To  the  Same  • • • 

• 417 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • • 

• 

To  the  Same  • • • 

. 417 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • * 

To  the  Same . . « 

. 417 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • • 

• 

To  John  Syme,  Esq.  • 

. 418 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • 

To  Miss . • 

• 418 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  • • • 

• 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  * 

. 419 

To  Mrs.  Riddel  • • • • 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns 

. 419 

To  Mr.  Clarke  • • • • 

* 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  . 

. 420 

To  Mr  James  Johnson,  • # 

To  the  Earl  of  Glencairn 

. 420 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  « • • 

• 

To  David  Macculloch,  Esq. 

. 421 

To  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns  # • 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  . 

. 421 

To  Mrs.  Burns  • • • • 

• 

To  Mr.  James  Johnson  • 

. <121 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  < • • 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson 

• 422 

To  Mr.  James  Burness  • • * 

i 

To  Mr.  Samuel  Clarke,  Jun 

, 422 

Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  « • 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns 

» 422 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns  • • , 

# 

Burns  to  Mr  Thomson  • 

• 422 

To  James  Grade,  Esq.  , • 

Mr.  Thomson  to  Burns 

• 423 

To  Mr.  James  Armour  t • • 

• 

Noras  to  the  Life  of  Burns  •••••• 

Notes  to  the  Poems  of  Burns  •••••• 

Notes  to  the  Correspondence  of  Burns  • • • 9 • 

SiLOBBAUT 


xili 

noi 

423 

423 

424 

425 

425 

427 

427 

428 

429 

429 

430 

431 

431 

432 

432 

432 

432 

433 

433 

433 

434 

434 

435 

435 

435 

435 

436 

436 

437 

437 

437 

437 

437 

433 

’ 438 

439 

440 

441 

441 

441 

442 

442 

442 

443 

443 

443 

443 

444 

444 

444 

444 

445 

445 

445 

446 

446 

446 

447 

447 

449 

47S 

511 

m 


tiff  of  larto. 


lift  nf  Untied  Sums. 


Saifiatnnj  Ktraartti. 

Though  the  dialect  in  winch  many  of  the 
happiest  effusions  of  Robert  Burns  are 
composed  be  peculiar  to  Scotland,  yet  his 
reputation  has  extended  itself  beyond  the 
Jim.ts  of  that  country,  and  his  poetry  has 
been  admired  as  the  offspring1  of  original 
genius,  by  persons  of  taste  in  every  part  of 
the  sister  islands.  It  seems  proper,  there- 
fore, to  write  the  memoirs  of  his  life,  not 
with  the  view  of  their  being  read  by  Scotch- 
men only,  but  also  by  natives  of  England, 
and  of  other  countries  where  the  English 
language  is  spoken  or  understood. 

Robert  Burns  was,  in  reality,  what  he  has 
been  represented  to  be,  a Scottish  peasant. 
To  render  the  incidents  of  his  humble  story 
generally  intelligible,  it  seems,  therefore, 
advisable  to  prefix  some  observations  on  the 
character  and  situation  of  the  order  to  which 
he  belonged — a class  of  men  distinguished 
by  many  peculiarities : by  this  means  we 
shall  form  a more  correct  notion  of  the 
advantages  with  which  he  started,  and  of 
the  obstacles  which  he  surmounted.  A few 
observations  on  the  Scottish  peasantry  will 
pot,  perhaps,  be  found  unw  orthy  of  atten- 
tion in  other  respects — and  the  subject  is, 
W a great  measure,  new.  Scotland  has 
£ 


produced  persons  of  high  distinction  in 
every  branch  of  philosophy  and  literature  ; 
and  her  history,  while  a separate  and  inde- 
pendent nation,  has  been  successfully  ex* 
plored.  But  the  present  character  of  the 
people  was  not  then  formed,  the  nation  then 
presented  features  similar  to  those  which 
the  feudal  system  and  the  Catholic  religion 
had  diffused  over  Europe,  modified,  indeed, 
by  the  peculiar  nature  of  her  territory  and 
climate.  The  Reformation,  by  which  such 
important  changes  were  produced  on  the 
national  character,  was  speedily  followed  by 
the  accession  of  the  Scottish  monarchs  #to 
the  English  throne;  and  the  period  which 
elapsed  from  that  accession  to  the  Union, 
has  been  rendered  memorable,  chiefly,  by 
those  bloody  convulsions  in  which  both 
divisions  of  the  island  were  involved,  and 
which,  in  a considerable  degree,  concealed 
from  the  eye  of  the  historian  the  domestic 
history  of  the  people,  and  the  gradual  varia- 
tions in  their  condition  and  manners.  Since 
the  Union,  Scotland,  though  the  seat  of 
two  unsuccessful  attempts  to  restore  the 
house  of  Stuart  to  the  throne,  has  enjoyed 
a comparative  tranquillity;  and  it  is  since 
this  period  that  the  present  character  of  her 
peasantry  has  been  in  a great  measure 
formed,  though  the  political  causes  affecting 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ft  are,  to  be  traced  to  the  previous  acts  of 
her  separate  legislature. 

A slight  acquaintance  with  the  peasan- 
try of  Scotland  will  serve  to  convince  an 
unprejudiced  observer,  that  they  possess  a 
degree  of  intelligence  not  generally  found 
among  the  same  class  of  men  in  the  other 
countries  of  Europe.  In  the  very  humblest 
condition  of  the  Scottish  peasants,  every 
one  can  read,  and  most  persons  are  more  or 
less  skilled  in  writing  and  arithmetic ; and, 
under  the  disguise  of  their  uncouth  appear- 
ance, and  of  their  peculiar  manners  and 
dialect,  a stranger  will  discover  that  they 
possess  a curiosity,  and  have  obtained  a 
degree  of  information,  corresponding  to 
these  acquirements. 

These  advantages  they  owe  to  the  legal 
provision  made  by  the  Parliament  of  Scot- 
land in  1646,  for  the  establishment  of  a 
school  in  every  parish  throughout  the 
kingdom,  for  the  express  purpose  of  educa- 
ting the  poor — a law  which  may  challenge 
comparison  with  any  act  of  legislation  to 
be  found  in  the  records  of  history,  whether 
we  consider  the  wisdom  of  the  ends  in 
view,  the  simplicity  of  the  means  employed, 
or  the  provisions — made  to  render  these 
means  effectual  to  their  purpose.  This  ex- 
cellent statute  was  repealed  on  the  accession 
of  Charles  II.  in  1660,  together  with  all  the 
other  laws  passed  during  the  Common- 
wealth, as  not  being  sanctioned  by  the  Royal 
assent.  It  slept  during  the  reigns  of  Charles 
and  James  II.,  but  was  re-enacted  precisely 
in  the  same  terms,  by  the  Scottish  Parlia- 
ment, in  1696,  after  the  Revolution ; and 
this  is  the  last  provision  on  the  subject. 
Its  effects  on  the  national  character  may  be 
considered  to  have  commenced  about  the 
period  of  the  Union,  and  doubtless  it  co- 
operated with  the  peace  and  security  arising 
from  that  happy  event,  in  producing  the 
extraordinary  change  in  favour  of  industry 
and  good  morals,  which  the  character  of  the 
common  people  of  Scotland  has  since  under- 
gone. 

The  church  establishment  of  Scotland 
happily  coincides  with  the  institution  just 
anentioned,  which  may  be  called  its  school 
establishment.  The  clergyman,  being  every- 
where resident  in  his  particular  parish, 
becomes  the  natural  patron  and  superinten- 
dant  of  the  parish  school,  and  is  enabled  in 
various  ways  to  promote  the  comfort  of  the 
teacher,  and  the  proficiency  of  the  scholars. 
The  teacher  himself  is  often  a candidate 
for  holy  orders,  who,  during  the  long  course 
of  study  and  probation  required  in  the 
Scottish  church,  renders  the  time  which  can 


be  spared  from  his  professional  studies  useftd 
to  others  as  well  as  to  himself,  by  assuming 
the  respectable  character  of  a schoolmaster. 
It  is  common  for  the  established  schools, 
even  in  the  country  parishes  of  Scotland,  to 
enjoy  the  means  of  classical  instruction', 
and  many  of  the  farmers,  and  some  even 
of  the  cottagers,  submit  to  much  privation, 
that  they  may  obtain,  for  one  of  their 
sons  at  least,  the  precarious  advantage  of 
a learned  education.  The  difficulty  to  be 
surmounted  arises  indeed,  not  from  the 
expense  of  instructing  their  children,  but 
from  the  charge  of  supporting  them.  In  the 
country  parish  schools,  the  English  lan- 
guage, writing  and  accounts,  are  generally 
taught  at  the  rate  of  six  shillings,  and 
Latin  at  the  rate  of  ten  or  twelve  shillings, 
per  annum.  In  the  towns  the  prices  are 
somewhat  higher. 

It  would  be  improper  in  this  place  to 
inquire  minutely  into  the  degree  of  instruc- 
tion received  at  these  seminaries,  or  to 
attempt  any  precise  estimate  of  its  effects, 
either  on  the  individuals  who  are  the  sub- 
jects of  this  instrnction,  or  on  the  com- 
munity to  which  they  belong.  That  it  is, 
on  the  whole,  favourable  to  industry  and 
morals,  though  doubtless  with  some  indi- 
vidual exceptions,  seems  to  be  proved  by 
the  most  striking  and  decisive  experience ; 
and  it  is  equally  clear,  that  it  is  the  cause  of 
that  spirit  of  emigration  and  of  adventure 
so  prevalent  among  the  Scotch.  Knowledge 
has,  by  Lord  Verulam,  been  denominated 
power ; by  others  it  has,  with  less  propriety, 
been  denominated  virtue  or  happiness : we 
may  with  confidence  consider  it  as  motion. 
A human  being,  in  proportion  as  he  is 
informed,  has  his  wishes  enlarged,  as  well 
as  the  means  of  gratifying  those  wishes. 
He  may  be  considered  as  taking  within  the 
sphere  of  his  vision  a large  portion  of  the 
globe  on  which  we  tread,  and  discovering 
advantage  at  a greater  distance  on  its  sur- 
face. His  desires  or  ambition,  once  excited, 
are  stimulated  by  his  imagination;  and 
distant  and  uncertain  objects,  giving  freer 
scope  to  the  operation  of  this  faculty,  often 
acquire,  in  the  mind  of  the  youthful  adven- 
turer, an  attraction  from  their  very  distance 
and  uncertainty.  If,  therefore,  a greater  de- 
gree of  instruction  be  given  to  the  peasantry 
of  a country  comparatively  poor,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  other  countries  rich  in 
natural  and  acquired  advantages,  and  if 
the  barriers  be  removed  that  kept  them 
separate,  emigration  from  the  former  to  the 
latter  will  take  place  to  a certain  extent, 
by  laws  nearly  as  uniform  those  by 


RELIGIOUS  EDUCATION, 


1 


rhicli  heat  diffuses  itself  among  surrounding 
bodies,  or  water  finds  its  level  when  left  to 
its  natural  course.  By  the  articles  of  the 
Union,  the  barrier  was  broken  down  which 
divided  the  two  British  nations,  and  know- 
ledge and  poverty  poured  the  adventurous 
natives  of  the  north  over  the  fertile  plains 
of  England ; and  more  especially,  over  the 
colonies  which  she  had  settled  in  the  east 
ftnd  in  the  west.  The  stream  of  population 
continues  to  flow  from  the  north  to  the 
south,  for  the  causes  that  originally  impelled 
it  continue  to  operate;  and  the  richer 
country  is  constantly  invigorated  by  the 
accession  of  an  informed  and  hardy  race 
of  men,  educated  in  poverty,  and  prepared 
for  hardship  and  danger;  patient  of  labour 
and  prodigal  of  life. 

The  preachers  of  the  Reformation  in 
Scotland  were  disciples  of  Calvin,  and 
brought  with  them  the  temper  as  well  as 
the  tenets  of  that  celebrated  heresiarch. 
The  Presbyterian  form  of  worship  and  of 
church  government  was  endeared  to  the 
people,  from  its  being  established  by  them- 
selves. It  was  endeared  to  them,  also,  by 
the  struggle  it  had  to  maintain  with  the 
Catholic  and  Protestant  episcopal  churches ; 
over  both  of  which,  after  a hundred  years 
of  fierce,  and  sometimes  bloody  contention, 
it  finally  triumphed,  receiving  the  counte- 
nance of  government  and  the  sanction  of 
law.  During  this  long  period  of  contention 
and  of  suffering,  the  temper  of  the  people 
became  more  and  more  obstinate  and 
bigoted ; and  the  nation  received  that  deep 
tinge  of  fanaticism  which  coloured  their 
public  transactions,  as  well  as  their  private 
virtues,  and  of  which  evident  traces  may  be 
found  in  our  own  times.  When  the  public 
schools  were  established,  the  instruction 
communicated  in  them  partook  of  the  re- 
ligious character  of  the  people.  The  Cate- 
chism of  the  Westminster  Divines  was  the 
universal  school-book,  and  was  put  into  the 
hands  of  the  young  peasant  as  soon  as  he 
had  acquired  a knowledge  of  his  alphabet ; 
and  his  first  exercise  in  the  art  of  reading, 
introduced  him  to  the  most  mysterious 
doctrines  of  the  Christian  faith.  This  prac- 
tice is  continued  in  our  own  times.  After  the 
Assembly’s  Catechism,  the  Proverbs  of  Solo- 
mon, and  the  New  and  Old  Testament  follow 
in  regular  succession;  and  the  scholar  de- 
parts, gifted  with  the  knowledge  of  the 
sacred  writings,  and  receiving  their  doctrines 
Recording  to  the  interpretation  of  the  West- 
minster Confession  of  Faith.  Thus,  with  the 
instruction  of  infancy  in  the  schools  of 
Scotland,  are  blended  the  dogmas  of  the 

2 


national  church;  and  hence  the  first  and 
most  constant  exercise  of  ingenuity  among 
the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  is  displayed  in 
religious  disputation.  With  a strong  attach- 
ment to  the  national  creed,  is  conjoined  a 
bigoted  preference  for  certain  forms  of  wor«. 
ship;  the  source  of  which  would  be  often 
altogether  obscure,  if  we  did  not  recollect 
that  the  ceremonies  of  the  Scottish  Church 
were  framed  in  direct  opposition,  in  every 
point,  to  those  of  the  Church  of  Rome. 

The  eccentricities  of  conduct,  and  singu- 
larities of  opinion  and  manners,  which  cha- 
racterised the  English  sectaries  in  the  last 
century,  afforded  a subject  for  the  comic 
muse  of  Butler,  whose  pictures  lose  their 
interest  since  their  archetypes  are  lost. 
Some  of  the  peculiarities  common  among 
the  more  rigid  disciples  of  Calvinism  in 
Scotland,  in  the  present  times,  have  given 
scope  to  the  ridicule  of  Burns,  whose 
humour  is  equal  to  Butler’s,  and  whose 
drawings  from  living  manners  are  singularly 
expressive  and  exact.  Unfortunately,  the 
correctness  of  his  taste  did  not  always  cor- 
respond with  the  strength  of  his  genius. 

The  information  and  the  religious  educa- 
tion of  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  promote 
sedateness  of  conduct,  and  habits  of  thought 
and  reflection.  These  good  qualities  are  not 
counteracted  by  the  establishment  of  poor 
laws.  Happily,  in  Scotland,  the  same  legis- 
lature which  established  a system  of  instruc- 
tion for  the  poor,  resisted  the  introduction 
of  a legal  provision  for  the  support  of 
poverty;  hence  it  will  not  appear  surprising, 
if  the  Scottish  peasantry  have  a more  than 
usual  share  of  prudence  and  reflection,  if 
they  approach  nearer  than  persons  of  their 
order  usually  do  to  the  definition  of  a 
man — that  of  "a  being  that  looks  before 
and  after.”  These  observations  must  indeed 
be  taken  with  many  exceptions  ; the  favour- 
able operation  of  the  causes  just  mentioned 
is  counteracted  by  others  of  an  opposite 
tendency;  and  the  subject,  if  fully  examined, 
would  lead  to  discussions  of  great  extent. 

When  the  Reformation  was  established  in 
Scotland,  instrumental  music  was  banished 
from  the  churches,  as  savouring  too  much 
of  “ profane  minstrelsy.”  Instead  of  being 
regulated  by  an  instrument,  the  voices  of 
the  congregation  are  led  and  directed  by  a 
person  under  the  name  of  a precentor,  and 
the  people  are  all  expected  to  join  in  the 
tune  which  lie  chooses  for  the  psalm  which 
is  to  be  sung.  Church  music  is  therefore  a 
part  of  the  education  of  the  peasantry  of 
Scotland,  in  which  they  are  usually  in- 
structed in  the  long  winter  nights  by  th« 
* 


* 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


parish  schoolmaster,  who  is  generally  the 
precentor,  or  by  itinerant  teachers,  more 
celebrated  for  their  powers  of  voice.  This 
branch  of  education  had,  in  the  last  reign, 
fallen  into  some  neglect,  but  was  revived 
about  thirty  ox  forty  years  ago,  when  the 
music  itself  was  reformed  and  improved. 
The  Scottish  system  of  psalmody  is,  how- 
ever, radically  Ibad.  Destitute  of  taste  or 
harmony, . it  forms  a striking  contrast  with 
the  delicacy  and  pathos  of  the  profane  airs. 
Our  poet,  it  will  be  found,  was  taught  church 
music,  in  which,  however  he  attained  little 
proficiency. 

That  dancing  should  also  be  very  gene- 
rally a part  of  the  education  of  the  Scottish 
peasantry,  will  surprise  those  who  have  only 
seen  this  description  of  men ; and  still  more 
those  who  reflect  on  the  rigid  spirit  of  Cal- 
vinism, with  which  the  nation  is  so  deeply 
affected,  and  to  which  this  recreation  is  so 
strongly  abhorrent.  The  winter  is  also  the 
season  when  they  acquire  dancing,  and, 
indeed,  almost  all  their  other  instruction. 
They  are  taught  to  dance  by  persons  gene- 
rally of  their  own  number,  many  of  whom 
work  at  daily  labour  during  the  summer 
months.  The  school  is  usually  a barn,  and 
the  arena  for  the  performers  is  generally 
a clay  floor.  The  dome  is  lighted  by 
candles  stuck  in  one  end  of  a cloven  stick, 
the  other  end  of  which  is  thrust  into  the 
wall.  Reels,  strathspeys,  contra-dances,  and 
hornpipes,  are  here  practised.  The  jig, 
so  much  in  favour  among  the  English 
peasantry,  has  no  place  among  them.  The 
attachment  of  the  people  of  Scotland  of 
every  rank,  and  particularly  of  the  peasan- 
try, to  this  amusement,  is  very  great. 
After  the  labours  of  the  day  are  over, 
young  men  and  women  walk  many  miles, 
in  the  cold  and  dreary  nights  of  winter, 
to  these  country  dancing-schools;  and  the 
instant  that  the  violin  sounds  a Scottish 
air,  fatigue  seems  to  vanish,  the  toil-bent 
rustic  becomes  erect,  his  features  brighten 
with  sympathy,  every  nerve  seems  to  thrill 
with  sensation,  and  every  artery  to  vibrate 
with  life.  These  rustic  performers  are 
indeed  less  to  be  admired  for  grace  than 
for  agility  and  animation,  and  for  their 
accurate  observance  of  time.  Their  modes 
of  dancing,  as  well  as  their  tunes,  are  com- 
mon to  every  rank  in  Scotland,  and  are 
now  generally  known.  In  our  own  day 
they  have  penetrated  into  England;  and 
have  established  themselves  even  in  the 
circle  of  royalty.  In  another  generation 
they  will  be  naturalised  in  every  part  of 
►he  island  | 


The  prevalence  of  thh  fce,  or  rathef 

passion,  for  dancing,  am.  .4  a people  so 
deeply  tinctured  with  the  P’f~  it  and  doc* 
triues  of  Calvin,  is  one  «if  those  contra- 
dictions which  the  philosoplne  observer  so 
often  finds  in  national  character  and  manners. 
It  is  probably  to  be  ascribed  t^  the  Scottish 
music,  which,  throughout  all  its  varieties, 
is  so  full  of  sensibility,  and  which,  in  its 
livelier  strains,,  awakes  those  vivid  emotions 
that  find  in  dancing  their  natural  solace  and 
relief. 

This  triumph  of  the  music  of  Scotland 
over  the  spirit  of  the  established  religion, 
has  not  however,  been  obtained,  without 
long -continued  and  obstinate  struggles.  The 
numerous  sectaries  who  dissent  from  the 
Establishment  on  account  of  the  relaxation 
which  they  perceive,  or  think  they  perceive, 
in  the  Church,  from  her  original  doctrines 
and  discipline,  universally  condemn  the  prac- 
tice of  dancing,  and  the  schools  where  it  is 
taught ; and  the  more  elderly  and  serious 
part  of  the  people,  of  every  persuasion 
tolerate  rather  than  approve  these  meetings 
of  the  young  of  both  sexes,  where  dancing 
is 'practised  to  their  spirit-stirring  music, 
where  care  is  dispelled,  toil  is  forgotten, 
and  prudence  itself  is  sometimes  lulled  to 
sleep.  (1) 

The  Reformation,  which  proved  fatal  to 
the  rise  of  the  other  fine  arts  in  Scotland, 
probably  impeded,  but  could  not  obstruct, 
the  progress  of  its  music — a circumstance 
that  will  convince  the  impartial  inquirer, 
that  this  music  not  only  existed  previously 
to  that  era,  but  had  taken  a firm  hold  of 
the  nation,  thus  affording  a proof  of  it# 
antiquity  stronger  than  any  produced  by 
the  researches  of  our  antiquaries.  (2) 

The  impression  which  the  Scottish  music 
has  made  on  the  people,  is  deepened  by  its 
union  with  the  national  songs,  of  which 
various  collections  of  unequal  merit  arc 
before  the  public.  These  songs,  like  those 
of  other  nations,  are  many  of  them  hu- 
morous, but  they  chiefly  treat  of  love,  war, 
and  drinking.  Love  is  the  subject  of  the 
greater  proportion.  Without  displaying 
the  higher  powers  of  the  imagination,  they 
exhibit  a perfect  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart,  and  breathe  a spirit  of  affection,  and 
sometimes  of  delicate  and  romantic  ten- 
derness, not  to  be  surpassed  111  modern 
poetry,  and  which  the  more  polished  strains 
of  antiquity  have  seldom  possessed. 

The  origin  of  this  amatory  character  in 
the  rustic  muse  of  Scotland,  or  of  th« 
greater  number  of  these  love-songs  them* 

| selves,  it  would  be  difficult  to  trace ; thef 


SOCIAL  INTERCOURSE  OF  THE  SEXES. 


i 


feave  accumulated  in  the  silent  lapse  of 
time,  and  it  is  now  perhaps  impossible  to 
give  an  arrangement  of  them  in  the  order 
of  their  date,  valuable  as  such  a record  ©f 
taste  and  manners  would  be.  Their  present 
influence  on  the  character  of  the  nation  is, 
however,  great  and  striking.  To  them  we 
must  attribute,  in  a great  measure,  the 
romantic  passion  which  so  often  character- 
ises the  attachments  of  the  humblest  of 
the  people  of  Scotland,  to  a degree  that,  if 
we  mistake  not,  is  seldom  found  in  the 
same  rank  of  society  in  other  countries.  I 
The  pictures  of  love  and  happiness  exhibited 
in  their  rural  songs,  are  early  impressed  on 
the  mind  of  the  peasant,  and  are  rendered 
more  attractive  from  the  music  with  which 
they  are  united.  They  associate  themselves 
with  his  own  youthful  emotions ; they  ele- 
vate the  object  as  well  as  the  nature  of  his 
attachment;  and  give  to  the  impressions 
of  sense  the  beautiful  colours  of  imagination. 
Hence,  in  the  course  of  his  passion,  a Scottish 
peasant  often  exerts  a spirit  of  adventure, 
of  which  a Spanish  cavalier  need  not  be 
ashamed.  After  the  labours  of  the  day  are 
over,  he  sets  out  for  the  habitation  of  his 
mistress,  perhaps  at  many  miles’  distance, 
regardless  of  the  length  or  the  dreariness 
of  the  way.  He  approaches  her  in  secrecy, 
under  the  disguise  of  night.  A signal  at 
the  door  or  window,  perhaps  agreed  on,  and 
understood  by  none  but  her,  gives  in- 
formation of  his  arrival ; and  sometimes  it 
is  repeated  again  and  again,  before  the  ca- 
pricious fair-one  will  obey  the  summons. 
But  if  she  favours  his  addresses,  she  escapes 
unobserved,  and  receives  the  vows  of  her 
lover  under  the  gloom  of  twilight  or  the 
deeper  shade  of  night.  Interviews  of  this 
kind  are  the  subjects  of  many  of  the  Scottish 
tongs,  some  of  the  most  beautiful  of  which 
Burns  has  imitated  or  improved.  In  the 
rrt  which  they  celebrate  he  was  perfectly 
skilled  ; he  ki^w  and  had  practised  all  its 
mysteries.  Intercourse  of  this  sort  is  indeed 
universal,  even  in  the  humblest  condition 
of  man  in  every  region  of  the  earth.  But 
it  is  not  unnatural  to  suppose  that  it  may 
exist  in  a greater  degree,  and  in  a more 
romantic  form,  among  the  peasantry  of  a 
country  who  are  supposed  to  be  more  than 
commonly  instructed; — who  find  in  their 
rural  songs  expressions  for  their  youthful 
emotions  ; — and  in  whom  the  embers  of 
passion  are  continually  fanned  by  the 
breathings  of  a music  full  of  tenderness 
md  sensibility.  The  direct  influence  of 
physical  causes  on  the  attachment  between 
*tie  sexes  is  comparatively  small,  but  it  is 


modified  by  moral  causes  beyond  any  other 
affection  of  the  mind.  Of  these,  music  and 
poetry  are  the  chief.  Among  the  snows  of 
Lapland,  and  under  the  burning  sun  of 
Angola,  the  savage  is  seen  hastening  to  hi* 
mistress,  and  everywhere  he  beguiles  th* 
weariness  of  his  journey  with  poetry  and 
song.  (3) 

In  appreciating  the  happiness  and  virtu# 
of  a community,  there  is  perhaps  no  singl# 
criterion  on  wdiich  so  much  dependence  may 
be  placed,  as  the  state  of  the  intercoms# 
I between  the  sexes.  Where  this  display# 
ardour  of  attachment,  accompanied  by  purity 
of  conduct,  the  character  and  the  influence 
of  women  rise  in  society,  our  imperfect 
nature  mounts  in  the  scale  of  moral  excel- 
lence ; and,  from  the  source  of  this  single 
affection,  a stream  of  felicity  descends, 
which  branches  into  a thousand  rivulets  that 
enrich  and  adorn  the  field  of  life.  Where 
the  attachment  between  the  sexes  sinks  into 
an  appetite,  the  heritage  of  our  species  is 
comparatively  poor,  and  man  approaches  the 
condition  of  the  brutes  that  'perish . “ If  we 

could  with  safety  indulge  the  pleasing  sup- 
position that  Fingal  lived  and  that  Ossian 
sung”  (4),  Scotland,  judging  from  this  crite- 
rion, might  be  considered  as  ranking  high 
in  happiness  and  virtue  in  very  remote  ages. 
To  appreciate  her  situation  by  the  same 
criterion  in  our  own  times,  would  be  a 
delicate  and  a difficult  undertaking.  After 
considering  the  probable  influence  of  her 
popular  songs  and  her  national  music,  and 
examining  how  far  the  effects  to  be  expected 
from  these  are  supported  by  facts,  the  in- 
quirer would  also  have  to  examine  the 
influence  of  other  causes,  and  particularly 
of  her  civil  and  ecclesiastical  institutions,  by 
which  the  character,  and  even  the  manners 
of  a people,  though  silently  and  slowly,  are 
often  powerfully  controlled.  In  the  point 
of  view  in  which  we  are  considering  the 
subject,  the  ecclesiastical  establishments  of 
Scotland  may  be  supposed  peculiarly  fa- 
vourable to  purity  of  conduct.  The  disso- 
luteness of  manners  among  the  Catholie 
clergy,  which  preceded,  and  in  some  measure 
produced  the  Reformation,  led  to  an  ex- 
traordinary strictness  on  the  part  of  the 
reformers,  and  especially  in  that  particular 
in  which  the  licentiousness  of  the  clergy 
had  been  carried  to  its  greatest  height— 
the  intercourse  between  the  sexes.  On  thia 
point,  as  on  all  others  connected  with  auste- 
rity of  manners,  the  disciples  of  Calvin 
assumed  a greater  severity  than  those  of 
the  Protestant  Episcopal  church.  Th* 
punishment  of  illicit  connection  betwjof 


8 


LIFE  OF  Btnm 


the  sexes  was,  throughout  all  Europe,  a 
province  vl  lich  the  clergy  assumed  to  them- 
selves ; and  the  church  of  Scotland,  which 
at  the  Reformation  renounced  so  many 
powers  and  privileges,  at  that  period  took 
this  crime  under  her  more  especial  juris- 
diction. WherS  pregnancy  takes  place  with- 
out marriage,  the  condition  of  the  female- 
causes  the  discovery;  and  it  is  on  her, 
therefore,  in  the  first  instance,  that  the 
clergy  and  elders  exercise  their  zeal.  After 
examination  before  the  kirk-session,  touch- 
ing the  circumstance  of  her  guilt,  she  must 
endure  a public  penance  and  sustain  a 
public  rebuke  from  the  pulpit,  for  three 
Sabbaths  successively,  in  th°!  face  of  the 
congregation  to  which  she  belongs,  and  thus 
have  her  weakness  exposed,  and  her  shame 
blazoned.  The  sentence  is  the  same  with 
respect  to  the  male,  but  how  much  lighter 
the  punishment ! It  is  well  known  that 
this  dreadful  law,  worthy  of  the  iron  minds 
of  Calvin  and  of  Knox,,  has  often  led  to 
consequences,  at  the  very  mention  of  which 
human  nature  recoils.  (5) 

While  the  punishment  of  incontinence 
prescribed  by  the  institutions  of  Scotland  is 
severe,  the  culprits  have  an  obvious  method 
of  avoiding  it,  afforded  them  by  the  law 
respecting  marriage,  the  validity  of  which 
requires  neither  the  ceremonies  of  the 
church,  nor  any  other  ceremonies,  but 
simply  the  deliberate  acknowledgement  of 
each  other  as  husband  and  wife,  made  by 
the  parties  before  witnesses,  or  in  any  other 
way  that  gives  legal  evidence  of  such  an 
acknowledgement  having  taken  place.  And 
as  the  parties  themselves  fix  the  date  of 
their  marriage,  an  opportunity  is  thus  given 
to  avoid  the  punishment,  and  repair  the  con- 
sequences, of  illicit  gratification.  Such  a 
degree  of  laxity  respecting  so  serious  a con- 
tract. might  produce  much  confusion  in  the 
descent  of  property  without  a still  farther 
indulgence ; but  the  law  of  Scotland,  legi- 
timating all  children  born  before  wedlock, 
on  the  subsequent  marriage  of  their  parents, 
renders  the  actual  date  of  the  marriage 
itself  of  little  consequence.  Marriages  con- 
tracted in  Scotland  without  the  ceremonies 
of  the  church,  are  considered  as  irregular , 
and  the  parties  usually  submit  to  a rebuke 
for  their  conduct,  in  the  face  *of  their 
respective  congregations,  which  is  not  how- 
ever necessary  to  render  the  marriage  valid. 
Burns,  whose  marriage,  it  will  appear,  was 
irregular , does  not  seem  to  have  undergone 
this  part  of  the  discipline  of  the  church. 

Thus,  though  the  institutions  of  Scotland 
arc  in  many  particulars  favourable  to  a con- 


duct among  the  peasantry  founded  upo* 
foresight  and  reflection,  oh  the  subject  oi 
marriage  the  reverse  of  this  is  true.  Irre- 
gular marriages,  it  may  be  naturally  sup- 
posed, are  often  improvident  ones,  in 
whatever  rank  of  society  they  occur.  The 
children  of  such  marriages,  poorly  endowed 
by  their  parents,  find  a ,_certain  degree  of 
instruction  of  easy  acquisition,  but  the 
comforts  of  life,  and  the  gratifications  of 
ambition,  they  find  of  more  difficult  attain- 
ment in  their  native  soil;  and  thus  the 
marriage  laws  of  Scotland  conspire,  with 
other  circumstances,  to  produce  that  habit 
of  emigration,  and  spirit  of  adventure,  for 
which  the  people  are  so  remarkable. 

The  manners  and  appearance  of  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry  do  not  bespeak  to  a stranger 
the  degree  of  their  cultivation.  In  their 
own  country,  their  industry  is  inferior  to 
that  of  the  same  description  of  men  in  tha 
southern  division  of  the  island.  Industry  and 
the  useful  arts  reached  Scotland  later  than 
England;  and  though  their  advance  has 
been  rapid  there,  the  effects  produced  are 
as  yet  far  inferior  both  in  reality  and  in 
appearance.  The  Scottish  farmers  have  in 
general  neither  the  opulence  nor  the  com- 
forts of  those  of  England,  neither  vest  the 
same  capital  in  the  soil,  nor  receive  from 
it  the  same  return.  Their  clothing,  their 
food,  and  their  habitations,  are  almost 
everywhere  inferior.  (6)  Their  appearance  in 
these  respects  corresponds  with  the  appear- 
ance of  their  country ; and  under  the 
operation  of  patient  industry,  both  are  im- 
proving. Industry  and  the  useful  arts  came 
later  into  Scotland  than  into  England,  be- 
cause the  security  of  property  came  later. 
With  causes  of  internal  agitation  and  warfare, 
similar  to  those  which  occurred  to  the  more 
southern  nation,  the  people  of  Scotland  were 
exposed  to  more  imminent  hazards  and  to 
more  extensive  and  destructive  spoliation, 
from  external  war.  Occupied  in  the  mainte- 
nance of  their  independence  against  their 
more  powerful  neighbours,  to  this  purpose 
were  necessarily  sacrificed  the  arts  of  peace, 
and,  at  certain  periods,  the  flower  of  their 
population.  And  when  the  union  of  the 
crowns  produced  a security  from  national 
wars  with  England,. for  the  century  suc- 
ceeding, the  civil  wars  common  to  both 
divisions  of  the  island,  and  the  dependence, 
perhaps  the  necessary  dependence,  of  the 
Scottish  councils  on  those  of  the  more 
powerful  kingdom,  counteracted  this  disad- 
vantage. Even  the  union  of  the  British 
nations  wras  not,  from  obvious  causes,  im- 
mediately followed  by  all  the  bene  5 U which 


PATRIOTISM,  OF  THE  SCOTCH. 


was  ultimately  destined  to  produce.  At 
length,  however,  these  benefits  are  distinctly 
felt,  and  generally  acknowledged.  Property 
is  secure;  manufactures  and  commerce  in- 
creasing ; and  agriculture  is  rapidly  improv- 
ing in  Scotland.  As  yet  indeed,  the  farmers 
are  not,  in  general,  enabled  to  make  improve- 
ments out  of  their  own  capitals,  as  in 
England ; but  the  landholders  who  have 
seen  and  felt  the  advantages  resulting  from 
them,  contribute  towards  them  with  a liberal 
hand.  Hence  property,  as  well  as  population, 
is  accumulating  rapidly  on  the  Scottish  soil ; 
and  the  nation,  enjoying  a great  part  of  the 
blessings  of  Englishmen,  and  retaining 
several  of  their  own  happy  institutions, 
might  be  considered,  if  confidence  could  be 
placed  in  human  foresight,  to  be  as  yet  only 
in  an  early  stage  of  their  progress.  Yet 
there  are  obstructions  in  their  way.  To 
the  cultivation  of  the  soil  are  opposed  the 
extent  and  the  strictness  of  the  entails  ; to 
the  improvement  of  the  people,  the  rapidly 
increasing  use  of  spirituous  liquors,  a de- 
testable practice,  which  includes  in  its  con- 
sequences almost  every  evil,  physical  and 
moral.  (7)  The  peculiarly  social  disposition 
of  the  Scottish  peasantry  exposes  them  to 
this  practice.  This  disposition,  which  is 
fostered  by  their  national  songs  and  music, 
is  perhaps  characteristic  of  the  nation  at 
large.  Though  the  source  of  many 
pleasures,  it  counteracts,  by  its  conse- 
quences* the  effects  of  their  patience,  in- 
dustry, and  frugality,  both  at  home  and 
abroad,  of  which  those  especially  who  have 
witnessed  the  progress  of  Scotsmen  in 
other  countries  must  have  known  many 
striking  instances. 

Since  the  Union,  the  manners  and  language 
of  the  people  of  Scotland  have  no  longer  a 
standard  wnong  themselves,  but  are  tried  by 
the  standard  of  the  nation  to  which  they  are 
united.  Though  their  habits  are  far  from 
being  fleskble,  yet  it  is  evident  that  their 
manners  mnd  dialect  are  undergoing  a rapid 
change.  Even  the  farmers  of  the  present 
day  appear  to  have  less  of  the  peculiarities  of 
their  country  in  their  speech  than  the  men 
of  letters  of  the  last  generation.  Burns,  who 
never  left  the  island,  nor  penetrated  farther 
into  England  than  Carlisle  on  the  one  hand, 
or  Newcastle  on  the  other,  had  less  of  the 
Scottish  dialect  than  Hume,  who  lived  for 
many  years  in  the  best  society  of  England 
and  France — or  perhaps  than  Robertson,  who 
wrote  the  English  language  in  a style  of 
suen  purity;  and  if  he  had  been  in  other 
respects  fitted. to  take  a lead  in  the  British 
House  of  Commons,  his  pronunciation 


f 

would  neither  have  fettered  his  eloquence^ 
nor  deprived  ifc  of  its  due  etfect. 

A striking  particular  in  the  character  of 
the  Scottish  peasantry,  is  one  which  it  is 
hoped  will  not  be  • lost — the  strength  of 
their  domestic  attachments.  The  priva- 
tions to  which  many  parents  submit  for  tha 
good  of  their  children,  and  particularly  to 
obtain  for  them  instruction,  which  they  con- 
sider as  the  chief  good,  has  already  been 
noticed.  If  their  children  live  and  prosper, 
they  have  their  certain  reward,  not  merely 
as  witnessing,  but  as  sharing  of  their  pros- 
perity. Even  in  the  humblest  ranks  of  the 
peasantry,  the  earnings  of  the  children  may 
generally  be  considered  as  at  the  disposal 
of  their  parents : perhaps  iy  no  country  is 
so  large  a portion  of  the  wages  of  labour 
applied  to  the  support  and  comfort  of  those 
whose  days  of  labour  are  past.  A similar 
strength  of  attachment  extends  through  all 
the  domestic  relations.  Our  poet  partook 
largely  of  this  amiable  characteristic  of  his 
humble  compeers : he  was  also  strongly 
tinctured  with  another  striking  feature  which 
belongs  to  them — a partiality  for  his  native 
country,  of  which  many  proofs  may  be  found 
in  his  writings.  This,  it  must  be  confessed, 
is  a very  strong  and  general  sentiment 
among  the  natives  of  Scotland,  differing, 
however,  in  its  character,  according  to  the 
character  of  the  different  minds  in  which 
it  is  found — in  some  appearing  a selfish 
prejudice,  in  others  a generous  affection. 

An  attachment  to  the  land  of  their  birth 
is,  indeed,  common  to  all  men.  It  is  found 
among  the  inhabitants  of  every  region  of 
the  earth,  from  the  arctic  to  the  ant-arctic 
circle,  in  all  the  vast  variety  of  climate,  of 
surface,  and  of  civilisation.  To  analyse  this 
general  sentiment,  to  trace  it  through  the 
mazes  of  association  up  to  the  primary  affec- 
tion in  which  it  has  its  source,  would  neither 
be  a difficult  nor  an  unpleasing  labour.  On 
the  first  consideration  of  the  subject,  we 
should  perhaps  expect  to  find  this  attachment 
strong  in  proportion  to  the  physical  advan- 
tages of  t>;e  soil;  but  inquiry,  far  from 
confirming  this  supposition,  seems  rather  to 
lead  to  an  opposite  conclusion.  In  those 
fertile  regions  where  beneficent  nature  yields 
almost  spontaneously  whatever  is  necessary 
to  human  wants,  patriotism,  as  well  as  every 
other  generous  sentiment,  seems  weak  and 
languid.  In  countries  less  richly  endowed, 
where  the  comforts,  and  even  necessaries  o{ 
life,  must  be  purchased  by  patient  toil,  tha 
affections  of  the  mind,  as  well  as  the  faculties 
of  the  understanding,  improve  under  exertion, 
and  patriotism  flourishes  amidst  its  kindred 


9 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


▼?.  ^s.  Where  it  is  necessary  to  combine 
for  mutual  defence,  as  well  as  for  the  supply 
of  common  wants,  mutual  good-will  springs 
from  mutual  difficulties  and  labours,  the 
social  affections  unfold  themselves,  and  extend 
from  the  men  with  whom  we  live  to  the  soil 
on  which  we  tread.  It  will  perhaps  be 
found,  indeed,  that  our  affections  cannot 
be  originally  called  forth,  but  by  objects 
capable,  or  supposed  capable,  of  feeling  our 
sentiments,  and  of  returning  them  ; but 
when  once  excited,  they  are  strengthened  by 
exercise  ; they  are  expanded  by  the  powers 
of  imagination,  and  seize  more  especially  on 
those  inanimate  parts  of  creation,  which 
form  the  theatre  on  which  we  have  first  felt 
the  alternations  of  joy  and  sorrow,  and  first 
tasted  the  sweets  of  sympathy  and  regard. 
If  this  reasoning  be  just,  the  love  of  our 
country,  although  modified,  and  even  ex- 
tinguished in  individuals  by  the  chances  and 
changes  of  life,  may  be  presumed,  in  our 
general  reasonings,  to  be  strong  among  a 
people,  in  proportion  to  their  social,  and  more 
especially  to  their  domestic  affections.  Under 
free  governments  it  is  found  more  active 
than  under  despotic  ones,  because,  as  the 
individual  becomes  of  more  consequence  in 
the  community,  the  community  becomes  of 
more  consequence  to  him.  In  small  states  it 
is  generally  more  active  than  in  large  ones, 
for  the  same  reason,  and  also  because  the 
independence  of  a small  community  being 
maintained  with  difficulty,  and  frequently 
endangered,  sentiments  of  patriotism  are 
more  frequently  excited.  In  mountainous 
countries  it  is  generally  found  more  active 
than  in  plains,  because  there  the  necessities 
of  life  often  require  a closer  union  of  the 
inhabitants;  and  more  especially,  because 
in  such  countries,  though  less  populous  than 
plains,  the  inhabitants,  instead  of  being 
scattered  equally  over  the  whole,  are  usually 
divided  into  small  communities  on  the  sides 
of  their  separate  vallies,  and  on  the  banks 
of  their  respective  streams — situations  well 
calculated  to  call  forth  and  to  concentrate 
the  social  affections,  amidst  scenery  that  acts 
most  powerfully  on  the  sight,  and  makes 
a lasting  impression  on  the  memory.  It 
may  also  be  remarked,  that  mountainous 
countries  are  often  peculiarly  calculated  to 
nourish  sentiments  of  national  pride  and 
independence,  from  the  influence  of  history 
on  the  affections  of  the  mind.  In  such 
countries  from  their  natural  strength,  inferior 
nations  have  maintained  their  independence 
against  their  more  powerful  neighbours,  and 
valour,  in  all  ages,  has  made  its  most  success- 
ful efforts  agoiiifit-oppression.  Such  countries 


present  the  fields  of  battle  where  the  tide  a' 
invasion  was  rolled  back,  and  whereon  th« 
ashes  rest  of  those  who  have  died  in  defence 
of  their  nation ! 

The  operation  of  the  various  causes  we 
have  mentioned  is  doubtless  more  general 
and  more  permanent,  where  the  scenery  of 
a country,  the  peculiar  manners  of  its  in- 
habitants, and  the  martial  achievements  of 
their  ancestors,  are  embodied  in  national 
songs,  and  united  to  national  music.  By 
this  combination,  the  ties  that  attach  men  to 
the  land  of  their  birth  are  multiplied  and 
strengthened,  and  the  images  of  infancy, 
strongly  associating  with  the  generous  affec- 
tions, resist  the  influence  of  time,  and  of 
new  impressions ; they  often  survive  in 
countries  far  distant,  and  amidst  far  different 
scenes,  to  the  latest  period  of  life,  to  soothe 
the  heart  with  the  pleasures  of  memory, 
when  those  of  hope  die  away. 

If  this  reasoning  be  just,  it  will  explain 
to  us  why  among  the  natives  of  Scotland, 
even  of  cultivated  minds,  we  so  generally  find 
a partial  attachment  to  the  land  of  their 
birth,  and  why  this  is  so  strongly  dis- 
coverable in  the  writings  of  Burns,  who 
joined  to  the  higher  powers  of  the  under- 
standing the  most  ardent  affections.  Let 
not  men  of  reflection  think  it  a superfluous 
labour  to  trace  the  rise  and  progress  of  a 
character  like  his.  Born  in  the  condition 
of  a peasant,  he  rose,  by  the  force  of  his 
mind,  into  distinction  and  influence,  and  in 
his  works  has  exhibited  what  are  so  rarely 
found,  the  charms  of  original  genius.  With 
a deep  insight  into  the  human  heart,  his 
poetry  exhibits  high  powers  of  imagination 
— it  displays,  and  as  it  were  embalms,  the 
peculiar  manners  of  his  country;  and  it 
may  be  considered  as  a monument,  not  to 
his  own  name  only,  but  to  the  expiring 
genius  of  an  ancient  and  once  independent 
nation.  In  relating  the  incidents  of  his  life, 
candour  will  prevent  us  from  dwelling 
invidiously  on  those  failings  which  justice 
forbids  us  to  conceal ; we  will  tread  lightly 
over  his  yet  warm  ashes,  and  respect  the 
laurels  that  shelter  his  untimely  grave. 


Robert  Burns  was,  as  is  well  known,  the 
son  of  a farmer  in  Ayrshire,  and  afterwards 
himself  a farmer  there ; but,  having  been 
unsuccessful,  he  was  about  to  emigrate  to 
Jamaica.  He  had  previously,  however,  at- 
tracted some  notice  by  his  poetical  talents 
in  the  vicinity  where  he  lived ; and  having 
published  a small  volume  of  his  poems  at 


BOHNS’  SKETCH  OF  HIS  OWN  LIFE.  I 


Kilmarnock,  thD  drew  upon  him  more 
general  attention.  In  consequence  of  the 
encouragement  he  received,  he  repaired  to 
Edinburgh,  and  there  published,  by  sub- 
scription, an  improved  and  enlarged  edition 
of  his  poems,  which  met  with  extraordinary 
■uccess.  By  the  profits  arising  from  the 
sale  of  this  edition,  he  was  enabled  to 
enter  on  a farm  in  Dumfries-shire ; and 
having  married  a person  to  whom  he  had 
been  long  attached,  he  retired  to  devote  the 
remainder  of  his  life  to  agriculture.  He 
was  again,  however,  unsuccessful ; and, 
abandoning  his  farm,  he  removed  into  the 
town  of  Dumfries,  where  he  filled  an  inferior 
office  in  the  Excise,  and  where  he  termi- 
nated his  life  in  July  1796,  in  his  thirty- 
eighth  year. 

The  strength  and  originality  of  his  genius 
procured  him  the  notice  of  many  persons 
distinguished  in  the  republic  of  letters,  and, 
among  others,  that  of  Dr.  Moore,  well 
known  for  his  Views  of  Society  and  Manners 
on  the  Continent  of  Europe,  for  his  Zeluco, 
and  various  other  works.  To  this  gentle- 
man our  poet  addressed  a letter,  after  his 
first  visit  to  Edinburgh,  giving  a history  of 
his  life,  up  to  the  period  of  his  writing. 
In  a composition  never  intended  to  see  the 
light,  elegance,  or  perfect  correctness  of 
composition,  will  not  be  expected.  These, 
however,  will  be  compensated  by  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  our  poet,  as  he  gives  the 
incidents  of  his  life,  unfold  the  peculiarities 
of  his  character  with  all  the  careless  vigour 
said  open  sincerity  of  his  mind. 

" Mauchline,  2nd  August,  1787. 

"Sir. — For  some  months  past  I have 
been  rambling  over  the  country,  but  I am 
now  confined  with  some  lingering  complaints, 
originating,  as  I take  it,  in  the  stomach. 
To  divert  my  spirits  a little  in  this  miser- 
able fog  of  ennui,  I have  taken  a whim  to 
give  you  a history  of  myself.  My  name 
has  made  some  little  noise  in  this  country 
—you  have  done  me  the  honour  to  interest 
yourself  very  warmly  in  my  behalf ; and  I 
think  a faithful  account  of  what  character 
of  a man  I am,  and  how  I came  by  that 
character,  may  perhaps  amuse  you  in  an  idle 
moment.  I will  give  you  an  honest  narra- 
tive, though  I know  it  will  be  often  at  my 
own  expense ; for  I assure  you  sir,  I have, 
like  Solomon,  whose  character,  excepting  in 
the  trifling  affair  of  wisdom , I spmetimes 
think  I resemble — I have,  I say,  like  him 
turned  my  eyes  to  behold  madness  and  folly, 
and,  like  him,  too  frequently  shaken  hands 
with  their  intoxicating  friendship.  * * * 


After  you  have  perused  these  pages,  should 
you  think  them  trifling  and  impertinent,  I 
only  beg  leave  to  tell  you,  that  the  poor 
author  wrote  them  under  some  tu  itching 
qualms  of  conscience,  arising  from  suspicion 
that  he  was  doing  what  he  ought  not  to 
do — a predicament  he  has  more  than  once 
been  in  before.” 

“ I have  not  the  most  distant  pretensions 
to  assume  that  character  which  the  pye- 
coated  guardians  of  escutcheons  call  a 
gentleman.  When  at  Edinburgh  last  winter 
I got  acquainted  in  the  Herald’s  Office ; 
and,  looking  through  that  granary  of 
honours,  I there  found  almost  every  name 
in  the  kingdom ! but  for  me, 

‘ My  ancient  hut  ignoble  blood 
Has  crept  thro*  scoundrels  ever  since  the 
flood.’ 

Gules,  Purpurc,  Argent,  &c.,  quite  disowned 
me.” 

My  father  was  of  the  Jtorth  of  Scotland, 
the  son  of  a farmer,  and  was  thrown  by  early 
misfortunes  on  the  world  at  large,  where, 
after  many  years’  wanderings  and  sojourn- 
ings,  he  picked  up  a pretty  large  quantity  of 
observation  and  experience,  to  which  I am 
indebted  for  most  of  my  little  pretensions 
to  wisdom.  I have  met  with  few  who  un- 
derstood men,  their  manners,  and  their  ways , 
equal  to  him ; but  stubborn,  ungainly 
integrity,  and  headlong  ungovernable  irasci- 
bility, are  disqualifying  circumstances,  con- 
sequently I was  born  a very  poor  man’s  son. 
For  the  first  six  or  seven  years  of  my  life,  my 
father  was  gardener  to  a worthy  gentleman 
of  small  estate  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Ayr.  Had  he  continued  in  that  station,  I 
must  have  marched  off  to  be  one  of  the  little 
underlings  about  a farm-house ; but  it  was 
his  dearest  wish  and  prayer  to  have  it  in 
his  power  to  keep  his  children  under  his 
own  eye  till  they  could  discern  between 
good  and  evil ; so,  with  with  the  assistance 
of  his  generous  master,  my  father  ventured 
on  a small  farm  on  his  estate.  At  those 
years  I was  by  no  means  a favourite  with 
any  body.  I was  a good  deal  noted  for  a 
retentive  memory,  a stubborn  sturdy  some- 
thing in  my  disposition,  and  an  enthusiastic 
idiotic  piety.  I say  idiotic  piety,  because  I 
was  then  but  a child.  Though  it  cost  the 
schoolmaster  some  thrashings,  I made  an 
excellent  English  scholar,  and  by  the  tirn^ 
I was  ten  or  eleven  years  of  age,  I was  a 
critic  in  substantives,  verbs,  and  panicles. 
In  my  infant  and  boyish  days,  too,  I owed 
much  to  an  old  woman  who  resided  in  the 
family,  remarkable  for  her  ignorance,  ere- 
dulity,  and  superstition,  the  had,  I sup- 


10 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


pose,  the  largest  collection  in  the  country 
of  tales  and  songs  concerning  devils,  ghosts, 
fairies,  brownies,  witches,  warlocks,  spunkies, 
kelpies,  elf-candles,  dead-lights,  wraiths, 
apparitions,  cantraips,  giants,  enchanted 
towers,  dragons,  and  other  trumpery.  This 
cultivated  the  latent  seeds  of  poetry,  but  had 
so  strong  an  effect  on  my  imagination,  that 
to  this  hour,  in  my  nocturnal  rambles,  I 
sometimes  keep  a sharp  look-out  in  sus- 
picious places ; and  though  nobody  can  be 
more  sceptical  than  I am  in  such  matters, 
yet  it  often  takes  an  effort  of  philosophy  to 
shake  off  these  idle  terrors.  The  earliest 
composition  that  I recollect  taking  pleasure 
in  was  The  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  a hymn 
of  Addison’s,  beginning,  “How  are  thy 
servants  blest,  oh  Lord!”  I particularly 
remember  one  half-stanza,  which  was  music 
to  my  boyish  ear : — 

* For  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 

High  on  the  broken  wave.’ 

I met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason’s  English 
Collection,  one  of  my  school-books.  The 
two  first  books  I ever  read  in  private,  and 
which  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  any 
two  books  I ever  read  since,  were  the  Life 
of  Hannibal,  and  TheHistory  of  Sir  William 
Wallace.  Hannibal  gave  my  young  ideas 
such  a turn,  that  I used  to  strut  in  rap- 
tures up  and  down  after  the  recruiting  drum 
and  bagpipe,  and  wish  myself  tall  enough 
to  be  a soldier ; while  the  story  of  Wallace 
poured  a Scottish  prejudice  into  my  veins, 
which  will  boil  along  there  till  the  flood- 
gates of  life  shut  in  eternal  rest.” 

“Polemical  divinity  about  this  time  was 
putting  the  country  half  mad ; and  I,  ambi- 
tious of  shining  in  conversation  parties  on 
Sundays,  between  sermons,  at  funerals,  &c., 
used,  a few  years  afterwards,  to  puzzle 
Calvinism  with  so  much  heat  and  indiscre- 
tion, that  I raised  a hue  and  cry  of  heresy 
i&gainst  me,  winch  has  not  ceased  to  this 
hour.” 

“ My  vicinity  to  Ayr  was  of  some  advan- 
tage to  me.  My  social  disposition,  when 
not  checked  by  some  modifications  of  spirited 
pride,  was,  like  our  Catechism  definition  of 
infinitude,  without  bounds  or  limits.  I 
formed  several  connections  with  other 
younkers  who  possessed  superior  advan- 
tages, the  youngling • actors,  who  were  busy 
in  the  rehearsal  of  parts  in  which  they 
w ere  shortly  to  appear  on  the  stage  of  life, 
where,  alas ! I was  destined  to  drudge 
behind  the  scenes.  It  is  not  commonly  at 
tins  green  age.  that  our  young  gentry  have 
a just  sense  of  the  immense  distance  be- 
tween them  and  their  ragged  playfellows. 


It  takes  a few  dashes  into  the  world,  to  givt 
the  young  great  man  that  proper,  decent, 
unnoticing  disregard  for  the  poor  insigni- 
ficant,  stupid  devils,  the  mechanics  and 
peasantry  around  him,  who  were  perhaps 
born  in  the  same  village.  My  young  supe- 
riors never  insulted  the  clouterly  appearance 
of  my  plough-boy  carcase,  the  two  extreme* 
of  which  were  often  exposed  to  all  the  in- 
clemencies of  all  seasons.  They  would  give 
me  stray  volumes  of  books : among  them, 
even  then,  I could  pick  up  some  observa*. 
tions ; and  one,  whose  heart  I am  sure  not 
even  the  Mutiny  Begum  scenes  have  tainted, 
helped  me  to  a little  French.  Parting  with 
these  my  young  friends  and  benefactors,  as 
they  occasionally  went  off  for  the  East  or 
West  Indies,  was  often  to  me  a sore  afflic- 
tion ; but  I was  soon  called  to  more  serious 
evils.  My  father’s  generous  master  died; 
the  farm  proved  a ruinous  bargain ; and  tc 
clench  the  misfortune,  we  fell  into  the  hands 
of  a factor,  who  sat  for  the  picture  I have 
drawn  of  one  in  my  tale  of  Twa  Dogs. 
My  father  was  advanced  in  life  when  ha 
married ; I was  the  eldest  of  seven  children ; 
and  he,  worn  out  by  early  hardships,  was 
unfit  for  labour.  My  father’s  spirit  was  soon 
irritated,  but  not  easily  broken.  There  was 
a freedom  in  his  lease  in  two  years  more ; 
and  to  weather  these  two  years,  we  re- 
trenched our  expenses.  We  lived  very 
poorly.  I was  a dexterous  ploughman,  for 
my  age ; and  the  next  eldest  to  me  was  a 
brother  (Gilbert)  who  could  drive  the  plough 
very  well,  and  help  me  to  thrash  the  corn. 
A novel-writer  might  perhaps  have  viewed 
these  scenes  with  some  satisfaction,  but  so 
did  not  I ; my  indignation  yet  boils  at  the 
recollection  of  the  scoundrel  factor’s  inso- 
lent, threatening  letters,  which  used  to 
set  us  alL  in  tears.”  % 

“ This  kind  of  life — the  cheerless  gloom 
of  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  toil  of  a 
galley-slave,  brought  me  to  my  sixteenth 
year;  a little  before  which  period  I first 
committed  the  sin  of  rhyme.  You  know 
our  country  custom  of  coupling  a man 
and  woman  together  as  partners  in  the 
labours  of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth  autumn 
my  partner  was  a bewitching  creature  a 
year  younger  than  myself.  My  scarcity  o t 
English  denies  me  the  power  of  doing  her 
justice  in  that  language;  but  yo/i  know 
the  Scottish  idiom — she  was  a bonnie, 
sweet , sonsie  lass.  In  short,  shfc  altoge- 
ther unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated  me  in 
that  delicious  passion  which,  in  spite  of  acid 
disappointment,  gin-horse  prudence,  and 
book-worm  philosophy,  I hold  to  be  the  first 


BURNS’  LIBRARY 


n 


of  ^uman  joys,  our  dearest  blessing  here 
below ! How  she  caught  the  contagion,  I 
cannot  tell ; you  medical  people  talk  much 
of  infection  from  breathing  the  same  air,  the 
touch,  &fc.,  but  I never  expressly  said  I loved 
her.  Indeed  I did  not  know  myself  why  I 
liked  so  much  to  loiter  behind  with  her 
when  returning  in  the  evening  from  our 
labours ; why  the  tones  of  her  voice  made 
my  heart-strings  thrill  like  an  HUolian  harp ; 
and  particularly,  why  my  pulse  beat  such  a 
furious  ratan  when  I looked  and  fingered 
over  her  little  hand  to  pick  out  the  cruel 
nettle-stings  and  thistles.  Among  her  other 
love-inspiring  qualities,  she  sang  sweetly; 
and  it  was  her  favourite  reel  to  which  I at- 
tempted giving  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme. 
(8)  I was  not  so  presumptuous  as  to  imagine 
that  I could  make  verses  like  printed  ones, 
composed  by  men  who  had  Greek  and  Latin ; 
but  my  girl  sang  a song,  which  was  said 
to  be  composed  by  a small  country  laird’s  son, 
on  one  of  his  father’s  maids,  with  whom  he 
was  in  love,  and  I saw  no  reason  why  I might 
not  rhyme  as  well  as  he ; for,  excepting  that 
he  could  smear  sheep,  and  cast  peats,  his 
father  living  in  the  moor-lands,  he  had  no 
more  scholar -craft  than  myself.” 

" Thus  with  me  began  love  and  poetry ; 
which  at  times  have  been  my  only,  and  till 
within  the  last  twelve  months,  have  been  my 
highest  enjoyment.  My  father  struggled  on 
till  he  reached  the  freedom  in  his  lease, 
when  he  entered  on  a larger  farm,  about  ten 
miles  farther  in  the  country.  The  nature  of 
the  bargain  he  made  was  such  as  to  throw 
a little  ready  money  into  his  hands  at  the 
commencement  of  his  lease ; otherwise  the 
affair  would  have  been  impracticable.  * For 
four  years  we  lived  comfortably  here ; but  a 
difference  commencing  between  him  and  his 
landlord  as  to  terms,  after  three  years’  tossing 
and  whirling  in  the  vortex  of  litigation,  my 
father  was  just  saved  from  the  horrors  of 
a jail  by  a consumption,  which,  after  two 
years’  promises,  kindly  stepped  in,  and 
carried  him  away,  to  where  the  wicked  cease 
from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest.1* 
“It  is  during  the  time  that  we  lived  on 
this  farm  that  my  little  story  is  most 
eventful.  I was,  at  the  beginning  of  this 
eriod,  perhaps  the  most  ungainly,  awkward 
oy  in  the  parish — no  solitaire  was  less 
acquainted  with  the  ways  of  the  world. 
What  I knew  of  ancient  story  was  gathered 
from  Salmon’s  and  Guthrie’s  geographical 
grammars ; and  the  ideas  I had  formed  of 
modern  manners,  of  literature  and  criticism, 
I got  from  the  Spectator.  These,  with 
Pope’s  Works,  some  plays  of  Shakspeare, 


Tull  and  Dickson  on  Agriculture,  the  Pan* 
theon,  Locke’s  Essay  on  the  Human  Under- 
standing, Stackhouse’s  History  of  the  Bible, 
Justice’s  British  Gardener’s  Directory, 
Bayle’s  Lectures,  Allan  Ramsay’s  Wrorks, 
Taylor’s  Scripture  Doctrine  of  Original  Sin, 
A Select  Collection  of  English  Songs,  and 
Hervey’s  Meditations,  had  formed  the  whole 
of  my  reading.  The  collection  of  songs  was 
my  vade  mecum.  I pored  over  them  driving 
my  cart,  or  w alking  to  labour,  song  by  song, 
verse  by  verse — carefully  noting  the  true, 
tender  or  sublime,  from  affectation  and 
fustian.  I am  convinced  I owe  to  this 
practice  much  of  my  critic  craft,  such  as  it 
is.” 

“In  my  seventeenth  year,  to  give  my 
manners  a brush,  I went  to  a country 
dancing  school.  My  father  had  an  unac- 
countable antipathy  against  these  meetings, 
and  my  going  was,  what  to  this  moment  I 
repent,  in  opposition  to  Ilia  wishes.  My 
father,  as  I said  before,  was  subject  to 
strong  passions ; from  that  instance  of  dis- 
obedience in  me  he  took  a sort  of  dislike  to 
me,  which  I believe  was  one  cause  of  the 
dissipation  which  marked  my  succeeding 
years.  I say  dissipation,  comparatively  with 
the  strictness,  and  sobriety,  and  regularity, 
of  Presbyterian  country  life;  for  though 
the  Will  o’  Wisp  meteors  of  thoughtless 
whim  were  almost  the  sole  lights  of  my 
path,  yet  early  ingrained  piety  and  virtue 
kept  me  for  several  years  afterwards  within 
the  line  of  innocence.  The  great  misfortune 
of  my  life  was  to  wrant  an  aim.  I had  felt 
early  some  stirrings  of  ambition,  but  they 
were  the  blind  gropings  of  Homer’s  Cyclops 
round  the  walls  of  his  cave.  I saw  my 
father’s  situation  entailed  on  me  perpetual 
labour.  The  only  two  openings  by  which 
I could  enter  the  temple  of  fortune,  was 
the  gate  of  niggardly  economy,  or  the  path 
of  little,  chicaning  bargain-making.  The  hrst 
is  so  contracted  an  aperture,  I never  could 
squeeze  myself  into  it;  the  last  I always 
hated — there  was  contamination  in  the  very 
entrance ! Thus  abandoned  of  aim  or  view- 
in  life,  with  a strong  appetite  for  sociability, 
as  well  from  native  hilarity  as  from  a pride 
of  observation  and  remark  — a constitutional 
melancholy  or  hypochondriasm  that  made 
me  fly  to  solitude ; add  to  these  incentives 
to  social  life,  my  reputation  for  bookish 
knowledge,  a certain  wild  logical  talent, 
and  a strength  of  thought,  something  like 
thevudiments  of  good  sense,  and  it  will  not 
seem  surprising  that  I was  generally  a 
welcome  guest  where  I visited,  or  any  great 
wonder  that,  always  where  two  or  three  met 


12 


LIFE  OF  BE  UN’S. 


together,  there  was  I among  them.  But 
far  beyond  all  other  impulses  of  my  heart, 
«va3  un  penchant  a V adorable  moitie  du  genre 
humain.  My  heart  was  completely  tinder, 
end  was  eternally  lighted  up  by  some  goddess 
or  other ; and  as  in  every  other  warfare  in 
this  world,  my  fortune  was  various,  sometimes 
I was  received  with  favour,  and  sometimes 
I was  mortified  with  a renulse.  At  the  plough, 
scythe,  or  reaphook,  I feared  no  competitor, 
and  thus  I set  absolute  want  at  defiance; 
end  as  I never  cared  farther  for  my  labours 
than  while  I was  in  actual  exercise,  I spent 
the  evenings  in  the  way  after  my  own  heart. 
A country  lad  seldom  carries  on  a love- 
adventure  without  an  assisting  confidant. 
I possessed  a curiosity,  zeal,  and  intrepid 
dexterity,  that  recommended  me  as  a proper 
second  on  these  occasions  ; and,  I dare  say, 
I felt  as  much  pleasure  in  being  in  the  secret 
of  half  the  loves  of  the  parish  of  Tarbolton, 
as  ever  did  statesman  in  knowing  the  in- 
trigues of  half  the  courts  of  Europe.  (9) 
The  very  goose-feather  in  my  hand  seems 
to  know  instinctively  the  well-worn  path  of 
my  imagination,  the  favourite  theme  of  my 
song,  and  is  with  difficulty  restrained  from 
giving  you  a couple  of  paragraphs  on  the 
love-adventures  of  my  compeers,  the  humble 
inmates  of  the  farm-house  and  cottage  ; but 
the  grave  sons  of  science,  ambition,  or  avarice, 
baptise  these  things  by  the  name  of  follies. 
(10)  To  the  sons  and  daughters  of  labour  and 
poverty,  they  are  matters  of  the  most  serious 
nature ; to  them,  the  ardent  hope,  the  stolen 
interview,  the  tender  farewell,  are  the 
greatest  and  most  delicious  parts  of  their 
enjoyments.” 

“ Another  circumstance  in  my  life  which 
made  some  alteration  in  my  mind  and  man- 
ners was,  that  I spent  my  nineteenth  sum- 
mer on  a smuggling  coast,  a good  distance 
from  home,  at  a noted  school,  to  learn 
mensuration,  surveying,  dialling,  &c.,  in 
which  I made  a pretty  good  progress.  But 
I made  a greater  progress  in  the  knowledge 
of  mankind.  The  contraband  trade  was  at 
that  time  very  successful,  and  it  sometimes 
happened  to  me  to  fall  in  with  those  who 
carried  it  on.  Scenes  of  swaggering  riot 
and  roaring  dissipation  were  till  this  time 
new  to  me ; but  I was  no  enemy  to  social 
life.  Here,  though  I learnt  to  fill  my  glass, 
end  to  mix  without  fear  in  a drunken 
i juabble,  yet  I went  on  with  a high  hand 
with  my  geometry,  till  the  sun  entered 
Virgo,  a month  which  is  always  a cftrnival 
in  my  bosom,  when  a charming  filette,  who 
lived  next  door  to  the  school,  overset  my 
trigonometry,  and  set  me  off  at  a tangent 


from  the  sphere  of  my  studies.  I,  however 
struggled  on  with  my  sines  and  co-sincs  for 
a few  days  more ; but,  stepping  into  the 
garden  one  charming  noon  to  take-  the  sun's 
altitude,  there  I met  my  angel, 

* Like  Proserpine,  gathering  flon  era, 

Herself*a  fairer  flower 5 

It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  doing  any  more 
good  at  school.  The  remaining  week  I 
staid  I did  nothing  but  craze  the  faculties  of 
my  soul  about  her,  or  steal  out  to  meet 
her ; and  the  two  last  nights  of  my  stay  in 
the  country,  had  sleep  been  a mortal  sin, 
the  image  of  this  modest  and  innocent  girl 
had  kept  me  guiltless.” 

"I  returned  home  very  considerably  im- 
proved. My  reading  was  enlarged  with  the 
very  important  addition  of  Thomson’s  and 
Shenstone’s  Works.  I had  seen  human 
nature  in  a new  phasis ; and  I engaged  several 
of  my  school-fellows  to  keep  up  a literary 
correspondence  with  me.  This  improved  me 
in  composition.  I had  met  with  a collection 
of  letters  by  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne’s  reign, 
and  I pored  over  them  most  devoutly;  I 
kept  copies  of  any  of  my  own  letters  that 
pleased  me;  and  a comparison  between 
them  and  the  composition  of  most  of  my 
correspondents,  flattered  my  vanity.  I 
carried  this  whim  so  far,  that  though  I had 
not  three  farthings’  worth  of  business  in 
the  world,  yet  almost  every  post  brought  me 
as  many  letters  as  if  I had  been  a broad 
plodding  son  of  day-book  and  ledger.” 

“My  life  flowed  on  much  in  the  same 
course  till  my  twenty-third  year.  Vive 
V amour,  et  vive  la  bagatelle , were  my  sole 
principles  of  action.  The  addition  of  two 
more  authors  to  my  library  gave  me  great 
pleasure ; Sterne  and  McKenzie — Tristram 
Shandy  and  The  Man  of  Feeling — were 
my  bosom  favourites.  Poesy  was  still  a 
darling  walk  for  my  mind,  but  it  was  only 
indulged  in  according  to  the  humour  of  the 
hour.” 

“ I had  usually  half  a dozen  or  more  pieces 
on  hand ; I took  up  one  or  other,  as  it 
suited  the  momentary  tone  of  the  mind,  and 
dismissed  the  work  as  it  bordered  on  fatigue. 
My  passions,  when  once  lighted  up,  raged 
like  so  many  devils,  till  they  got  vent  in 
rhyme ; and  then  the  conning  over  my 
verses,  like  a spell,  soothed  all  into  quiet ! 
None  of  the  rhymes  of  those  days  are  in 
print,  except  Winter,  a Dirge,  the  eldest  of 
my  printed  pieces;  The  Death  of  Poor 
Mailie,  John  Barleycorn,  and  songs  first, 
second,  and  third.  (11)  Song  second  waa 
the  ebullition  of  that  passion  which  ended 
, & mentioned  school-business” 


LUCKLESS  FARMING  SPECULATION. 


11 


"My  twenly-third  year  was  to  me  an  im- 
portant era.  Partly  through  whim,  and  partly 
that  I wished  to  set  about  doing  some- 
thing in  .life,  I joined  a flax-dresser  in  a 
neighbouring  town  (Irvine)  to  learn  his 
trade.  This  was  an  unlucky  ^ffair.  My  * * * ; 
and,  to  finish  the  whole,  as  we  were  giving 
a welcome  carousal  to  the  new-year,  the  shop 
took  fire,  and  burnt  to  ashes,and  I was  left, 
like  a true  poet,  not  worth  a sixpence.” 

“1  was  obliged  to  give  up  this  scheme': 
the  clouds  of  misfortune  were  gathering 
thick  round  my  father’s  head ; and,  what 
was  worst  of  all,  he  was  visibly  far  gone  in 
a consumption ; and,  to  crown  my  distresses, 
a belle  fille  whom  I adored,  and  who  had 
pledged  her  soul  to  meet  me  in  the  field  of 
matrimony,  jilted  me,  with  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  mortification.  The  finishing  evil 
that  brought  up  the  rear  of  this  infernal  file, 
was  my  constitutional  melancholy  being  in- 
creased to  such  a degree,  that  for  three 
months  I was  in  a state  of  mind  scarcely  to 
be  envied  by  the  hopeless  wretches  who  have 
got  their  mittimus — Depart  from  me,  ye  ac- 
cursed !”  • 

“ From  this  adventure  I learned  something 
of  a town  life ; but  the  principal  thing  which 
gave  my  mind  a turn,  was  a friendship  I 
formed  with  a young  fellow,  a very  noble 
character,  but  a hapless  son  of  misfortune. 
He  was  the  son  of  a simple  mechanic ; but 
a great  man  in  the  neighbourhood  taking 
him  under  his  patronage,  gave  him  a genteel 
education,  with  a view  of  bettering  his  situa- 
tion in  life.  - The  patron  dying  just  as  he 
was  ready  to  launch  out  into  the  world, 
the  poor  fellow  in  despair  went  to  sea, 
where,  after  a variety  of  good  and  ill  for- 
tune, a little  before  I was  acquainted  with 
him,  he  had  been  set  on  shore  by  an  Ame- 
rican privateer,  on  the  wild  coast  of  Con- 
naught, stripped  of  everything.  I cannot 
quit  this  poor  fellow’s  story  without  adding, 
that  he  is  at  this  time  master  of  a large 
West-Indiaman  belonging  to  the  Thames.” 

“ His  mind  was  fraught  with  indepen- 
dence, magnanimity,  and  every  manly  virtue. 

I loved  and  admired  him  to  a degree  of 
enthusiasm,  and  of  course  strove  to  imitate 
him.  In  some  measure  I succeeded — I had 
pride  before,  but  he  taught  it  to  flow  in 
proper  channels.  His  knowledge  of  the 
world  was  vastly  superior  to  mine,  and  I 
was  all  attention  to  learn.  He  was  the  only 
man  I ever  saw  who  was  a greater  fool  than 
myself,  where  woman  was  the  presiding  star ; 
but  he  spoke  of  illicit  love  with  the  levity  , 
of  a sailor,  which  hitherto  I had  regarded  j 
Witlx  horror.  (12)  Here  his  friendship  did  I 


me  a mischief;  and  the  consequence  waa 
that,  soon  after  I resumed  the  plough,  1 
wrote  the  Poet’s  Welcome.  (13)  My  read- 
ing only  increased,  while  in  this  town,  by 
two  stray  volumes  of  Pamela,  and  one  of 
Ferdinand  Count  Fathom,  which  gave  me 
some  idea  of  novels.  Rhyme,  except  some 
religious  pieces  that  are  in  print,  I had  given 
up ; but  meeting  with  Fergusson’s  Scottish 
Poems,  I strung  anew  my  wildly-sounding 
lyre  with  emulating  vigour.  When  my 
father  died,  his  all  went  among  the  hell- 
hounds that  prowl  in  the  kennel  of  justice ; 
but  we  made  a shift  to  collect  a little  money 
in  the  family  amongst  us,  with  which  to 
keep  us  together;  my  brother  and  I took  a 
neighbouring  farm.  My  brother  wanted 
my  hair-brained  imagination,  as  well  as  my 
social  and  amorous  madness ; but,  in  good 
sense,  and  every  sober  qualification,  he  was 
far  my  superior.” 

“ I entered  on  this  farm  with  a full  reso 
lution.  Come , go  to,  I will  be  wise  ! I read 
farming  books — I calculated  crop3 — I at- 
tended markets — and,  in  short,  in  spite  of 
the  devil,  and  the  viorld,  and  the  flesh,  I 
believe  I should  have  been  a wise  man; 
but  the  first  year,  from  unfortunately 
buying  bad  seed,  the  second,  from  a late 
harvest,  we  lost  half  our  crops.  This  over- 
set all  my  wisdom,  and  I returned,  like  the 
dog  to  his  vomit,  and  the  soiv  that  Was  washed, 
to  her  wallowing  in  the  mire” 

“ I mow  began  to  be  known  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood as  a maker  of  rhymes.  The  first 
of  my  poetic  offspring  that  saw  the  light, 
was  a burlesque  lamentation  on  'a  quarrel 
between  two  reverend  Calvinists,  both  of 
them  dramatis  personae  in  my  Holy  Fair. 
I had  a notion  myself  that  the  piece  had 
some  merit ; but  to  prevent  the  worst,  I gave 
a copy  of  it  to  a friend  who  was  very  fond 
of  such  things,  and  told  him  that  I could 
not  guess  who  was  the  author  of  it,  but  that 
I thought  it  pretty  clever.  With  a certain 
description  of  the  clergy,  as  well  as  laity,  it 
met  with  a roar  of  applause.  (14)  Holy 
Willie’s  Prayer  Hext  made  its  appearance, 
and  alarmed  the  kirk-session  so  much,  that 
they  held  several  meetings  to  look  over  their 
spiritual  artillery,  if  haply  any  of  it  might 
be  pointed  against  profane  writers.  Un- 
luckily for  me,  my  wanderings  led  me  on 
another  side,  within  point-blanksliot  of 
their  heaviest  metal.  This  is  the  unfor- 
tunate story  that  gave  rise  to  my  printed 
poem — The  Lament.  This  was  a most  me- 
i lancholy  affair,  which  I cannot  yet  bear  to 
reflect  on,  and  had  very  nearly  given  ma 
I one  or  two  of  the  principal  qualifications  for 


14 


LIFE  OF  BURN'S. 


r plac«  amour  those  who  have  lost  the 
chart,  and  mistaken  the  reckoning,  of 
rationality.  I gave  up  my  part  of  the  farm 
to  my  brother — ‘in  truth  it  was  only  nomi- 
nally mine — and  made  what  little  prepara- 
tion was  in  my  power  for  Jamaica.  But, 
before  leaving  my  native  country  for  ever,  I 
resolved  to  piblish  my  poems.  I weighed 
my  productions  as  impartially  as  was  in  my 
power:  I thought  they  had  merit,  and  it 
was  a delicious  idea  that  I should  be  called 
a clever  fellow  even  though  it  should  never 
reach  my  ears — a poor  negro-driver ; or  per- 
haps a victim  to  that  inhospitable  clime, 
and  gone  to  the  world  of  spirits!  I can 
truly  say,  that  pauvre  inconnu  as  I then  was, 
I had  pretty  nearly  as  high  an  idea  of  myself 
and  ef  my  works  as  I have  at  this  moment, 
when  the  public  has  decided  in  their  favour. 
It  ever  was  my  opinion,  that  the  mistakes 
and  blunders,  both  in  a rational  and  religious 
point  of  view,  of  which  we  see  thousands 
daily  guilty,  are  owing  to  their  ignorance  of 
themselves.  To  know  myself  had  been  all 
along  my  constant  study.  I weighed  myself 
alone — I balanced  myself  with  others — I 
watched  every  means  of  information,  to  see 
how  much  ground  I occupied  as  a man  and 
as  a poet; — I studied  assiduously  Nature’s 
design  in  my  formation — where  the  lights 
and  shades  in  my  character  were  intended. 
I was  pretty  confident  my  poems  would 
meet  with  some  applause  (15) ; but,  at  the 
worst,  the  roar  of  the  Atlantic  would  deafen 
the  voice  of  censure,  and  the  novelty  of 
West-Indian  scenes  make  me  forget  neg- 
lect. I tlirew  off  six  hundred  copies,  of 
which  I had  got  subscriptions  for  about 
three  hundred  and  fifty.  My  vanity  was 
highly  gratified  by  the  reception  I met  with 
from  the  public;  and,  besides,  I pocketed, 
all  expenses  deducted,  nearly  twenty  pounds. 
This  sum  came  very  seasonably,  as  I was 
thinking  of  indenting  myself,  for  want  of 
money  to  procure  my  passage.  As  soon 
as  I was  master  of  nine  guineas,  the  price 
of  wafting  me  to  the  torrid  zone,  I took  a 
steerage-passage  in  the  first  ship  that  was 
to  sail  from  the  Clyde  ; for 

‘Hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the  wind.’ 

"I  had  been  for  some  days  skulking 
from  covert  to  covert,  under  all  the  terrors 
of  a jail ; as  some  ill-advised  people  had  un- 
coupled the  merciless  pack  of  the  law  at  my 
heels.  I had  taken  the  last  farewell  of  my 
few  friends ; my  chest  was  on  the  road  to 
Greenock ; I had  composed  the  last  song  I 
should  ever  measure  in  Caledonia — The 
Gloomy  Night  is  Gathering  Fast — when  a 
tetter  from  Dr.  BlackJock  to  a friend  of 


| mine  overthrew  all  my  schemes,  by  open  inf 
new  prospects  to  my  poetic  ambitioi  i.  The 
doctor  belonged  to  a set  of  critics  for  whose 
applause  I had  not  dared  to  hope.  Hi* 
opinion,  that  I would  meet  with  encourage- 
ment in  Edinburgh  for  a second  edition, 
fired  me  so  much,  that  away  I posted  for 
that  city,  without  a single  acquaintance,  or 
a single  letter  of  introduction.  The  baneful 
star  that  had  so  long  shed  its  blasting  influ- 
ence in  my  zenith,  for  once  made  a revolu- 
tion to  the  nadir;  and  a kind  Providence 
placed  me  under  the  patronage  of  one  of 
the  noblest  of  men,  the  Earl  of  Glencairn. 
Oublie  moi,  Grand  Dieu , si  jamais  je 
Voublie  / ” 

“I  need  relate  no  farther.  At  Edinburgh 
I was  in  a new  world;  I mingled  among 
many  classes  of  men,  but  all  of  them  new  to 
me,  and  I was  all  attention  to  catch  the 
characters  and  the  manners  living  ax  they 
rise.  Whether  I have  profited,  time  will 
show.  * * * ” 

“ My  most  respectful  compliments  to 
Miss  W.  (16)  Her  very  elegant  and  friendly 
letter  I cannot  answer  at  present,  as  my 
presence  is  requisite  in  Edinburgh,  and  I 
set  out  to-morrow.”  (17) 

At  the  period  of  our  poet’s  death,  his 
brother,  Gilbert  Burns,  was  ignorant  that 
he  had  himself  written  the  forgoing  narra- 
tive of  his  life  while  in  Ayrshire;  and 
having  been  applied  to  by  Mrs.  Dunlop  for 
some  memoirs  of  his  brother,  he  complied 
with  her  request  in  a letter,  from  which  the 
following  narrative  is  chiefly  extracted. 
When  Gilbert  Burns  afterwards  saw  the 
letter  of  our  poet  to  Dr.  Moore,  he  made 
some  annotations  upon  it,  which  shall  be 
noticed  as  we  proceed. 

Robert  Burns  was  born  on  the  25th  day 
of  January  1759,  in  a small  house  about 
two  miles  from  the  town  of  Ayr,  and  within 
a few  hundred  yards  of  Alloway  church, 
which  his  poem  of  Tam  o’  Shanter  has 
rendered  immortal.  (J8)  The  name,  which 
the  poet  and  his  brother  modernised  into 
Burns,  was  originally  Burnes  or  Burness. 
Their  father,  William  Burnes,  was  the  son 
of  a farmer  in  Kincardineshire,  and  haa 
received  the  education  common  in  Scotland 
to  persons  in  his  condition  of  life ; he  could 
read  and  write,  and  had  some  knowledge  of 
arithmetic.  His  family  having  fallen  into 
reduced  circumstances,  he  was  compelled  tc 
leave  his  home  in  his  nineteenth  year,  and 
turned  his  steps  towards  the  south,  in  quest 
of  a livelihood.  The  same  necessity  attended 
his  elder  brother  Robert.  '‘I  have  oftea 


WILLIAM  BURNES  OR  KURNS. 


feeard  my  father”  (says  Gilbert  Burns,  in 
his  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop)  “ describe  the 
anguish  of  mind  he  felt  when  they  parted 
on  the  top  of  a hill  on  the  confines  of  their 
native  place,  each  going  off  his  several  way 
in  search  of  new  adventures,  and  scarcely 
knowing  whither  he  went.  My  father  un- 
dertook to  act  as  a gardener,  and  shaped 
his  course  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  wrought 
hard  when  he  could  get  work,  passing 
through  a variety  of  difficulties.  Still,  how- 
ever, he  endeavoured  to  spare  something 
for  the  support  of  his  aged  parent ; and  I 
recollect  hearing  him  mention  his  having 
sent  a bank-note  for  this  purpose,  when 
money  of  that  kind  was  so  scarce  in  Kin- 
cardineshire, that  they  scarcely  knew  how 
to  employ  it  when  it  arrived.”  From  Edin- 
burgh, William  Burnes  passed  westward 
into  the  county  of  Ayr,  where  he  engaged 
himself  as  a gardener  to  the  laird  of  Fairly, 
with  whom  he  lived  two  years ; then  chang- 
ing his  service  for  that  of  Crawford  of 
Doonside.  At  length,  being  desirous  of 
settling  in  life,  he  took  a perpetual  lease  of 
seven  acres  of  land  from  Dr.  Campbell, 
physician  in  Ayr,  with  the  view  of  com- 
mencing nurseryman  and  public  gardener; 
and,  having  built  a house  upon  it  with  his 
own  hands,  married,  in  December,  1757, 
Agnes  Brown,  the  mother  of  our  poet,  who 
still  survives.  (19)  The  first  fruit  of  this 
marriage  was  Robert,  the  subject  of  these 
memoirs,  born  on  the  25th  of  January,  1759, 
as  has  already  been  mentioned.  Before 
"William  Burnes  had  made  much  progress 
in  preparing  his  nursery,  he  was  withdrawn 
from  that  undertaking  by  Mr.  Ferguson, 
who  purchased  the  estate  of  Doonholm,  in 
the  immediate  neighbourhood,  and  engaged 
him  as  his  gardener  and  overseer ; and  this 
was  his  situation  when  our  poet  was  bom. 
Though  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Ferguson,  he 
lived  in  his  own  house,  his  wife  managing 
her  family  and  her  little  dairy,  which  con- 
sisted sometimes  of  two,  sometimes  of  three 
milch-cows  ; and  this  state  of  unambitious 
content  continued  till  the  year  1766.  His 
son  Robert  was  sent  by  him  in  his  sixth  year 
to  a school  at  Alloway  Miln,  about  a mile 
distant,  taught  by  a person  of  the  name  of 
Campbell ; but  this  teacher  being  in  a few 
months  appointed  master  of  the  workhouse 
ftt  Ayr,  William  Burnes,  in  conjunction  with 
6ome  other  heads  of  families,  engaged  John 
Murdoch  in  his  stead.  The  education  of  our 
poet,  and  of  his  brother  Gilbert,  was  in  com- 
mon; and  of  their  proficiency  under  Mr.  Mur- 
doch, we  have  the  following  account : — 
* W ith  him  we  learnt  to  read  English 


ll 

tolerably  well  (20),  and  to  write  v little. 
He  taught,  us,  too,  the  English  grammar. 
I was  too  young  to  profit  much  from  liig 
lessons  in  grammar,  but  Robert  made  some 
proficiency  in  it — a circumstance  of  con 
sisiderable  weight  in  the  unfolding  of  his 
genius  and  character;  as  he  soon  became 
remarkable  for  the  fluency  and  correctness 
of  his  expression,  and  read  the  few  books 
that  came  in  his  way  with  much  pleasure 
and  improvement : for  even  then  he  was  a 
reader  when  he  could  get  a book.  Murdoch, 
whose  library  at  that  time  had  no  great 
variety  in  it,  lent  him  The  Life  of  Hannibal, 
which  was  the  first  book  he  read  (the  school- 
books excepted),  and  almost  the  only  one 
he  had  an  opportunity  of  reading  while  he 
was  at  school;  for  The  Life  of  Wallace, 
which  he  classes  with  it  in  one  of  his  letters 
to  you,  he  did  not  see  for  some  years  after 
wards,  vdien  he  borrowed  it  from  the  black, 
smith  who  shod  our  horses.” 

It  appears  that  Wilkam  Burnes  approved 
himself  greatly  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Fer- 
guson, by  his  intelligence,  industry,  and 
integrity.  In  consequence  of  this,  with  a 
view  of  promoting  his  interest,  Mr.  Ferguson 
leased  him  a farm,  of  which  we  have  ther 
following  account : — 

“ The  farm  was  upwards  of  seventy 
acres  (21)  (between  eighty  and  ninety,  En- 
glish statute  measure),  the  rent  of  which 
was  to  be  forty  pounds  annually  for  the 
first  six  years,  and  afterwards  forty-five 
pounds.  My  father  endeavoured  to  sell  his 
leasehold  property,  for  the  purpose  of  stock- 
ing this  farm,  but  at  that  time  was  unable, 
and  Mr.  Ferguson  lent  him  a hundred  pounds 
for  that  purpose.  He  removed  to  his  new 
situation  at  Whitsuntide,  1766.  It  was,  I 
think,  not  above  two  years  after  this,  that 
Murdoch,  our  tutor  and  friend,  left  this  part 
of  the  country ; and  there  being  no  school 
near  us,  and  our  little  services  being  useful 
on  the  farm,  my  father  undertook  to  teach 
us  arithmetic  in  the  winter  evenings,  by 
candle-light ; and  in  this  way  my  two  eldest 
sisteVs  got  all  the  education  they  received. 
I remember  a circumstance  that  happened 
at  this  time,  which,  though  trifling  in 
itself,  i3  fresh  in  my  memory,  and  may 
serve  to  illustrate  the  early  character  of  my 
brother.  Murdoch  came  to  spend  a night 
with  us,  and  to  take  his  leave  when  he 
was  about  to  go  into  Carriek.  He  brought 
us  as  a present  and  memorial  of  him,  a 
small  compendium  of  English  Grammar,  and 
the  tragedy  of  Titus  Andronicus,  and,  by 
way  of  passing  the  evening,  he  began  to 
read  the  play  aloud.  We  we**  all  attention 


16 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


for  some  time,  till  presently  the  whole  party 
was  dissolved  in  tears.  A female  in  the 
play  (I  have  but  a confused  remembrance  of 
it)  had  her  hands  chopt  off,  and  her  tongue 
cut  out,  and  then  was  insultingly  desired  to 
call  for  water  to  wash  her  hands.  At  this, 
in  an  agony  of  distress,  we  with  one  voice 
desired  he  would  read  no  more.  My  father 
observed,  that  if  we  would  not  hear  it  out. 
it  would  be  needless  to  leave  the  play  with 
us,  Robert  replied,  that  if  it  was  left  he 
jrould  burn  it.  My  father  was  going  to 
chide  him  for  this  ungrateful  return  to  his 
tutor’s  kindness;  but  Murdoch  interfered, 
declaring  that  he  liked  to  see  so  much 
sensibility;  and  he  left  the  School  for  Love, 
a comedy,  translated  I think  from  the 
'French,  in  its  place.”  (22) 

“ Nothing,”  continues  Gilbert  Burns, 
“ could  be  more  retired  than  our  general 
taanner  of  living  at  Mount  Oliphant ; we 
rarely  saw  any  body  but  the  members  of  our 
cwn  family.  There  were  no  boys  of  our 
own  age,  or  near  xt,  in  the  neighbourhood, 
indeed,  the  greatest  part  of  the  land  in  the 
vicinity  was  at  that  time  possessed  by 
shopkeepers,  and  people  of  that  stamp,  who 
had  retired  from  business,  or  who  kept  their 
farm  in  the  country,  at  the  same  time  that 
they  followed  business  in  town.  My  father 
was  for  some  time  almost  the  only  com- 
panion we  had.  He  conversed  familiarly  on 
*11  subjects  with  us,  as  if  we  had  been 
%en ; and  was  at  great  pains,  while  we 
accompanied  him  in  the  labours  of  the 
farm,  to  lead  the  conversation  to  such 
subjects  as  might  tend  to  increase  our 
knowledge,  or  confirm  us  in  virtuous  habits. 
He  borrowed  Salomon’s  Geographical  Gram- 
mar for  us,  and  endeavoured  to  make  us 
acquainted  with  the  situation  and  history 
of  the  different  countries  of  the  world; 
while,  from  a book-society  in  Ayr,  he  pro- 
cured for  us  the  reading  of  Durham’s  Physico 
and  Astro-Theology,  and  Ray’s  Wisdom  of 
God  in  the  Creation,  to  give  us  some  idea 
of  astronomy  and  natural  history.  Robert 
read  all  these  books  with  an  avidity  and 
industry  scarcely  to  be  equalled.  My 
father  had  been  a subscriber  to  Stackhouse’s 
History  of  the  Bible,  then  lately  pub- 
lished by  James  Meuros  in  Kilmarnock: 
from  this  Robert  collected  a competent 
knowledge  of  ancient  history ; for  no  book 
was  so  voluminous  as  to  slacken  his  in- 
dustry, or  so  antiquated  as  to  damp  his 
researches.  A brother  of  my  mother,  who 
had  lived  with  us  some  time,  and  had  learned 
lome  arithmetic  by  our  winter  evening’s 
tahdft?,  went  into  a bookseller’s  shop  in  Aye, 


to  purchase  The  Ready  Reckoner,  of 

Tradesman’s  Sure  Guide,  and  a book  to 
teach  him  to  write  letters.  Luckily,  in 
place  of  The  Complete  Letter-W riter,  he  got 
by  mistake  a small  collection  of  letters  by 
the  most  eminent  writers,  with  a few 
sensible  directions  for  attaining  an  easy 
epistolary  style.  This  book  wa3  to 
Robert  of  the  greatest  consequence. 
It  inspired  him  with  a strong  desire  to 
excel  in  letter-writing,  while  it  furnished 
him  with  models  by  some  of  the  first  writers 
in  our  language.” 

“My  brother  was  about  thirteen  or 
fourteen,  when  my  father,  regretting  that 
we  wrote  so  ill,  sent  us,  week  about,  during 
a summer  quarter,  to  the  parish  school  of 
Dalrymple,  which,  though  between  two  or 
three  miles  distant,  was  the  nearest  to  us, 
that  we  might  have  an  opportunity  of 
remedying  this  defect.  About  this  time 
a bookish  acquaintance  of  my  father’s  pro- 
cured us  a reading  of  two  volumes  of 
Richardson’s  Pamela,  which  was  the  first 
novel  we  read,  and  the  only  part  of  Richard- 
son’s works  my  brother  was  acquainted  with 
till  towards  the  period  of  his  commencing 
author.  Till  that  time,  too,  he  remained 
unacquainted  with  Fielding,  with  Smollett 
(two  volumes  of  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom, 
and  two  volumes  of  Peregrine  Pickle,  ex- 
cepted), with  Hume,  with  Robertson,  and 
almost  all  our  authors  of  eminence  of  the 
later  times.  I recollect,  indeed,  my  father 
borrowed  a volume  of  English  history  from 
Mr.  Hamilton  of  Bourtreehill’s  gardener. 
It  treated  of  the  reign  of  James  I.,  and  his 
unfortunate  son  Charles,  but  I do  not  know 
who  was  the  author ; all  that  I remember 
of  it  is  something  of  Charles’s  conversation 
with  his  children.  About  this  time,  Mur- 
doch, our  former  teacher,  after  having  been 
in  different  places  in  the  country,  and  having 
taught  a school  some  time  in  Dumfries, 
came  to  be  the  established  teacher  of  the 
English  language  in  Ayr,  a circumstance  of 
considerable  consequence  to  us.  The  re- 
membrance of  my  father’s  former  friend- 
ship, and  his  attachment  to  my  brother, 
made  him  do  every  thing  in  his  power  for 
our  improvement.  He  sent  us  Pope’s 
works,  and  some  other  poetry,  the  first 
that  we  had  an  opportunity  of  reading, 
excepting  what  is  contained  in  the  English 
Collection,  and  in  the  volume  of  the 
Edinburgh  Magazine  for  1772;  excepting 
also  those  excellent  new  songs  that  are 
hawked  about  the  country  in  baskets,  or 
exposed  on  stalls  in  the  streets.” 

“The  summer  after  we  had  been  at 


BURNS  STUDIES  LATIN, 


17 


Dalrymple  school,  my  father  sent  Robert 
to  Ayr,  to  revise  his  English  grammar, 
with  his  former  teacher.  He  had  been 
there  only  one  week,  when  he  was  obliged 
to  return  to  assist  at  the  harvest.  When 
the  harvest  was  over,  he  went  back  to 
school,  where  he  remained  two  weeks ; 
and  this  completes  the  account  of  his 
Bchool  education,  excepting  one  summer 
quarter,  some  time  afterwards,  that  he 
attended  the  parish  school  of  Kirkoswald 
(where  he  lived  with  a brother  of'  my 
mother’s),  to  learn  surveying.” 

“ During  the  two  last  weeks  that  he 
was  with  Murdoch,  he  himself  was  engaged 
in  learning  French  (23),  and  he  communi- 
cated the  instructions  he  received  to  my 
brother,  who,  when  he  returned,  brought 
home  with  him  a French  dictionary  and 
grammar,  and  the  Adventures  of  Telemachus 
in  the  original.  In  a little  while,  by  the 
assistance  of  these  books,  he  had  acquired 
such  a knowledge  of  the  language,  as  to 
read  and  understand  any  French  author  in 
prose.  This  was  considered  as  a sort  of 
prodigy,  and  through  the  medium  of  Mur- 
doch, procured  him  the  acquaintance  of 
several  lads  in  Ayr,  who  were  at  that 
time  gabbling  French,  and  the  notice  of 
some  families,  particularly  that  of  Dr. 
Malcolm,  where  a knowledge  of  French 
was  a recommendation.” 

“ Observing  the  facility  with  which  he 
had  acquired  the  French  language,  Mr. 
Robinson,  the  established  writing-master 
in  Ayr,  and  Mr.  Murdoch’s  particular 
friend,  having  himself  acquired  a con- 
siderable knowledge  of  the  Latin  language, 
by  his  own  industry,  without  ever  having 
learned  it  at  school,  advised  Robert  to  make 
the  same  attempt,  promising  him  every 
assistance  in  his  power.  Agreeably  to  this 
advice,  he  purchased  the  Rudiments  of  the 
Latin  Tongue,  but  finding  this  study  dry 
and  uninteresting,  it  was  quickly  laid  aside. 
He  frequently  returned  to  his  Rudiments 
on  any  little  chagrin  or  disappointment, 
particularly  in  his  love  affairs;  but  the 
Latin  seldom  predominated  more  than  a 
day  or  two  at  a time,  or  a week  at  most. 
Observing,  himself,  the  ridicule  that  would 
attach  to  this  sort  of  conduct  if  it  were 
known,  he  made  two  or  three  humorous 
stanzas  on  the  subject,  which  I cannot  now 
recollect,  but  they  all  ended, 
m * So  I’ll  to  my  Latin  again.* 

"Thus  you  see  Mr.  Murdoch  was  a 
principal  means  of  my  brother’s  improve- 
Worthy  man!  though  foreign  to 
purpose,  I cannot  take  leave 
0 


of  him  without  tracing  his  future  history. 
He  continued  for  some  years  a respected 
and  useful  teacher  at  Ayr,  till  one  evening 
that  he  had  been  overtaken  in  liquor,  ha 
happened  to  speak  somewhat  disrespectfully 
of  l)r.  Dalrymple,  the  parish  minister,  who 
had  not  paid  him  that  attention  to  which 
he  thought  himself  entitled.  In  Ayr  ha 
migtst  as  well  have  spoken  blasphemy.  He 
found  it  proper  to  give  up  his  appoint- 
ment. He  went  to  London,  where  he  still 
lives,  a private  teacher  of  French.  H« 
has  been  a considerable  time  married,  and 
keeps  a 3hop  of  stationery  wrares.”  (24) 

“The  father  of  Dr.  Paterson,  now  phy. 
sician  at  Ayr,  was,  I believe,  a native  of 
Aberdeenshire,  and  was  one  of  the  estab- 
lished teachers  in  Ayr  when  my  father 
settled  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  early 
recognised  my  father  as  a fellow  native  of 
the  north  of  Scotland,  and  a certain  degree 
of  intimacy  subsisted  between  them  during 
Mr.  Paterson’s  life.  After  his  death,  hi* 
widow,  who  is  a very  genteel  woman,  and 
of  great  worth,  delighted  in  doing  what  sha 
thought  her  husband  would  have  wished 
to  have  done,  and  assiduously  kept  up  her 
attentions  to  all  his  acquaintances.  She 
kept  alive  the  intimacy  with  our  family,  by 
frequently  inviting  my  father  and  mother 
to  her  house  on  Sundays,  when  she  met 
them  at  church.” 

“ When  she  came  to  know  my  brother’* 
passion  for  books  she  kindly  offered  us  the 
use  of  her  husband’s  library,  and  from  her 
we  got  the  Spectator,  Pope’s  Translation  of 
Homer,  and  several  other  books  that  w ere 
of  use  to  us.  Mount  Oliphant,  the  farm 
my  father  possessed  in  the  parish  of  Ayr, 
is  almost  the  very  poorest  soil  I know  of 
in  a state  of  cultivation.  A stronger 
proof  of  this  I cannot  give,  than  that, 
notwithstanding  the  extraordinary  rise  in 
the  value  of  lands  in  Scotland,  it  was  let,, 
after  a considerable  sum  laid  out  in  im- 
proving it  by  the  proprietor,  a few  years 
ago,  five  pounds  per  annum  lower  than  the 
rent  paid  for  it  by  my  father,  thirty  years 
ago.  My  father,  in  consequence  of  this, 
soon  came  into  difficulties,  which  were 
increased  by  the  loss  of  several  of  his  cattle 
by  accidents  and  disease.  To  the  buffet- 
ings  of  misfortune,  we  could  only  oppose 
hard  labour  and  the  most  rigid  economy. 
We  lived  very  sparingly.  For  several  years 
butcher’s  meat  was  a stranger  in  the  house, 
while  all  the  members  of  the  family  exerted 
themselves  to  the  utmost  of  their  strength, 
and  rather  beyond  it,  in  the  labours  of  thi 
farm.  My  brother,  at  the  age  of  thirteen 


18 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


assisted  in  thrashing  the  crop  of  com,  and 
at  fifteen  was  the  principal  labourer  on  the 
farm,  for  we  had  no  hired  servant,  male 
or  female.  The  anguish  of  mind  we  felt 
at  our  tender  years,  under  these  straits 
fend  difficulties,  was  very  great.  To  think 
of  our  father  growing  old  (for  he  was  now 
above  fifty),  broken  down  with  the  long- 
continued  fatigues  of  his  life,  with  a wife 
and  five  other  children,  and  in  a declining 
state  of  circumstances — these  reflections 
produced  in  my  brother’s  mind  and  mine 
sensations  of  the  deepest  distress.  I doubt 
not  but  the  hard  labour  and  sorrow  of  this 
period  of  his  life,  was  in  a great  measure 
the  cause  of  that  depression  of  spirits  with 
which  Robert  was  so  often  afflicted  through 
his  whole  life  afterwards.  At  this  time  he 
was  almost  constantly  afflicted  in  the  even- 
ings with  a dull  headache,  which,  at  a future 
period  of  his  life,  was  exchanged  for  a 
palpitation  of  the  heart,  and  a threatening 
of  fainting  and  suffocation  in  his  bed  in 
the  night-time. 

“ By  a stipidation  in  my  father’s  lease, 
he  had  a right  to  throw  it  up,  if  he  thought 
proper,  at  the  end  of  every  sixth  year.  He 
attempted  to  fix  himself  in  a better  farm 
at  the  end  of  the  first  six  years,  but  failing 
in  that  attempt,  he  continued  where  he  was 
for  six  years  more.  He  then  took  the 
farm  of  Lochlea,  of  130  acres,  at  the  rent 
of  twenty  shillings  an  acre,  in  the  parish  of 

Tarbolton,  of  Mr. , then  a merchant  in 

Ayr,  and  now  (1797)  a merchant  in  Liver- 
pool. He  removed  to  this  farm  on  Whit- 
sunday, 1777,  and  possessed  it  only  seven 
yea  :s.  No  writing  had  ever  been  made  out 
of  the  conditions  of  the  lease ; a mis- 
understanding took  place  respecting  them ; 
fche  subjects  in  dispute  were  submitted  to 
arbitration,  and  the  decision  involved  my 
father’s  affairs  in  ruin.  He  lived  to  know 
of  this  decision,  but  not  to  see  any  execution 
in  consequence  of  it.  He  died  on  the 
13th  of  February,  1784.” 

“ The  seven  years  we  lived  in  Tarbolton 
parish  (extending  from  the  19th  to  the 
26th  of  my  brother’s  age),  were  not  marked 
by  much  literary  improvement ; but  during 
this  time,  the  foundation  was  laid  of  certain 
habits  in  my  brother’s  character,  which 
afterwards  became  but  too  prominent,  and 
which  malice  and  envy  have  taken  delight 
to  enlarge  on.  Though  when  young  he 
was  bashful  and  awkward  in  his  intercourse 
with  women,  yet,  when  he  approached  man- 
hood, his  attachment  to  their  society  became 
very  strong,  and  he  was  constantly  the 
IktLu  of  come  fair  enslaver.  The  symp- 


toms of  his  passion  wece  often  such  as 
nearly  to  equal  those  of  the  celebrated 
Sappho.  I never  indeed  knew  that  ha 
fainted,  sunk , and  died  away;  but  the 
agitations  of  his  mind  and  body  exceeded 
anything  of  the  kind  I ever  knew  in  real 
life.  He  had  always  a particulai  jealousy 
of  people %ho  were  richer  than  himself,  or 
who  had  more  consequence  in  life.  His 
love,  therefore,  rarely  settled  on  persons  of 
this  description.  When  he  selected  any 
one  out  of  the  sovereignty  of  his  good 
pleasure,  to  whom  he  should  pay  his  par- 
ticular attention,  she  was  instantly  invested 
with  a sufficient  stock  of  charms,  out  of 
the  plentiful  stores  of  his  own  imagination  ; 
and  there  was  often  a great  dissimilitude 
between  his  fair  captivator,  as  she  appeared 
to  others,  and  as  she  seemed  when  invested 
in  the  attributes  he  gave  her.  One  generally 
reigned  paramount  in  his  affections ; but  as 
Yorick’s  affections  flowed  out  toward  Ma- 
dame de  L — at  the  remise  door,  while  the 
eternal  vows  of  Eliza  were  upon  him,  so 
Robert  was  frequently  encountering  other 
attractions,  which  formed  so  many  under- 
plots in  the  drama  of  his  love.  As  these* 
connections  were  governed  by  the  strictest 
rules  of  virtue  and  modesty  (from  which 
he  never  deviated  till  he  reached  his  23rd 
year),  he  became  anxious  to  be  in  a situa- 
tion to  marry.  This  was  not  likely  soon  to 
be  the  case  while  he  remained  a farmer,  as 
the  stocking  of  the  farm  required  a sum  of 
money  he  had  no  probability  of  being 
master  of  for  a great  while.  He  began, 
therefore,  to  think  of  trying  some  other  line 
of  life.  He  and  I had  for  several  years  taken 
land  of  my  father  for  the  purpose  of  raising 
flax  on  our  own  account.  In  the  course 
of  selling  it,  Robert  began  to  think  of  turning 
flax-dresser,  both  as  being  suitable  to  his 
grand  view  of  settling  in  life,  and  as  subser- 
vient to  the  flax  raising.  He  accordingly 
wrought  at  the  business  of  a flax-dresser  in 
Irvine  for  six  months,  but  abandoned  it  at 
that  period,  as  neither  agreeing  with  his 
health  nor  inclination.  In  Irvine  he  had 
contracted  some  acquaintance  of  a free* 
manner  of  thinking  and  living  than  he  had 
been  used  to,  whose  society  prepared  him 
for  overleaping  the  bounds  of  rigid  virtue 
which  had  hitherto  restrained  him.  To- 
wards the  end  of  the  period  under  review 
(in  his  26th  year),  and  soon  after  his  father’s 
death,  he  was  furnished  with  ihe  subject 
of  his  epistle  to  John  Rankin.  During* 
this  period  also  he  became  a freemason, 
which  was  his  first  introduction  to  the  life 
of  a boon  companion.  Yet,  oc  t withstand 


RUE\S  AT  MOSSGIEL. 


■ 1# 


Mg'  tie  circumstances  and  the  praise  he 
has  bestowed  on  Scotch  drink  (which  seems 
to  have  misled  his  historians),  I do  not 
recollect,  during  these  seven  years,  nor  till 
towards  the  end  of  his  commencing  author 
(when  his  growing  celebrity  occasioned  his 
being  often  in  company),  to  have  ever 
seen  him  intoxicated;  nor  was  he  at  all 
given  to  drinking.  A stronger  proof  of  the 
general  sobriety  of  his  conduct  need  not 
be  reqfuired  than  what  I am  about  to  give. 
Daring  the  whole  of  the  time  we  lived  in 
the  farm  of  Lochlea  with  my  father,  he 
allowed  my  brother  and  me  such  wages  for 
our  labour  as  he  gave  to  other  labour- 
trs,  as  a part  of  which,  every  article  of 
our  clothing  manufactured  in  the  family, 
was  regularly  accounted  for.  When  my 
father’s  affairs  drew  near  a crisis,  Robert 
and  I took  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  consisting 
of  118  acres,  at  the  rent  of  £90  per  annum 
(the  farm  on  which  I live  at  present),  from 
Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton,  as  an  asylum  for  the 
family  in  case  of  the  worst.  It  was  stocked 
by  the  property  and  individual  savings  of 
the  whole  family,  and  was  a joint  concern 
among  us.  (25)  Every  member  of  the  family 
was  allowed  ordinary  wages  for  the  labour  he 
performed  on  the  farm.  (26)  My  brother’s 
allowance  and  mine  wai  seven  pounds  per 
annum  each.  And  during  the  whole  time 
this  family  concern  lasted,  which  was  for 
four  years,  as  well  as  during  the  preceding 
period  at  Lochlea,  his  expenses  never  in 
any  one  year  exceeded  his  slender  income. 
As  I was  entrusted  with  the  keeping  of 
the  family  accounts,  it  is  not  possible  that 
there  can  be  any  fallacy  in  this  statement 
in  my  brother’s  favour.  His  temperance  and 
frugality  were  every  thing  that  could  be 
wished.” 

“ The  farm  of  Mossgiel  lies  very  high,  and 
mostly  on  a cold  wet  bottom.  The  first 
fsttir  years  that  we  were  on  the  farm  were 
very  frosty,  and  the  spring  was  very  late. 
Our  crops  in  consequence  were  very  un- 
profitable ; and,  notwithstanding  our  utmost 
diligence  and  economy,  we  found  ourselves 
obliged  to  give  up  our  bargain,  with  the  loss 
of  a considerable  part  of  our  original  stock. 
It  was  during  these  four  years  that  Robert 
formed  his  connexion  with  Jean  Armour, 
afterwards  Mrs.  Burns.  This  connexion 
could  no  longer  be  concealed  about  the  time 
we  came  to  a final  determination  to  quit 
the  farm.  Robert  durst  not  engage  with 
-a  family  in  his  poor  unsettled  state,  but  was 
anxious  to  shield  his  partner,  by  every 
means  in  his  power,  from  th#  consequences 
of  their  imprudence.  It  waa  agreed,  there. 


I fore,  between  them,  that  they  should  maka 
J a legal  acknowledgment  of  an  irregular  and 
| private  marriage;  that  Ae  should  go  to 
j Jamaica  to  push  his  fortune ; and  that  she 
j should  remain  with  her  father  till  it  might 
i please  Providence  to  put  the  means  of  suo» 
! porting  a family  in  his  power.” 
i “ Mrs.  Burns  was  a great  favourite  of  her 
| father’s.  The  intimation  of  a marriage  wa* 
i the  first  suggestion  he  received  of  her  real 
| situation.  He  was  in  the  greatest  distressj 
! and  fainted  away.  The  marriage  did  not 
1 appear  to  him  to  make  the  matter  better. 
I A husband  in  Jamaica  appeared  to  him 
| and  his  wife  little  better  than  none,  and 
| an  effectual  bar  to  any  other  prospects  of 
j a settlement  in  life  that  their  daughter 
I might  have.  They  therefore  expressed  a 
i wish  to  her,  that  the  written  papers  which 
i respected  the  marriage  should  be  cancelled, 
i and  thus  the  marriage  rendered  void,  in 
her  melancholy  state,  she  felt  the  deepest 
j remorse  at  having  brought  such  heavy  aliiic- 
• tion  on  parents  that  loved  her  so  tenderly, 
j and  submitted  to  their  entreaties.  Their 
I wish  was  mentioned  to  Robert.  He  felt 
j the  deepest  anguish  of  mind.  He  offered 
j to  stay  at  home  and  provide  for  his- wife  and 
j family  in  the  best  manner  that  his  daily 
i labours  could  provide  for  them,  that  being- 
j the  only  means  in  his  power.  Even  this 
1 offer  they  did  not  approve  of ; for  humble 
J as  Miss  Armour’s  station  was,  and  though 
j great  her  imprudence  had  been,  she  still,  in 
j the  eyes  of  her  partial  parents,  might  look 
j to  a better  connection  than  that  with  my 
I friendless  and  unhappy  brother,  at  that  time 
j without  house  or  biding-place.  Robert  at 
j length  consented  to  their  wishes ; but  nis 
! feelings  on  this  occasion  were  of  the  most 
j distracting  nature;  and  the  impression 
j of  sorrow  wa3  not  effaced,  till  by  a regular 
j marriage  they  were  indissolubly  united.  In 
| the  state  of  mind  which  this  separation  pro- 
j duced,  he  wished  to  leave  the  country  as 
j soon  as  possible,  and  agreed  with  Dr. 

| Douglas  to  go  out  to  Jamaica  as  an  assistant 
i overseer,  or,  as  I believe  it  is  called,  a book- 
i keeper  on  his  estate.  As  he  had  not  suffi- 
; cient  money  to  pay  his  passage,  and  the 
! vessel  in  which  Dr.  Douglas  was  to  procure 
! a passage  for  him  was  not  expected  to  sail 
for  some  time,  Mr.  Hamilton  advised  him  to 
publish  his  poems  in  the  mean  time  by  sub- 
scription, as  a likely  way  of  getting  a little 
money,  to  provide  him  more  liberally  in 
necessaries  for  Jamaica,  Agreably  to  this 
advice,  subscription-bills  were  printed  imme- 
diately, and  the  printing  was  commenced  at 
Kilmarnock,  his  preparat  ions  going  on  at  tbs 


20 


LIFE  OF  BURSTS. 


game  time  for  Ills  voyage.  (27)  The  recep- 
tion, however,  which  his  poems  met  with  in 
the  world,  and  the  friends  they  procured 
kirn,  made  him  change  his  resolution  of 
going  to  Jamaica,  and  he  was  advised  to  go 
to  Edinburgh  to  publish  a second  edition. 
On  his  return,  in  happier  circumstances,  he 
renewed  his  connection  with  Mrs.  Burns, 
and  rendered  it  permanent  by  a union  for 
life.” 

Thus,  madam,  have  I endeavoured  to 
give  you  a simple  narrative  of  the  leading 
circumstances  in  my  brother’s  early  life. 
The  remaining  part  he  spent  in  Edinburgh, 
or  in  Dumfries-shire,  and  its  incidents  are  as 
well  known  to  you  as  to  me.  His  genius 
having  procured  him  your  patronage  and 
friendsliip,  this  gave  rise  to  the  correspond- 
ence between  you,  in  which,  I believe,  his 
sentiments  were  delivered  with  the  most 
respectful,  but  most  unreserved  confidence, 
and  which  only  terminated  with  the  last 
days  of  his  life.” 

This  narrative  of  Gilbert  Burns  may  serve 
as  a commentary  on  the  preceding  sketch 
of  our  poet’s  life  by  himself.  It  will  be 
Been  that  the  distraction  of  mind  which  he 
mentions  arose  from  the  distress  and  sorrow 
in  which  he  had  involved  his  future  wife. 
The  wdiole  circumstances  attending  this 
•connexion  are  certainly  of  a very  singular 
nature.  (28) 

The  reader  will  perceive,  from  the  fore- 
going narrative,  how  much  the  children  of 
William  Burnes  were  indebted  to  their 
father,  wrho  was  certainly  a man  of  uncom- 
mon talents,  though  it  does  not  appear  that 
he  possessed  any  portion  of  that  vivid 
imagination  for  which  the  subject  of  these 
memoirs  was  distinguished.  In  page  13,  it 
is  observed  by  our  poet,  that  his  father  had 
an  unaccountable  antipathy  to  dancing- 
schools,  and  that  his  attending  one  of  these 
brought  on  him  his  displeasure  and  even 
dislike.  On  this  observation  Gilbert  has 
made  the  following  remark,  which  seems 
entitled  to  implicit  credit : — “ I wonder  how 
Robert  could  attribute  to  our  father  that 
lasting  resentment  of  his  going  to  a danc- 
ing-school against  his  will,  of  which  he  was 
incapable.  1 believe  the  truth  was,  that  he, 
about  this  time,  began  to  see  the  dangerous 
impetuosity  of  my  brother’s  passions,  as  well 
as  his  not  being  amenable  to  counsel,  which 
often  irritated  my  father,  and  which  he 
would  naturally  think  a dancing-school  was 
not  likely  to  correct.  But  he  was  proud  of 
Robert’s  genius,  which  he  bestowed  more 
expense  in  cultivating  than  on  the  rest  of 
the  family,  in  the  instance  of  sending  liim  | 


to  Ayr  and  ICirkosaaid  schools;  and  he  was 
greatly  delighted  with  his  warmth  of  heart 
and  his  conversational  powers.  He  had, 
indeed,  that  dislike  of  dancing- schools  which 
Robert  mentions,  but  so  far  overcame  it 
during  Robert’s  first  month  of  attendance, 
that  lie  allowed  all  the  rest  ol  the  family  that 
were  fit  for  it  to  accompany  him  during 
the  second  month.  Robert  excelled  in 
dancing,  and  was  for  some  time  distractedly 
fond  of  it.”  * 

“ In  the  original  letters  to  Dr.  Moore,  our 
poet  described  his  ancestors  as  “renting 
lands  of  the  noble  Keiths  of  Marischal,  and 
having  had  the  honour  of  sharing  their 
fate.”  “ I do  not,”  continues  he,  “ use  the 
word  honour  with  any  reference  to  political 
principles ; loyal  and  disloyal,  I take  to  be 
merely  relative  terms,  in  that  ancient  and 
formidable  court,  known  in  this  country 
by  the  name  of  Club-law,  where  the  right 
is  always  with  the  strongest.  But  those 
who  dare  welcome  ruin,  and  shake  hands 
with  infamy,  for  what  they  scarcely  believe 
to  he  the  cause  of  their  God,  or  their 
king,  are,  as  Mark  Antony  says  in  Shaks- 
peare  of  Brutus  and  Cassiu3,  honourable 
men.  I mention  this  circumstahce,  because 
it  threw  my  father  on  the  world  at  large.” 
This  paragraph  has  been  omitted  in  print- 
ing the  letter,  at  the  desire  of  Gilbert  Burns; 
and  it  would  have  been  unnecessary  to 
have  noticed  it  on  the  present  occasion, 
had  not  several  manuscript  copies  of  that 
letter  been  in  circulation.  “ I do  not  knowr,” 
observed  Gilbert  Burns,  “how  my  brother 
could  be  misled  in  the  account  he  has  given 
of  the  Jacobitism  of  his  ancestors.  I believe 
the  Earl  Marischal  forfeited  his  title  and 
estate  in  1715,  before  my  father  was  born; 
and,  among  a collection  of  parish-certificates 
in  his  posession,  I have  read  one,  stating 
that  the  bearer  had  no  concern  in  the  late 
wicked  rebellion”  On'the  information  of  one, 
who  knew  William  Burnes  soon  after  he 
arrived  in  the  country  of  Ayr,  it  may  be 
mentioned,  that  a report  did  prevail  that  ha 
had  taken  the  field  with  the  young  Cheva- 
lier— a report  which  the  certificate  mentioned 
by  his  son  wras,  perhaps,  intended  to  counter- 
act. Strangers  from  the  north,  in  the  low 
country  of  Scotland,  were  in  those  days  liable 
to  suspicions  of  having  been,  in  the 
familiar  phrase  of  the  country,  “Out  in 
the  forty-five”  (1745),  especially  when  they 
had  any  stateliness  or  reserve  about  them, 
as  was  the  case  with  William  Burnes.  It 
may  easily  be  conceived,  that  our  poet 
would  cherish  the  feelief  of  his  father’s  hav- 
| ing  been  engaged  in  the:  daring  enterprise 


21 


THE  ORIGINAL  OF  THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


cf  Prince  Charles  Edward.  The  generous 
attachment,  the  heroic  valour,  and  the  final 
misfortunes  of  the  adherents  of  the  house 
of  Stuart,  touched  with  sympathy  his  youth- 
ful and  ardent  mind,  and  influenced  his 
original  political  opinions.  (29) 

The  father  of  our  poet  is  described  by 
one  who  knew  him  towards  the  latter  end 
of  his  life,  as  above  the  common  stature, 
thin,  and  bent  with  labour.  His  counte- 
nance was  serious  and  expressive,  and  the 
scanty  locks  on  his  head  were  grey.  He 
was  of  a rhligious  turn  of  mind,  and,  as 
is  usual  among  the  Scottish  peasantry,  a 
good  deal  conversant  in  speculative  theology. 
There  is,  in  Gilbert’s  hands,  a little  manual 
of  religious  belief,  in  the  form  of  a dialogue 
between  a father  and  his  son,  composed 
by  him  for  the  use  of  his  children,  in 
which  the  benevolence  of  his  heart  seems  to 
have  led  him  to  soften  the  rigid  Calvinism 
of  the  Scotch  church,  into  something  ap- 
proaching to  Arminianism.  He  was  a 
devout  man,  and  in  the  practice  of  calling 
his  family  together  to  join  in  prayer.  It  is 
known  that  the  following  exquisite  picture, 
in  the  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,  represents 
William  Burnes  and  his  family  at  their 
evening  devotions: — 

The  cheerful  supper  done,  with  serious 
face,  [wide ; 

They,  round  the  ingle  (30),  form  a circle 
The  sire  turns  o’er,  with  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  /ra/WBible,  once  his  father’s  pride: 
His  bonnet  rev’rently  is  laid  aside,  [bare  ; 

His  lyart  haffets  (31)  wearing  thin  and 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 
glide,  [care ; 

He  wales  (32)  a portion  with  judicious 
And  ‘Let  us  worship  God!”  he  says  with 
solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple 
guise ; [aim  : 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 
Perhaps  Dundee's  (33)  wild  warbling  mea- 
sures rise,  [name ; 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs  (34),  worthy  of  the 
Or  noble  Elgin  (35)  beets  (36)  the  heavenly 
flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia’s  holy  lays ; 
Compar’d  with  these  Italian  trills  are  tame, 

The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures 
raise ; [praise. 

No  unison  have  they  with  our  Creator’s 
The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 
(37) 

HowAbram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high: 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  welfare  wage 

With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny ; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie,  [ire; 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven’s  avenging 
Or  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah  wild  seraphic  fire  ; 

Ih  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 


Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme. 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  waj 
shed ; [name, 

How  he  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head, 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a 
land ; 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a mighty  angel  stand, 

And  heard  great  Babylon’s  doom  pronounced* 
by  Heaven’s  command ! 

Then  kneeling  down  to  heaven’s  eternal 
King,  [prays ; 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband, 

‘ Hope  springs  exulting  on  triumphant 
wing,’  [days ; 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear* 
Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise. 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  )§  an  eternal 
sphere. 

• * • • © 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  seveni 

way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
The  parent  pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 
And  offer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  requests 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven’s  clam’rous 
nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But,  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divino 
preside  I” 

Of  a family  so  interesting  as  that  which 
inhabited  the  cottage  of  William  Burnes,  and 
particularly  of  the  father  of  the  family,  the 
reader  will  perhaps  be  willing  to  listen  to 
some  farther  account.  What  follows  is  given 
by  one  already  mentioned  with  so  much 
honour  in  the  narrative  of  Gilbert  Burns, 
Mr.  Murdoch,  the  preceptor  of  our  poet, 
who,  in  a letter  to  Joseph  Cooper  Walker, 
Esq.,  of  Dublin,  author  of  the  Historical 
Memoirs  of  the  Irish  Bards,  and  of  the  His- 
torical Memoir  of  the  Italian  Tragedy,  thus 
expresses  himself : — 

“Sir. — I was  lately  favoured  with  a letter 
from  our  worthy  friend,  the  Rev.  Wm. 
Adair,  in  which  he  requested  me  to  com- 
municate to  you  whatever  particulars  I 
could  recollect  concerning  Robert  Burns, 
the  Ayrshire  poet.  My  business  being  at 
present  multifarious  and  harassing,  my 
attention  is  consequently  so  much  divided, 
and  I am  so  little  in  the  habit  of  express- 
ing my  thoughts  on  paper,  that  at  this 
distance  of  time  I can  give  but  a very  im- 
perfect sketch  of  the  early  part  of  the  life 
of  that  extraordinary  genius,  with  which 
alone  I am  acquainted. 

William  Burnes,  the  father  of  the  poeS* 


LIFE  OP  BURNS. 


was  Dorn  in  the  shire  of  Kincardine,  and 
bred  a gardener.  He  had  been  settled  in 
Ayrshire  ten  or  twelve  years  before  I 
knew  him,  and  had  been  in  the  service  of 
Mr  Crawford  of  Doonside.  He  was  afterwards 
employed  as  a gardener  and  overseer  by 
Provost  Ferguson  of  Doonholm,  m the  parish 
of  Alloway,  which  is  now  united  with  that 
of  Ayr.  In  this  parish,  on  the  roadside,  a 
Scotch  mile  and  a half  from  the  town  of  Ayr, 
and  half  a mile  from  the  bridge  of  Doon, 
Willian  Burnes  took  a piece  of  land,  consist- 
ing of  about  seven  acres  ; part  of  which  he 
laid  out  in  garden  ground,  and  part  of 
which  he  kept  to  graze  a cow,  &c.,  still 
continuing  in  the  employ  of  Provost  Fer- 
guson. Upon  this  little  farm  was  erected 
a humble  dwelling,  of  which  William  Burnes 
was  the  architect.  It  was,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a little  straw,  literally  a tabernacle 
of  clay.  In  this  mean  cottage,  of*  which 
I myself  was  at  times  an  inhabitant,  I 
really  believe  there  dwelt  a larger  portion 
of  content  than  in  any  palace  in  Europe. 
The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night  will  give  some 
idea  of  the  temper  and  manners  that  pre- 
vailed there.” 

“In  1765,  about  the  middle  of  March, 
Mr.  W.  Burnes  came  to  Ayr,  and  sent  to 
the  school  where  I was  improving  in  writ- 
ing, under  my  good  friend  Mr.  Robinson, 
desiring  that  I would  come  and  speak  to 
him  at  a certain  inn,  and  bring  my  writing 
book  with  me.  This  was  immediately  com- 
plied with.  Having  examined  my  writing, 
he  was  pleased  with  it — you  will  readily 
allow  he  was  not  difficult — and  told  me 
that  he  had  received  very  satisfactory  infor- 
mation of  Mr.  Tennant,  the  master  of  the 
English  school,  concerning  my  improvement 
in  English,  and  in  his  method  of  teach- 
ing. In  the  month  of  May  following,  I was 
engaged  by  Mr.  Burnes,  and  four  of  his 
neighbours,  to  teach,  and  accordingly  began 
to  teach  the  school  at  Alloway,  which  was 
situated  a few  yards  from  the  argillaceous 
fabric  above-mentioned.  My  five  employers 
undertook  to  board  me  by  turns,  and  to 
make  up  a certain  salary,  at  the  end  of  the 
year,  provided  my  quarterly  payments  from 
the  different  pupils  did  not  amount  to  that 
sum.” 

“ My  pupil,  Robert  Burns,  was  then  be- 
tween six  and  seven  years  of  age ; his 
preceptor  about  eighteen.  Robert,  and  his 
younger  brother,  Gilbert,  had  been  grounded 
a little  in  English  before  they  were  put 
under  my  care.  They  both  made  a rapid 
progress  in  reading,  and  a tolerable  progress 
lu  writing.  In  reading,  dividing  words  into 


syllables  by  rule,  spelling  without  bcok,  pass* 
ing  sentence,  &c.,  Robert  and  Gilbert 
were  generally  at  the  upper  end  of  the  class, 
even  when  ranged  with  boys  by  far  theii 
seniors.  The  books  most  commonly  used 
in  the  school  were  the  Spelling  Book,  the 
New  Testament,  the  Bible,  Mason’s  Collec 
tion  of  Prose  and  Verse,  and  Fisher’-! 
English  Grammar.  They  committed  to 
memory  the  hymns,  and  other  poems  0/ 
that  collection,  with  uncommon  facility 
This  facility  was  partly  owing  to  the  method 
pursued  by  their  father  and  me  in  instruct- 
ing them,  which  was,  to  make  them  tho- 
roughly acquainted  with  the  meaning  of 
every  word  in  each  sentence  that  was 
be  committed  to  memory.  By  the  bye,  this 
may  be  easier  done,  and  at  an  earlier 
period,  than  is  generally  thought.  As  soon 
as  they  were  capable  of  it,  I taught  them 
to  turn  verse  into  its  natural  prose  order ; 
sometimes  to  substitute  synonymous  ex- 
pressions for  poetical  words,  and  to  supply 
all  the  ellipses.  These,  you  know,  are  the 
means  of  knowing  that  the  pupil  understand* 
his  author.  These  are  excellent  helps  to  the 
arrangement  of  words  in  sentences,  as  well 
as  to  a variety  of  expression.” 

“Gilbert  always  appeared  to  me  to  pos- 
sess a more  lively  imagination,  and  to  be 
more  of  the  wit,  than  Robert.  I attempted 
to  teach  them  a little  church-music.  Here 
they  were  left  far  behind  by  all  the  rest 
of  the  school.  Robert’s  ear,  in  particular, 
was  remarkably  dull,  and  his  voice  un- 
tunable.  It  was  long  before  I could  get 
them  to  distinguish  one  tune  from  another. 
Robert’s  countenance  was  generally  grave, 
and  expressive  of  a serious,  contemplative, 
and  thoughtful  mind.  Gilbert’s  face  said. 
Mirth,  with  thee  I mean  to  live ; and  cer- 
tainly, if  any  person  who  knew  the  two  boys 
had  been  asked  which  of  them  was  tiie 
most  likely  to  court  the  muses,  he  would 
surely  never  have  guessed  that  Robert  had 
a propensity  of  that  kind.” 

“In  the  year  1767,  Mr.  Burnes  quitted 
his  mud  edifice,  and  took  possession  of  9 
farm  (Mount  Oliphant),  of  his  own  improv- 
ing, while  in  the  service  of  Provost  Fergus 
son.  This  farm  being  at  a considerable 
distance  from  the  school,  the  boys  could 
not  attend  regularly ; and  some  changes 
taking  place  among  the  other  supporters  of 
the  school,  I left  it,  having  continued  to 
conduct  it  for  nearly  two  years  and  a half.” 
“In  the  year  1772,  I was  appointed 
(being  one  of  five  candidates  who  were 
examined)  to  teach  the  English  school  at 
Ayr;  and  in  1773,  Robert  Burns  came  to 


B URNS  STUDIES  FRENCH. 


25 


fcoard  and  lodge  with  me,  for  the  purpose  of 
revising  English  grammar,  &c.,  that  he 
might  he  better  quail  led  to  instruct  his 
brothers  and  sisters  at  home.  He  was  now 
with  me  day  and  night,  in  school,  at  all 
meals,  and  in  all  my  walks.  At  the  end  of  i 
one  week,  I told  him,  that,  as  he  was  now  j 
pretty  mrcli  master  of  the  parts  of  speech,  i 
&c.,  I should  like  to  teach  him  something 
of  French  pronunciation ; that  when  he 
should  meet  with  the  name  of  a French 
town,  ship  officer,  or  the  like,  in  the  news- 
papers, he  might  be  able  to  pronounce  it 
something  like  a French  word.  Robert  was  : 
glad  to  hear  this  proposal,  and  immedi-  ! 
ately  we  attacked  the  French  with  good  j 
courage.” 

“Now  there  was  little  else  to  be  heard  ! 
but  the  declension  of  nouns,  the  con-  j 
jugation  of  verbs,  &c.  When  walking ! 
together,  and  even  at  meals,  I was  con-  j 
stantly  telling  him  the  names  of  different ! 
objects,  as  they  presented  themselves,  in  j 
French  ; so  that  he  was  hourly  laying  in  [ 
a stock  of  words,  and  sometimes  little  i 
phrases.  In  short,  he  took  such  pleasure  in  j 
?earning,  and  I in  teaching,  that  it  is ; 
difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  was  most  • 
zealous  in  the  business ; and  about  the  end  of 
the  second  week  ofour  study  of  the  French, 
we  began  to  read  a little  of  the  Adventures 
of  Telemachus,  in  Fenelon’s  own  words.” 

" But  now  the  plain*  of  Mount  Oliphant 
began  to  whiten,  and  Robert  was  sum- 
moned to  relinquish  the  pleasing  scenes  that 
surround  the  grotto  of  Calypso,  and,  armed  I 
with  a sickle,  to  seek  glory  by  signalising  j 
himself  in  the  field  of  Ceres — and  so  he  i 
Aid ; for,  although  but  about  fifteen,  I was  | 
••old  that  he  performed  the  work  of  a man.”  i 

“ Thus  was  I deprived  of  my  very  apt  pupil,  j 
and  consequently  agreeable  companion,  at  ; 
the  end  of  three  weeks,  one  of  which  was  ; 
spent  entirely  in  the  study  of  English,  and  I 
the  other  two  chiefly  in  that  of  French.  ! 
I did  not,  however,  lose  sight  of  him,  but  j 
was  a frequent  visitant  at  his  father’s  house,  j 
when  I had  my  half  holiday;  and  very  • 
often  went,  accompanied  with  one  or  two  < 
persons  more  intelligent  than  myself,  that  • 
good  William  Burnes  might  enjoy  a mental  j 
feast.  Then  the  labouring  oar  was  shifted  I 
to  some  other  hand.  The  father  and  the  * 
son  sat  down  with  us,  when  we  enjoyed  a | 
conversation,  wherein  solid  .reasoning,  sensi-  j 
ble  remark,  and  a moderate  seasoning  of  j 
jocularity.,  were  so  nicely  blended,  as  to 
render  it  palatable  to  all  parties.  Robert 
had  a hundred  questions  to  ask  me  about 
ihe  F reach,  &c. ; and  the  father,  who  had 


always  rational  information  in  view,  had 
still  some  questions  to  propose  to  my 
more  learned  friends,  upon  moral  or  natural 
philosophy,  or  some  such  interesting  subject. 
Mrs.  Burnes,  too,  was  of  the  party  as  much 
as  possible ; 

‘But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  ter 
thence,  [patch. 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dis- 
She’d  come  again,  and  with  a greedy  ear. 
Devour  up  their  discourse’ — * 

and  particularly  that  of  her  husband. 
all  times,  and  in  all  companies,  she  listened 
to  him  with  a more  marked  attention  than 
to  any  body  else.  When  under  the  neces- 
sity of  being  absent  while  he  was  speak- 
ing, she  seemed  to  regret,  as  a real  loss,  that 
she  had  missed  what  the  good  man  had 
said.  This  worthy  woman,  Agnes  Brown, 
had  the  most  thorough  esteem  for  her  hus- 
band of  any  woman  I ever  knew.  I can 
by  no  means  wonder  that  she  highly 
esteemed  him  ; for  I myself  have  always 
considered  William  Burnes  as  by  far  the 
best  of  the  human  race  that  ever  I had 
the  pleasure  of  being  acquainted  with — ■ 
and  many  a worthy  character  I have  known. 
I can  cheerfully  join  with  Robert  in  the  last 
line  of  his  epitaph  (borrowed  from  Gold- 
smith), 

* And  ev’n  his  failings  lean’d  to  virtue’s  side.* 
“ He  was  an  excellent  husband,  if  I may 
judge  from  his  assiduous  attention  to  the 
ease  and  comfort  of  his  worthy  partner, 
and  from  her  affectionate  behaviour  to 
him,  as  well  as  her  unwearied  attention  to 
the  duties  of  a mother.” 

“ He  was  a tender  and  affectionate  father ; 
he  took  pleasure  in  leading  his  children  in 
the  path  of  virtue,  not  in  driving  them,  as 
some  parents  do,  to  the  performance  of 
duties  to  which  they  themselves  are  averse. 
He  took  care  to  find  fault  but  very  seldom ; 
and  therefore,  when  he  did  rebuke,  he  was 
listened  to  with  a kind  of  reverential  awe, 
A look  of  disapprobation  was  felt ; a re- 
proof was  severely  so ; and  a strip  with 
the  tawz,  even  on  the  skirt  of  the  coat, 
gave  heart-felt  pain,  produced  a loud  lamen- 
tation, and  brought  forth  a flood  of  tears.” 

“ He  had  the  art  of  gaining  the  esteem 
and  goodwill  of  those  that  were  labourer! 
under  him.  I think  I never  saw  him  angry 
but  twice ; the  one  time,  it  was  with  tha 
foreman  of  the  band,  for  not  reaping  tha 
field  as  he  was  desired;  and  the  other 
time,  it  was  with  an  old  man,  for  using 
smutty  inuendoes  and  double  entendres. 
Were  every  foul-mouthed  old  man  to  receive 


24 


LIFE  OF  BORNS. 


a reas/riiable  check  in  this  way,  it  would  be 
to  the  advantage  of  the  rising  generation. 
As  he  was  at  no  time  overbearing  to 
inferiors,  he  was  equally  incapable  of  that 
passive,  pitiful,  paltry  spirit,  that  induces 
some  people  to  keep  booing  and  booing  in  the 
presence  of  a great  man.  He  always  treated 
superiors  with  a becoming  respect ; but  he 
never  gave  the  smallest  encouragement  to 
aristocratical  arrogance.  But  I must  not 
pretend  to  give  you  a description  of  all  the 
manly  qualities,  the  rational  and  Christian 
virtues,  of  the  venerable  William  Burnes. 
Tine  would  fail  me.  I shall  only  add 
that  he  carefully  practised  every  known 
duty,  and  avoided  every  thing  that  was 
criminal ; or,  in  the  apostle’s  words.  Herein 
did  he  exercise  himself ’ in  living  a life  void 
of  offence  towards  God  and  towards  men. 
Oh  for  a world  of  men  of  such  dispositions  ! 
We  should  then  have  no  wars.  I have  often 
wished,  for  the  good  of  mankind,  that  it 
were  as  customary  to  honour  and  perpetuate 
the  memory  of  those  who  excel  in  moral 
rectitude  as  it  is  to  extol  what  are  called 
heroic  actions : then  would  the  mausoleum 
of  the  friend  of  my  youth  overtop  and 
surpass  most  of  the  monuments  I see  in 
Westminster  Abbey.” 

“ Although  I cannot  do  justice  to  the  cha- 
racter of  this  worthy  man,  yet  you  will 
perceive,  from  these  few  particulars,  what 
kind  of  person  had  the  principal  hand  in  the 
education  of  our  poet.  He  spoke  the 
English  language  with  moie  propriety  (both 
with  respect  to  diction  and  pronunciation) 
than  any  man  I ever  knew  with  no  greater 
advantages.  This  had  a very  good  effect 
on  the  boys,  who  began  to  talk,  and  reason 
like  men,  much  sooner  than  their  neighbours. 
I do  not  recollect  any  of  their  contempo- 
raries, at  my  little  seminary,  who  afterwards 
made  any  great  degree  as  literary  charac- 
ters, except  Dr.  Tennant,  who  was  chaplain 
to  Colonel  Fullar ton’s  regiment,  and  who  is 
now  in  the  East  Indies.  He  is  a man  of 
genius  and  learning ; yet  affable,  and  free 
from  pedantry.” 

“ Mr.  Burnes,  in  a short  time,  found  that 
he  had  overrated  Mount  Oliphant,  and 
that  he  could  not  rear  his  numerous  family 
upon  it.  After  being  there  some  years,  he 
removed  to  Lochlea,  in  the  parish  of  Tar- 
bolton,  where,  I believe,  Robert  wrote  most 
of  bis  poems.” 

“ But  here,  sir,  you  will  permit  me  to  pause. 
I can  tell  you  but  little  more  relative  to  our 
poet.  I shall,  however,  in  my  next,  send 
you  a copy  of  one  of  his  letters  to  me, 
about  the  year  1733.  } received  ®ue  since. 


but  it  is  mislaid.  Please  remember  me,  hi 
the  best  manner,  to  my  worthy  friend  Mr. 
Adair,  when  you  see  him,  or  write  to  him/* 

u Hart  Street , Bloomsbury  Square 9 
London , Feb.  22,  1799.” 

As  the  narrative  of  Gilbert  Bums  was 
written  at  a time  when  he  was  ignorant  of 
the  existence  of  the  preceding  narrative  of 
his  brother,  so  this  letter  of  Mr.  Murdoch 
was  written  without  his  having  any  know- 
ledge that  either  of  his  pupils  had  been 
employed  on  the  same  subject.  The  three 
relations  serve,  therefore,  not  merely  to 
illustrate,  but  to  authenticate  each  other. 
Though  the  information  they  convey  might 
have  been  presented  within  a shorter  com- 
pass, by  reducing  the  whole  into  one 
unbroken  narrative,  it  is  scarcely  to  be 
doubted,  that  the  intelligent  reader  will  be 
far  more  gratified  by  a sight  of  these  original 
documents  themselves. 

[The  poet  mentions  in  his  own  narrative 
his  visit  in  his  nineteenth  summer  to  Kirk- 
oswald  parish,  and  his  mingling  in  scenes 
of  dissipation  there  amongst  the  Carrick 
smugglers.  The  following  additional  par- 
ticulars respecting  this  period  of  his  life  will 
probably  be  interesting:  they  were  col- 
lected by  the  present  editor,  but  appeared 
originally  in  Chambers  Edinburgh  Journal. 

If  Burns  be  correct  in  stating  that  it  was 
his  nineteenth  summer  which  he  spent  in 
Kirkoswald  parish,  the  date  of  his  residence 
there  must  be  1777.  What  seems  to  have 
suggested  his  going  to  Kirkoswald  school, 
was  the  connection  of  his  mother  with 
that  parish.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
Gilbert  Brown,  farmer  of  Craigenton,  in 
this  parochial  division  of  Carrick,  in  which 
she  had  many  friends  still  living,  par- 
ticularly a brother,  Samuel  Brown,  who 
resided,  in  the  miscellaneous  capacity  of 
farm-labourer,  fisherman,  and  dealer  in  wool, 
at  the  farm-house  of  Ballochneil,  above  a 
mile  from  the  village  of  Kirkoswald.  This 
Brown,  though  not  the  farmer  or  guidman 
of  the  place,  was  a person  held  to  be 
in  creditable  circumstances  in  a district 
where  the  distinction  between  master  and 
servant  was,  and  still  is,  by  no  means  great. 
His  wife  was  the  sister  of  Niven,  the 
tenant;  and  he  lived  in  the  “ chamber ” 
or  better  portion  of  the  farm-house,  but 
was  now  a widower.  It  was  with  Brown 
that  Burns  lived  during  his  attendance  at 
Kirkoswald  school,  walking  every  morning 
to  the  village  where  the  little  seminary 
of  learning  was  situated,  and  returning  &£ 
night. 


HUGH  RODGER  THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 


2S 


The  district  into  which  the  young  poet  of 
Kyle  was’thus  thrown,  has  many  features  of 
a remarkable  kind.  Though  situated  on  the 
shore  of  the  Firth  of  Clyde,  where  steamers 
are  every  hour  to  be  seen  on  their  past,  £e 
between  enlightened  and  busy  cities,  it  is  to 
this  day  the  seat  of  simple  and  patriarchal 
usages.  Its  land,  composed  of  bleak  green 
uplands,  partly  cultivated  and  partly  pas- 
toral, was,  at  the  time  alluded  to,  occupied 
by  a generation  of  primitive  small  farmers, 
many  of  whom,  while  preserving  their  native 
simplicity,  had  superadded  to  it  some  of 
the  irregular  habits  arising  from  a concern 
in  the  trade  of  introducing  contraband 
goods  on  the  Carrick  coast.  (38)  Such 
dealings  did  not  prevent  superstition  from 
flourishing  amongst  them  in  a degree  of 
vigour  of  which  no  district  of  Scotland 
now  presents  any  example.  The  parish 
has  six  miles  of  sea  coast ; and  the  village, 
where  the  church  and  school  are  situated,  is 
in  a sheltered  situation  about  a couple 
of  miles  inland. 

The  parish  schoolmaster,  Hugh  Rodger, 
enjoyed  great  local  fame  as  a teacher  of 
mensuration  and  geometry,  and  was  much 
employed  as  a practical  land  surveyor.  On 
the  day  when  Burns  entered  at  the  school, 
another  youth,  a little  younger  than  himself, 
also  entered.  This  was  a native  of  the 
neighbouring  town  of  Maybole,  who  having 
there  completed  a course  of  classical  study, 
was  now  sent  by  his  father,  a respectable 
shopkeeper,  to  acquire  arithmetic  and  men- 
suration under  the  famed  mathematician 
of  Kirkoswald.  It  was  then  the  custom, 
when  pupils  of  their  age  entered  at  a 
school,  to  take  the  master  to  a tavern,  and 
implement  the  engagement  by  treating  him 
to  some  liquor.  Burns  and  the  Maybole 
youth,  accordingly  united  to  regale  Rodger 
with  a potation  of  ale,  at  a public  house  in 
the  village,  kept  by  two  gentlewomanly  sort 
of  persons  named  Kennedy — Jean  and 
Anne  Kennedy — the  former  of  whom  was 
destined  to  be  afterwards  married  to  im- 
mortal verse,  under  the  appellation  of 
Kirkton  Jean,  and  whose  house,  in  con- 
sideration of  some  pretensions  to  birth  or 
style  above  the  common,  was  always  called 
“the  Leddies’  House.”  From  that  time. 
Burns  and  the  Maybole  youth  became 
intimate  friends,  insomuch,  that,  during  this 
Bummer,  neither  had  any  companion  with 
whom  he  was  more  frequently  in  company 
th&n  with  the  other.  Burns  was  only  at  the 
village  during  school  hours ; but  w hen  his 
friend  Willie  returned  to  the  paternal  dome 
on  Saturday  nights,  the  poet  would  accom- 


pany him,  and  stay  till  it  was  time  for  both 
to  come  back  to  school  on  Monday  morning. 
There  was  also  an  interval  between  the 
morning  and  afternoon  meetings  of  the 
school,  which  the  two  youths  used  to  spend 
together.  Instead  of  amusing  themselves 
with  ball  or  any  other  sport,  like  the  rest  of 
the  scholars,  they  would  take  a walk  by 
themselves  in  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
and  converse  on  subjects  calculated  to  im- 
prove their  minds.  By  and  bye,  they  fell 
upon  a plan  of  holding  disputations  or  argu- 
ments on  speculative  questions,  one  taking 
one  side,  and  the  other  the  other,  without 
much  regard  to  their  respective  ©pinions  on 
the  point,  whakyer  it  might  be,  the  whole 
object  being  to  sharpen  their  intellects. 
They  asked  several  of  their  companions  to 
come  and  take  a side  in  these  debates,  but 
not  one  would  do  so ; they  only  laughed  at 
the  young  philosophers.  The  matter  at 
length  reached  the  ears  of  the  master,  who, 
however  skilled  in  mathematics,  possessed 
but  a narrow  understanding  and  little  gene- 
ral knowledge.  With  all  the  bigotry  of  th« 
old  school,  he  conceived  that  this  superero- 
gatory employment  of  his  pupils  was  a piece 
of  absurdity,  and  he  resolved  to  correct  them 
in  it.  One  day,  therefore,  when  the  school 
was  fully  met,  and  in  the  midst  of  its  usual 
business,  he  w^ent  up  to  the  desk  where 
Burns  and  Willie  were  sitting  opposite  to 
each  other,  and  began  to  advert  in  sarcastic 
terms  to  what  he  had  heard  of  them.  They 
had  become  great  debaters,  he  understood, 
and  conceived  themselves  fit  to  settle  affairs 
of  importance,  which  wiser  heads  usually  le» 
alone.  He  hoped  their  disputations  would 
not  ultimately  become  quarrels,  and  that 
they  would  never  think  of  coming  from 
words  to  blows  ; and  so  forth.  The  jokes  of 
schoolmasters  always  succeed  amongst  the 
boys,  who  are  too  glad  to  find  the  awful 
man  in  any  thing  like  good  humour,  to 
question  either  the  moral  aim  or  the  point 
of  his  wit.  They  therefore,  on  this  occa- 
sion, hailed  the  master’s  remarks  wdth  hearty 
peals  of  laughter.  Nettled  at  this,  Willie 
resolved  he  would  “speak  up”  to  Rodger; 
but  first  he  asked  Burns  in  a whisper  if  ha 
would  support  him,  which  Burns  promised 
to  do.  He  then  said  that  he  was  sorry  to 
find  that  Robert  and  he  had  given  offence  ; 
it  had  not  been  intended.  And  indeed  I10 
had  expected  that  the  master  would  hava 
been  rather  pleased  to  know  of  their  endea- 
vours to  improve  their  minds.  He  could 
assure  him  that  such  improvement  wns  the 
sole  object  they  had  in  view.  Rodger 
sneered  at  the  idea  of  their  improving  their 


26 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


minds  by  nonsensical  discussions,  and  con-  I 
temptuously  asked  what  it  was  they  disputed 
about.  Willie  replied,  that  generally  there 
was  a new  subject  every  day ; that  he  could 
not  recollect  all  that  had  come  under  their 
attention ; but  the  question  of  to-day  had 
been — “ Whether  is  a great  general  or  a re- 
spectable merchant  the  most  valuable  mem- 
ber of  society  ? ” The  dominie  laughed 
outrageously  at  what  he  called  the  silliness 
of  such  a question,  seeing  there  could  be  no 
doubt  for  a moment  about  it.  “ W ell,”  said 
Burns,  “if  you  think  so,  I will  be  glad  if  you 
Jake  any  side  you  please,  and  allow  me  to 
take  the  other,  and  let  us  discuss  it  before 
the  school.”  Rodger  most  unwisely  assented, 
and  commenced  the  argument  by  a flourish 
in  favour  of  the  general.  Burns  answered 
by  a pointed  advocacy  of  the  pretensions  of 
the  merchant,  and  soon  had  an  evident  su- 
periority over  his  preceptor.  The  latter 
replied,  but  without  success.  His  hand  was 
observed  to  shake ; then  his  voice  trembled; 
and  he  dissolved  the  house  in  a state  of 
vexation  pitiable  to  behold.  In  this  anecdote, 
who  can  fail  to  read  a prognostication  of 
future  eminence  to  the  two  disputants  ? The 
one  became  the  most  illustrious  poet  of  his 
country;  and  it  is  not  unworthy  of  being 
m ntioned  in  the  same  sentence,  that  the 
other  advanced,  through  a career  of  success- 
ful industry  in  his  native  town,  to  the  pos- 
session of  a large  estate  in  its  neighbourhood, 
and  some  share"  of  the  honours  usually 
reserved  in  this  country  for  birth  and  aristo- 
cratic connection. 

The  coast  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Burns’s 
residence  at  Ballochneil  presented  a range  of 
rustic  characters  upon  whom  his  genius  was 
destined  to  confer  an  extraordinary  interest. 

At  the  farm  of  Shanter,  on  a slope  overlook- 
ing the  shore,  not  far  from  Turnberry  Castle, 
lived  Douglas  Graham,  a stout  hearty  speci- 
men of  the  Carrick  farmer,  a little  addicted 
to  smuggling,  but  withal  a worthy  and 
upright  member  of  society,  and  a kind- 
na Lured  man.  He  had  a wife  named  Helen 
M Taggart,  who  was  unusually  addicted  to 
superstitious  beliefs  and  fears.  The  steading 
where  this  good  couple  lived  is  now  no  more, 
for  the  farm  has  been  divided  for  the  in- 
crease of  two  others  in  its  neighbourhood ; 
but  genius  has  given  them  a perennial  ex- 
istence in  the  tale  of  Tam  o’Shanter,  where 
their  characters  are  exactly  delineated  under 
the  respective  appellations  of  Tam  and 
Kate.  * * * * 

At  Ballochneil,  Burns  engaged  heartily  in 
the  sports  of  leaping,  dancing,  wrestling, 
'putting  (throwing)  the  g tone,  and  other#  of 


the  like  kind.  His  innate  thirst  for  distinc- 
tion and  superiority  was  manifested  in  these 
as  in  more  important  affairs ; but  tin  ugh  ha 
was  possessed  of  great  strength,  as  well  as 
skill,  he  could  never  match  his  young  bed- 
fellow, John  Niven.  Obliged  at  last  ta 
acknowledge  himself  beat  by  this  person  in 
bodily  warfare,  he  had  recourse  for  amends 
to  a spiritual  mode  of  contention,  and  would 
engage  young  Niven  in  an  argument  about 
some  speculative  question,  when,  of  course, 
he  invariably  floored  his  antagonist.  His 
satisfaction  on  these  occasions  is  said  to 
have  been  extreme.  One  day,  as  he  was 
walking  slowly  along  the  street  of  the  village 
in  a manner  customary  to  him,  with  his  eyes 
bent  on  the  ground,  he  was  met  by  the 
Misses  Biggar,  the  daughters  of  the  parish 
pastor.  He  would  have  passed  without 
noticing  them,  if  one  of  the  young  ladies 
had  not  called  him  by  name.  She  then 
rallied  him  on  his  inattention  to  the  fair 
sex,  in  preferring  to  look  towards  the  inani- 
mate ground,  instead  of  seizing  the  oppor- 
tunity afforded  him  of  indulging  in  the 
most  invaluable  privilege  of  man,  that  of 
beholding  and  conversing  with  the  ladies. 

“ Madam,”  said  he,  “ it  is  a natural  and 
right  thing  for  man  to  contemplate  the 
ground,  from  whence  he  was  taken,  and  for 
woman  to  look  upon  and  observe  man,  from 
whom  she  was  taken.”  This  was  a conceit, 
but  it  was  the  conceit  of  “ no  vulgar  boy.” 
There  is  a great  fair  at  Kirkoswald  in  the 
beginning  of  August — on  the  same  day,  we 
believe,  with  a like  fair  at  Kirkoswald  in 
Northumberland,  both  places  having  taken 
their  rise  from  the  piety  of  one  person, 
Oswald,  a Saxon  king  of  the  heptarchy, 
whose  memory  is  probably  honoured  in 
these  observances.  During  the  week  pre- 
ceding this  fair  in  the  year  1777,  Burns 
made  overtures  to  his  Maybole  friend, 
Willie,  for  their  getting  up  a dance,  on  the 
evening  of  the  approaching  festival,  in  one 
of  the  public-houses  of  the  village,  and  in- 
viting their  sweethearts  to  it.  Willie  knew 
little  at  that  time  of  dances  or  sweethearts ; 
but  he  liked  Burns,  and  was  no  enemy  to 
amusement.  He  therefore  consented,  and  it 
was  agreed  that  some  other  young  men 
should  be  requested  to  join  in  the  under- 
taking. The  dance  took  place,  as  designed, 
the  requisite  music  being  supplied  by  a 
hired  band ; and  anout  a dozen  couples  par- 
took of  the  fun.  W hen  it  was  proposed  to 
part,  the  reckoning  was  called,  and  found  to 
amount  to  eighteen  shillings  and  fourpenoe. 

It  was  then  discovered  that  almost  every 
one  present  had  looked  to  his  neighbour#  tot 


BURNS  IN  LOVE  WITH  PEGGY  THOMSON, 


2? 


fee  means’ of  settling  this  claim.  Burns, 
the  originator  of  the  scheme,  was  in  the 
poetical  condition  of  not  being  master  of  a 
single  penny.  Tire  test  were  in  the  like 
condition,  all  except  one,  whose  resources 
amounted  to  a groat,  and  Maybole  Willie, 
who  pressed  about  half-a-crown.  The 

last  individual,  who  alone  boasted  any 
worldly  wisdom  or  experience,  took  it  upon 
him  to  extricate  the  company  from  its  diffi- 
culties. By  virtue  of  a candid  and  sensible 
narration  to  the  landlord,  he  induced  that 
individual  to  take  what  they  had,  and  give 
credit  for  the  remainder.  The  payment  of 
the  debt  is  not  the  worst  part  of  the  story. 
Seeing  no  chance  from  begging  or  borrow- 
ing, Willie  resolved  to  gain  it,  if  possible, 
by  merchandise.  Observing  that  stationery 
articles  for  the  school  were  procured  at 
Kirkoswald  with  difficulty,  he  supplied  him- 
self with  a stock  from  his  father’s  warehouse 
at  Maypole,  and  for  some  weeks  sold  pens 
and  paper  to  his  companions,  with  so  much 
advantage,  that  at  length  he  realised  a suffi- 
cient amount  of  profit  to  liquidate  the  ex- 
pense of  the  dance.  Burns  and  he  then 
went  in  triumph  to  the  inn,  and  not  only 
settled  the  claim  to  the  last  penny,  but 
gave  the  kind-hearted  host  a bowl  of  thanks 
into  the  bargain.  Willie,  however,  took 
care  from  that  time  forth  to  engage  in  no 
schemes  for  country  dances  without  looking 
carefully  to  the  probable  state  of  the  pockets 
Of  his  fellow  adventurers. 

Burns,  according  to  his  own  account,  con- 
cluded his  residence  at  Kirkoswald  in  a 
blaze  of  passion  for  a fair  filette  who  lived 
next  door  to  the  school.  At  this  time, 
owing  to  the  destruction  of  the  proper 
school  of  Kirkoswald,  a chamber  at  the  end 
of  the  old  church,  the  business  of  parochial 
instruction  was  conducted  in  an  apartment  i 
on  the  ground  floor  of  a house  in  the  main  j 
street  of  the  village,  opposite  the  church-  | 
yard.  From  behind  this  house,  as  from  j 
behind  each  of  its  neighbours  in  the  same  I 
row,  a small  stripe  of  kail-yard  (Anglice,  { 
kitchen  garden)  runs  back  about  fifty  yards,  I 
along  a rapidly  ascending  slope.  When 
Burns  went  into  the  particular  patch  behind  | 
the  school  to  take  the  suffis  altitude,  he  had 
only  to  look  over  a low  enclosure  to  see  the  j 
similar  patch  connected  with  the  next  house.  | 
Here,  it  seems,  Peggy  Thomson,  the  { 
daughter  of . the  rustic  occupant  of  that  ; 
nouse,  was  walking  at  the  time,  though  J 
more  probably  engaged  in  the  business  of  , 
cutting  a cabbage  for  the  family  dinner,  j 
than  imitating  the  flower-gathering  Proser-  , 
pine,  or  her  prototype  Eve.  Hence  the  j 


bewildering  passion  of  the  poet.  Peggy 
was  the  the.  ne  of  his  “ Sona  composed  in 
August,”  beginning, 

“Now  westlin  winds  and  slaughtering  guns 
Brings  Autumn’s  pleasant  w gather.” 

She  afterwards  became  Mrs.  Neilson,  and 
lived  to  a good  age  in  the  town  of  Ayr, 
where  her  children  still  reside. 

At  his  departure  from  Kirkoswald,  he 
engaged  his  Maybole  friend  and  some  other 
lads  to  keep  up  a correspondence  with  him. 
His  object  in  doing  so,  as  we  may  gather 
from  his  own  narrative,  was  to  improve 
himself  in  composition.  “I  carried  this 
whim  so  far.”  says  he,  "that,  though  I had 
not  three  farthings’  worth  of  business  in  the 
world,  yet  almost  every  post  brought  me  as 
many  letters  as  if  I had  been  a broad  plodd- 
ing son  of  day-book  and  ledger.”  To 
Willie,  in  particular,  he  wrote  often,  and  in 
the  most  friendly  and  confidential  terms. 
When  that  individual  was  commencing 
business  in  his  native  town,  the  poet  ad- 
dressed him  a poetical  epistle  of  appropriate 
advice,  headed  with  the  well-known  lines 
from  Blair’s  Grave,  beginning — 

“ Friendship ! mysterious  cement  of  the  soul. 
Sweetener  of  life  and  solder  of  society.” 

This  correspondence  continued  till  the  period 
of  the  publication  of  the  poems,  when 
Burns  wrote  to  request  hi3  friend’s  good 
offices  in  increasing  his  list  of  subscribers. 
The  young  man  was  then  possessed  of  little 
influence ; but  what  little  he  had,  he  ex- 
erted with  all  the  zeal  of  friendship,'  and 
with  considerable  success.  A considerable 
number  of  copies  was  accordingly  trans- 
mitted in  proper  time  to  his  care,  and  soon 
after  the  poet  came  to  Maybole  to  receive 
the  money.  His  friend  collected  a few 
choice  spirits  to  meet  him  at  the  King’s 
Arms  Inn,  and  they  spent  a happy  night 
together.  Burns  was  on  this  occasion  par- 
ticularly elated,  for  Willie,  in  the  midst  of 
their  conviviality,  handed  over  to  him  above 
seven  pounds,  being  the  first  considerable 
sum  of  money  the  poor  bard  bad  ever  pos- 
sessed. In  the  pride  of  his  heart,  next 
morning,  he  determined  that  he  should  not 
walk  home,  and  accordingly  he  hired  from 
his  host  a certain  poor  hack  mare,  weB 
known  along  the  whole  road  from  Glasgow 
to  Portpatrick — in  all  probability  the  first 
hirer!  conveyance  that  Poet  Burns  had  ever 
enjoyed,  for  even  his  subsequent  journey  to 
Edinburgh,  aspicious  as  were  the  prospects 
under  which  it  was  undertaken,  was  per- 
formed on  foot.  Willie  and  a few  othei 
youths  who  had  been  in  his  company  on  thf 


28 


LIFE  OF  BURN’S. 


preceding  night,  walked  ont  of  town  before 
him,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  leave  at  a 
particular  spot;  and  before  he  came  up, 
they  had  prepared  a few  mock-heroic  verses 
in  which  to  express  their  farewell.  When 
Burns  rode  up,  accordingly,  they  saluted 
him  in  this  formal  manner,  a little  to  his 
surprise.  He  thanked  them,  however,  and 
instantly  added,  "What  need  of  all  this 
fine  parade  of  verse  ? It  would  have  been 
quite  enough  if  you  had  said— 

Here  comes  Burns, 

On  Itosinante ; 

She’s  d — poor, 

But  he’s  d — canty.** 

The  company  then  allowed  Bums  to  go  on 
his  way  rejoicing.  (39.) 

Under  the  humble  roof  of  his  parents,  it 
appears  that  our  poet  had  great  advantages; 
but  his  opportunities  of  information  at 
school  were  more  limited  as  to  time  than 
they  usually  are  among  his  countrymen  in 
his  condition  of  life;  and  the  acquisitions 
which  he  made,  and  the  poetical  talent 
which  he  exerted,  under  the  pressure  of  early 
and  incessant  toil,  and  of  inferior,  and  per- 
haps scanty  nutriment,  testify  at  once  the 
extraordinary  force  and  activity  of  his  mind. 
In  his  frame  of  body  he  rose  nearly  to  five 
feet  ten  inches,  and  assumed  the  proportions 
that  indicate  agility  as  well  as  strength.  In 
the  various  labours  of  the  farm  he  excelled 
all  his  competitors.  Gilbert  Burns  declares 
that  in  mowing,  the  exercise  that  tries  all 
the  muscles  most  severely,  Robert  was  the 
only  man  that,  at  the  end  of  a summer’s 
day,  he  was  ever  obliged  to  acknowledge  as 
his  master.  But  though  our  poet  gave  the 
powers  of  his  body  to  the  labours  of  the 
farm,  he  refused  to  bestow  on  them  his 
thoughts  or  his  care.  While  the  plough- 
share under  his  guidance  passed  through  the 
sward,  or  the  grass  fell  under  the  sweep  of 
his  scythe,  he  was  humming  the  songs  of 
his  country,  musing  on  the  deeds  of  ancient 
Tdlour,  or  wrapt  in  the  illusion  of  fancy,  as 
her  enchantments  rose  on  his  view.  Happily 
the  Sunday  is  yet  a sabbath,  on  which  man 
and  beast  rest  from  their  labours.  On  this 
day,  therefore.  Burns  could  indulge  in  a free 
intercourse  with  the  charms  of  nature.  It 
was  his  delight  to  wander  alone  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ayr,  whose  stream  is  now  im- 
mortal, and  to  listen  to  the  song  of  the 
blackbird  at  the  close  of  the  summer’s  day. 
But  still  greater  was  his  pleasure,  as  he 
himself  informs  us,  in  walking  on  the 
sheltered  side  of  a wood,  in  a cloudy  winter 
day,  and  hearing  the  storm  rave  among  the 
trees;  and  more  elevated  still  his  delight 


to  ascend  some  eminence  during  the  agita* 
tions  of  nature ; to  stride  along  its  summit, 
while  the  lightning  flashed  around  him  ; and, 
amidst  the  howlmgs  of  the  tempest,  to  apos- 
trophise the  spirit  of  the  storm.  Such 
situations  he  declares  most  favourable  to 
devotion: — "Rapt  in  enthusiasm,  I seem 
to  ascend  towards  Him  who  walks  on  the 
wings  of  the  winds  ! ” If  other  proofs  were 
wanting  of  the  character  of  his  genius,  this 
might  determine  it.  The  heart  of  the  poet 
is  peculiarly  awake  to  every  impression  o< 
beauty  and  sublimity ; but  with  the  higher 
order  of  poets,  the  beautiful  is  less  attractive 
than  the  sublime. 

The  gaiety  of  many  of  Burns’s  writings 
and  the  lively  and  even  cheerful  colouring 
with  which  he  has  portrayed  his  own  cha- 
racter, may  lead  some  persons  to  suppose, 
that  the  melancholy  which  hung  over  him 
towards  the  end  of  his  days  was  not  an  ori- 
ginal part  of  his  constitution.  It  is  not  t« 
be  doubted,  indeed,  that  this  melancholy 
acquired  a darker  hue  in  the  progress  of  his 
life ; but,  independent  of  his  own  and  of  his 
brother’s  testimony,  evidence  is  to  be  found 
among  his  papers,  that  he  was  subject  very 
early  to  those  depressions  of  mind,  which 
are  perhaps  not  wholly  separable  from  the 
sensibility  of  genius,  but  which  in  him  arose 
to  an  uncommon  degree.  The  following 
letter,  addressed  to  his  father,  will  serve  as  a 
proof  of  this  observation.  It  was  written  at 
the  time  when  he  was  learning  the  business 
of  a flax  dresser,  and  is  dated 

“Irvine,  December  Zl,  1781. 

"Honoured  Sir. — I have  purposely  de- 
layed writing,  in  the  hope  that  I should  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  on  New-year’s- 
day  ; but  work  comes  so  hard  upon  us,  that 
I do  not  choose  to  be  absent  on  that  account, 
as  well  as  for  some  other  little  reasons,  which 
I shall  tell  you  at  meeting.  My  health  is 
nearly  the  same  as  when  you  were  here,  only 
my  sleep  is  a little  sounder ; and,  on  tfers 
whole,  I am  rather  better  than  otherwise, 
though  I mend  by  very  slow  degrees.  The 
weakness  of  my  nerves  has  so  debilitated  my 
mind,  that  I dare  neither  review  past  events, 
nor  look  forward  into  futurity ; for  the  least 
anxiety  or  perturbation  in  my  breast,  pro- 
duces most  unhappy  effects  on  my  whole 
frame.  Sometimes,  indeed,  when  for  an  hour 
or  two  my  spirits  are  a little  lightened,  I 
glimmer  a little  into  futurity ; but  my  prin- 
cipal, and  indeed  my  only  pleasurable  em- 
ployment,^ looking  backwards  and  foTvardi 
in  a moral  and  religious  way.  I am  quite 
transported  at  the  thought,  that  ere  ion& 


BURNS’S  DEBATING  CLUB. 


2S 


very  soon/ 1 shall  bid  an  eternal  adieu  to  all 
the  pains  and  uneasinesses,  and  disquietudes 
of  this' -weary  life,  for  I assure  you  I am 
heartily  tired  of  it ; and,  if  I do  not  very 
much  deceive  myself,  I could  contentedly  and 
gladly  resign  it. 

‘ The  soul,  uneasy  and  confin’d  at  home. 
Bests  and  expatiates  in  a life  to  come.’ 

u It  is  for  this  reason  I am  more  pleased 
vith  the  15th,  16th,  and  17th  verses  of  the 
7.h  chapter  of  Revelations,  than  with  any 
ten  times  as  many  verses  in  the  whole  Bible, 
and  would  not  exchange  the  noble  enthusiasm 
ft  ith  which  they  inspire  me,  for  all  that  this 
world  has  to  offer.  (40)  As  for  this  world,  I 
despair  of  ever  making  a figure  in  it.  I am 
not  formed  for  the  bustle  of  the  busy,  nor 
the  flutter  of  the  gay.  I shall  never  again 
be  capable  of  entering  into  such  scenes.  In- 
deed, I am  altogether  unconcerned  at  the 
thoughts  of  this  life.  I foresee  that  poverty 
and  obseurity  probably  await  me  ; I am  in 
some  measure  prepared,  and  daily  preparing, 
to  meet  them.  I have  but  just  time  and 
paper  to  return  you  my  grateful  thanks  for 
the  lessons  of  virtue  and  piety  yon  have  given 
me,  which  were  too  much  neglected  at  the 
time  of  giving  them,  but  which,  I hope,  have 
been  remembered  ere  it  is  yet  too  late.  Pre- 
sent my  dutiful  respects  to  my  mother,  and 
my  compliments  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Muir  ; and 
with  wishing  you  a merry  New-year’s-day,  I 
shall  conclude.  I am,  honoured  sir,  your 
dutiful  son,  “Robert  Burns. 

u P.  S. — My  meal  is  nearly  out ; but  I am 
going  to  borrow,  till  I get  more.” 

This  letter,  written  several  years  before 
the  publication  of  his  poems,  when  his  name 
was  as  obscure  as  his  condition  was  humble, 
displays  the  philosophic  melancholy  which  so 
generally  forms  the  poetical  temperament, 
and  that  buoyant  and  ambitious  spirit  which 
indicates  a mind  conscious  of  its  strength. 
At  Irvine,  Burns  at  this  time  possessed  a 
single  room  for  his  lodging,  rented  perhaps  at 
the  rate  of  a shilling  a- week.  He  passed  his 
days  in  constant  labour  as  a flax-dresser,  and 
his  food  consisted  chiefly  of  oatmeal,  sent  to 
him  from  his  father’s  family.  The  store  of 
this  humble,  though  wholesome  nutriment, 
it  appears  was  nearly  exhausted,  and  he  was 
about  to  borrow  till  he  shordd  obtain  a sup- 
ply. (41)  Yet  even  in  this  situation,  his 
active  imagination  had  formed  to  itself  pic- 
tures of  eminence  and  distinction.  His  de- 
spair of  making  a figure  in.  the  world,  shows 
how  ardently  he  wished  for  honourable  fame; 
and  his  contempt  of  life,  founded  on  this 
aespair,  is  the  genuine  expression  of  a youth- 


ful and  generous  mind.  In  such  a state  of 
reflection,  and  of  suffering,  the  imagination 
of  Burns  naturally  passed  the  dark  bounda- 
ries of  our  earthly  horizon,  and  rested  on 
those  beautiful  representations  of  a better 
world,  where  there  is  neither  thirst,  nor  hun- 
ger, nor  sorrow ; and  where  happiness  shall 
be  in  proportion  to  the  capacity  of  happiness. 

Such  a disposition  is  far  from  being  at  va- 
riance with  social  enjoyments.  Those  who 
have  studied  the  affinities  of  mind,  know  that 
a melancholy  of  this  description,  after  a while, 
seeks  relief  in  the  endearments  of  society,  and 
that  it  has  no  distant  connection  with  t h* 
flow  of  cheerfulness,  or  even  the  er^  -'  vagance 
of  mirth.  It  was  a few  days  arier  the  writing 
of  this  letter  that  our  poet,  “ in  giving  a wel- 
come carousal  to  the  new  year,  with  his  gay 
companions,”  suffered  his  flax  to  catch  fire, 
and  his  shop  to  be  consumed  to  ashes.  (42) 

The  energy  of  Burns’s  mind  was  not  ep*- 
hausted  by  his  daily  labours,  the  effusion  aif 
hi3  muse,  his  social  pleasures,  or  his  solitary 
meditations.  Some  time  previous  to  his  en- 
gagement as  a flax-dresser,  having  heard  that 
a debating  club  had  been  established  in  Ayr, 
he  resolved  to  try  how  such  a meeting  would 
succeed  in  the  village  of  Tarbolton.  About 
the  end  of  the  year  1780,  our  poet,  his  bro- 
ther, and  five  other  young  peasants  of  tha 
neighbourhood,,  formed  themselves  into  a so- 
ciety of  this  sort,  the  declared  objects  of 
which  were  to  relax  themselves  after  toil,  to 
promote  sociality  and  friendship,  and  to  im- 
prove the  mind.  The  laws  and  regulations 
were  furnished  by  Burns.  The  members 
were  to  meet  after  the  labours  of  the  day 
were  over,  once  a week,  in  a small  public- 
house  in  the  village,  where  each  should  offer 
his  opinion  on  a given  question  or  subject, 
supporting  it  by  such  arguments  as  h® 
thought  proper.  The  debate  wa3  to  be  con- 
ducted with  order  and  decorum ; and  after 
it  was  finished,  the  members  were  to  choose 
a subject  for  discussion  at  the  ensuing  meet- 
ing. The  sum  expended  by  each  was  not  ta 
exceed  threepence;  and,  with  the  humble 
potation  that  this  could  procure,  they  were 
to  toast  their  mistresses,  and  to  cultivate 
friendship  with  each  other.  This  society 
continued  its  meetings  regularly  for  some 
time;  and  in  the  autumn  of  1782,  wishing 
to  preserve  some  account  of  their  proceed- 
ings, they  purchased  a book,  into  which  their 
laws  and  regulations  were  copied,  with  a 
preamble,  containing  a short  history  of  their 
transactions  down  to  that  period.  This! 
curious  document,  which  is  evidently  tha 
work  of  our  poet,  has  been  discovered,  andil 
deserves  a ulace  in  his  memoirs. 


SC  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


**  H fSTORY  OP  THE  RISE,  PRO  '^rV'NtfS  WND 

REGULATIONS  OF  THE  EACH  CLfrI*» 

* Of  birth  or  blood  we  do  not  uossu. 

Nor  gentry  does  our  club  afford ; 

But  ploughman  and  mechanics  we 
In  Nature’s  simple  dress  record.' 

•As  the  great  end  of  human  society  is  t<» 
become  wiser  and  better,  this  ought  there- 
fore  to  be  the  principal  view  of  every  man  in 
every  station  of  life.  But  as  experience  has 
taught  us,  that  such  studies  as  inform  the 
head  and  meud  the  heart,  when  long  con- 
tinued, are  apt  to  exhaust  the  faculties  of  the 
mind,  it  has  been  found  proper  to  relieve 
and  unbend  the  mind  by  some  employment 
or  another,  that  may  be  agreeable  enough  to 
keep  its  powers  in  exercise,  but  at  the  same 
time  not  so  serious  as  to  exhaust  them.  But 
auperadded  to  this,  by  far  the  greater  part  of 
mankind  are  under  the  necessity  of  earning 
the  sustenance  of  human  life  by  the  labour  of 
their  bodies , whereby,  not  only  the  faculties 
of  mind,  but  the  nerves  and  sinews  of  the 
body,  are  so  fatigued,  that  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  have  recourse  to  some  amuse- 
ment or  diversion,  to  relieve  the  wearied  man, 
worn  down  with  the  necessary  labours  of 
life. 

“ As  the  best  of  things,  however,  have  been 
perverted  to  the  worst  of  purposes,  so,  under 
the  pretence  of  amusement  and  diversion, 
men  have  plunged  into  all  the  madness  of 
riot  and  dissipation ; and,  instead  of  attend- 
ing to  the  grand  design  of  human  life,  they 
have  begun  with  extravagance  and  folly,  and 
ended  with  guilt  and  wretchedness.  Im- 
pressed with  these  considerations,  we,  the 
following  lads  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton, 
viz.  Hugh  Reid,  Robert  Burns, Gilbert  Burns, 
Alexander  Brown,  Walter  Mitchell,  Thomas 
Wright,  and  William  M ‘Gavin,  resolved,  for 
our  mutual  entertainment,  to  unite  ourselves 
into  a club,  or  society,  under  such  rules  and 
regulations,  that  while  we  should  forget  our 
cares  and  labours  in  mirth  and  diversion,  we 
might  not  transgress  the  bounds  of  inno- 
cence and  decorum ; and  after  agreeing  on 
these,  and  some  other  regulations,  we  held 
our  first  meeting  at  Tarbolton,  in  the  house 
of  John  Richard,  upon  the  evening  of  the 
11th  November,  1780,  commonly  called 
Hallowe’en,  and  after  choosing  Robert  Burns 
president  forthe  night,  we  proceeded  to  debate 
on  this  question  : ‘ Suppose  a young  man, 
bred  a farmer,  but  without  any  fortune,  has 
it  in  his  power  to  marry  either  of  two  women, 
the  one  a girl  of  large  fortune,  but  neither 
handsome  in  person  nor  agreeable  in  conver- 
sation, but  who  can  manage  the  household 
affairs  of  a farm  well  enough ; the  other  of 


them  a girl  every  way  agreeable  in  person 
conversation,  and  behaviour,  but  without  any 
fortune  : which  of  them  shall  he  choose  ? 
Finding  ourselves  very  happy  in  our  society, 
vre  resolved  to  continue  to  meet  once  a 
month  in  the  same  house,  in  the  way  and 
manner  proposed,  and  shortly  thereafter  we 
chose  Robert  Ritchie  for  another  member. 
In  M*y,  1781,  we  brought  in  David  Sillar, 
(43)  and  in  June,  Adam  Jamaison,  as  mem- 
bers.  • Aboul:  the  beginning  of  the  year  1782, 
we  admitted  Matthew  Patterson  and  John 
Orr,  and  in  June  following  we  choose  James 
Patterson  as  aproper  brother  for  such  a society. 
The  club  being  thus  increased,  we  resolved  to 
meet  at  Tarbolton  on  the  race  night,  the  July 
following,  and  have  & dance  in  honour  of  our 
society.  Accordingly,  wt  did  meet,  each  one 
with  a partner,  and  spent  tbt  evening  in  such 
innocence  and  merriment,  sunh  cheerfulness 
and  good  humour,  that  every  brother  will 
long  remember  it  with  pleasure  and  delight.” 
To  this  preamble  are  subjoined  the  iules  and 
regulations. 

The  philosophical  mind  will  dwell  with 
interest  and  pleasure  on  an  institution  that 
combined  so  skilfully  the  means  of  instruc- 
tion and  of  happiness ; and  if  grandeur  looks 
down  with  a smile  on  these  simple  annals, 
let  us  trust  that  it  will  be  a smile  of  benevo- 
lence and  approbation.  It  is  with  regret 
that  the  sequel  of  the  history  of  the  Bache- 
lors’ Club  of  Tarbolton  must  be  told. 
survived  several  years  after  our  poet  remove.  \ 
from  Ayrshire,  but  no  longer  sustained  by 
his  talents,  or  cemented  by  his  social  affec 
tions,  its  meetings  lost  much  of  their  attrac 
tion ; and  at  length,  in  an  evil  hour,  dissen* 
sion  arising  amongst  its  members,  the  insti 
tution  was  given  up,  and  the  records  com 
mitted  to  the  flames.  Happily,  the  preambl, 
and  the  regulations  were  spared;  and,  at 
matter  of  instruction  and  of  example,  they 
are  transmitted  to  posterity. 

After  the  family  of  our  bard  removed  from, 
Tarbolton  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Mauch- 
line,  he  and  his  brother  were  requested  to 
assist  in  forming  a similar  institution  there. 
The  regulations  of  the  club  at  Mauchline 
were  nearly  the  same  as  those  of  the  club  at 
Tarbolton ; but  oue  laudable  alteration  wash 
made.  The  fines  for  non-attendance  had  at 
Tarbolton  been  . spent  in  enlarging  theil 
scanty  potations  : at  Mauchline  it  was  fixed, 
that  the  money  so  arising  should  be  set 
apart  for  the  purchase  of  books,  and  the  first 
work  procured  in  this  manner  was  the  Mir- 
ror, the  separate  numbers  of  which  were  at 
that  time  recently  collected  and  published  in 
volumes.  After  it,  followed  a number  o t 


THE  PECULIAR  TASTES  OF  BURNS. 


31 


*thei  works,  chiefly  of  the  same  nature, 
and  among  these  the  Lounger.  The  so- 
ciety of  Mauchline  still  [1800]  subsists,  and 
appeared  in  the  list  of  subscribers  to  the 
first  edition  of  the  works  of  its  celebrated 
associate. 

The  members  of  these  two  societies  were 
originally  all  young  men  from  the  country, 
and  chiefly  sons  of  farmers — a description  of 
persons,  in  the  opinion  of  our  poet,  more 
agreeable  in  their  manners,  more  virtuous  in 
thei*  conduct,  and  more  susceptible  of  im- 
provement, than  the  self-sufficient  mechanics 
of  country  towns.  With  deference  to  the 
Conversation  Society  of  Mauchline,  it  may 
be  doubted,  whether  the  books  which  they 
purchased  were  of  a kind  best  adapted  to 
promote  the  interest  and  happiness  of  per- 
sons in  this  situation  of  life.  The  Mirror 
and  the  Lounger,  though  works  of  great 
merit,  mav  be  said,  on  a general  view  of  their 
contents,  to  be  less  calculated  to  increase  the 
knowledge  than  to  refine  the  taste  of  those 
who  read  them;  and  to  this  last  object  their 
morality  itself,  which  is,  however,  always  per- 
fectly pure,  may  be  considered  as  subordi- 
nate. As  works  of  taste,  they  deserve  great 
praise.  They  are,  indeed,  refined  to  a high 
degree  of  delicacy  ; and  to  this  circumstance 
it  is  perhaps  owing,  that  they  exhibit  little 
or  nothing  of  the  peculiar  manners  of  the 
age  or  country  in  which  they  were  produced. 
But  delicacy  of  taste,  though  the  source  of 
many  pleasures,  is  not  without  some  disad- 
vantages; and,  ^o  render  it  desirable,  the 
possessor  should,  perhaps,  in  all  cases,  be 
raised  above  the  necessity  of  bodily  labour, 
unless,  indeed,  we  should  include  under  this 
term  the  exercise  of  the  imitative  arts,  over 
which  taste  immediately  presides.  Delicacy 
of  taste  may  be  a blessing  to  him  who  has 
the  disposal  of  his  own  time,  and  who  can 
choose  what  book  he  shall  read,  of  what  di- 
version he  shall  partake,  and  what  company 
he  shall  keep.  To  men  so  situated,  the  cul- 
tivation of  taste  affords  a grateful  occupation 
in  itself,  and  opens  a path  to  many  other 
gratifications.  To  men  of  genius,  in  the 
possession  of  opulence  ar  d leisure,  the  culti- 
vation of  the  taste  may  b£  said  to  be  essen- 
tial ; since  it  affords  employment  to  those 
faculties,  which  without  employment  would 
destroy  the  happiness  of  the  possessor,  and 
corrects  that  morbid  sensibility,  or,  to  use 
the  expressions  of  Mr.  Hume,  that  delicacy 
of  passion,  which  is  the  bane  of  the  temper- 
. anient  of  genius.  Happy  had  it  been  for  our 
bard,  after  he  emerged  from  the  condition  of 
a peasant,  had  the  delicacy  of  his  taste 
equalled  the  sensibility  of  his  passions,  regu- 


lating all  the  effusions  of  his  muse,  and  pre- 
siding over  all  his  social  enjoyments.  But  to 
the  thousands  who  share  the  original  condi- 
tion of  Burns,  and  who  are  doomed  to  pass 
their  lives  in  the  station  in  which  they  were 
born,  delicacy  of  taste,  were  it  even  of  easy 
attainment,  would,  if  not  a positive  evil,  be 
at  least  a doubtful  blessing.  Delicacy  of 
taste  may  make  many  necessary  labours  irk- 
some or  disgusting ; and  should  it  render  the 
cultivator  of  the  soil  unhappy  in  his  situa- 
tion, it  presents  no  means  by  which  that 
situation  may  be  improved.  Taste  and  lite- 
rature, which  diffuse  so  many  charms  through- 
out society,  which  sometimes  secure  to  their 
votaries  distinction  while  living,  and  which 
still  more  frequently  obtain  for  them  pos- 
thumous fame,  seldom  procure  opulence,  or 
even  independence,  when  cultivated  with  the 
utmost  attention,  and  can  scarcely  be  pur- 
sued with  advantage  by  the  peasant  in  the 
short  intervals  of  leisure  which  his  occupa- 
tions allow.  Those  who  raise  themselves 
from  the  condition  of  daily  labour,  are  usually 
men  who  excel  in  the  practice  of  some  useful 
art,  or  who  join  habits  of  industry  and  so- 
briety to  an  acquaintance  with  some  of  the 
more  common  branches  of  knowledge.  The 
penmanship  of  Butterworth,  and  the  arith- 
metic of  Cocker,  may  be  studied  by  men  in 
the  humblest  walks  of  life ; and  they  will 
assist  the  peasant  more  in  the  pursuit  of  in- 
dependence than  the  study  of  Homer  or  of 
Shakespeare,  though  he  could  comprehend, 
and  even  imitate,  the  beauties  of  those  im- 
mortal bards. 

These  observations  are  not  offered  with- 
out some  portion  of  doubt  and  hesitation. 
The  subject  has  many  relations,  and  would 
justify  an  ample  discussion.  It  may  be 
observed,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  first 
step  to  improvement  is,  to  awaken  the 
desire  of  improvement,  and  that  this  will  be 
most  effectually  done  by  such  reading  a« 
interests  the  heart  and  excites  the  imagina- 
tion. The  greater  part  of  the  sacred 
writings  themselves,  which  iia  Scotland  are 
more  especially  the  manual  of  the  poor, 
ome  under  this  description.  It  may  be  fur- 
ther observed,  that  every  human  being  is  the 
proper  judge  of  his  own  happiness.and,  within 
the  path  of  innocence,  ought  to  be  per- 
mitted to  pursue  it.  Since  it  is  the  taste  of 
the  Scottish  peasantry  to  give  a preference 
to  works  of  taste  and  of  fancy  (44),  it  may 
be  presumed  they  find  a superior  gratifica- 
tion in  the  perusal  of  such  works ; and  it 
may  be  added,  that  it  is  of  more  con- 
sequence they  should  be  made  happy  is 
their  original  condition,  than  furnished 


22 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


with  the  means,  or  with  the  desire,  of  rising 
above  it.  Such  considerations  are,  doubt- 
less, of  much  weight;  nevertheless,  the 
previous  reflections  may  deserve  to  be 
examined,  and  here  we  shall  leave  the  subject. 

Though  the  records  of  the  society  at 
Tarbolton  ai\j  lost,  and  those  of  the  society 
at  Mauchline  have  not  been  transmitted, 
yet  we  may  safely  affirm,  that  our  poet  was 
a distinguished  member  of  both  these 
associations,  which  were  well  calculated  to 
excite  and  to  develope  the  powers  of  his 
mind.  From  seven  to  twelve  persons  con- 
stituted the  society  of  Tarbolton,  and  such 
a number  is  best  suited  to  the  purposes  of 
information.  Where  this  is  the  object 
of  these  societies,  the  number  should  be 
such,  that  each  person  may  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  imparting  his  sentiments,  as  well 
as  of  receiving  those  of  others;  and  the 
powers  of  private  conversation  are  to  be 
employed,  not  tfc&se  of  public  debate.  A 
limited  society  of  this  kind,  where  the 
subject  of  conversation  is  fixed  beforehand, 
so  that  each  member  may  revolve  it  pre- 
viously in  his  mind,  is  perhaps  one  of  the 
happiest  contrivances  hitherto  discovered 
for  shortening  the  acquisition  of  knowledge, 
and  hastening  the  evolution  of  talents. 
Such  an  association  requires  indeed  some- 
what more  of  regulation  than  the  rules  of 
politeness,  established  in  common  conversa- 
tion, or  rather,  perhaps,  it  requires  that  the 
rules  of  politeness,  which  in  animated  conver- 
sation are  liable  to  perpetual  violation,  should 
be  vigorously  enforced.  The  order  of  speech 
established  in  the  club  at  Tarbolton,  ap- 
pears to  have  been  more  regular  than  was 
required  in  so  small  a society;  where  all 
that  is  necessary  seems  to  be  the  fixing  on 
a member  to  whom  every  speaker  shall 
address  himself,  and  who  shall  in  return 
secure  the  speaker  from  interruption.  Con- 
versation, which  among  men  whom  intimacy 
and  friendship  have  relieved  from  reserve 
and  restraint,  is  liable,  when  left  to  itself, 
to  so  many  inequalities,  and  which,  as  it 
becomes  rapid,  so  often  diverges  into  sepa- 
rate and  collateral  branches,  in  which  it  is 
dissipated  and  lost,  being  kept  within  its 
channel  by  a simple  limitation  of  this  kind, 
which  practice  renders  easy  and  familiar, 
flows  along  in  one  full  stream,  and  becomes 
smoother,  and  clearer,  and  deeper,  as  it 
flows.  It  may  also  be  observed,  that  in 
this  way  the  acquisition  of  knowledge 
becomes  more  pleasant  and  more  easy,  from 
the  gradual  improvement  of  the  faculty 
employed  to  convey  it.  Though  some  t 
attention  has  been  paid  to  the  eloquence  of  I 


the  senate  and  the  bar,  which  in  this,  as 
in  all  other  free  governments,  is  productive 
of  so  much  influence  to  the  few  who  excel  in 
it,  yet  little  regard  has  been  paid  to  the 
humbler  exercise  of  speech  in  private  con- 
versation— an  art  that  is  of  consequence  to 
every  description  of  persons  under  every 
form  of  government,  and  on  which  eloquence 
of  every  kind  ought  perhaps  to  be  founded. 

The  first  requisite  of  every  kind  of  elocu- 
tion, a distinct  utterance,  is  the  offspring  of 
much  time  and  of  long  practice.  Children 
are  always  defective  in  clear  articulation, 
and  so  are  young  people,  though  in  a less 
degree.  What  is  called  slurring  in  uptech, 
prevails  with  some  persons  through  life, 
especially  in  those  who  are  taciturn.  Ar- 
ticulation does  not  seem  to  reach  its  utmost 
degree  of  distinctness  in  men  before  the 
age  of  twenty,  or  upwards;  in  women  it 
reaches  this  point  somewhat  earlier.  Fe» 
male  occupations  require  much  use  oSf 
speech,  because  they  are  duties  in  detail. 
Besides,  their  occupations  being  generally 
sedentary,  the  respiration  is  left  at  liberty. 
Their  nerves  being  more  delicate,  their 
sensibility  as  well  as  fancy  is  more  lively;  the 
natural  consequence  of  which  is,  a more 
frequent  utterance  of  thought,  a greater 
fluency  of  speech,  and  a distinct  articulation 
at  an  earlier  -age.  But  in  men  who  have 
not  mingled  early  and  familiarly  with  the 
world,  though  rich  perhaps  in  knowledge, 
and  clear  in  apprehension,  it  is  often 
painful  to  observe  the  difficulty  with  which 
their  ideas  are  communicated  by  speech, 
through  the  want  of  those  habits  that  con- 
nect thoughts,  words,  and  sounds  together ; 
which,  when  established,  seem  as  if  they  had 
arisen  spontaneously,  but  which,  in  truth, 
are  the  result  of  long  and  painful  practice ; 
and  when  analysed,  exhibit  the  phenomena 
of  most  curious  and  complicated  association. 

Societies  then,  such  as  we  have  been 
describing,  while  they  may  be  said  to  put 
each  member  in  possession  of  the  know- 
ledge of  all  the  rest,  improve  the  powers  of 
utterance ; and  by  the  collision  of  opinion, 
excite  the  faculties  of  reason  and  reflection. 
To  those  who  wish  to  improve  their  minds 
in  such  intervals  of  labour  as  the  condition 
of  a peasant  allows,  this  method  of  abbre- 
viating instruction,  may,  under  proper 
regulations,  be  highly  useful.  To  the 
student,  whose  opinions,  springing  out  of 
solitary  observation  and  meditation,  are 
seldom  in  the  first  instance  oorre.'t,  and 
which  have,  notwithstanding,  wrhile  confined 
to  himself,  an  increasing  tendency  to  assume 
in  his  own  eye  the  character  of  demonstrar 


JEAN  ARMOUR. 


tiurw,  fsn  association  of  this  hind,  where 
they  may  be  examined  as  they  arise,  is  of 
the  utmost  importance ; since  it  may  pre- 
vent those  illusions  of  imagination,  by  which 
genius  being  bewildered,  science  is  often 
debased,  and  error  propagated  through 
successive  generations.  And  to  men  who 
having  cultivated  letters,  or  general  science, 
in  the  course  of  their  education,  are  en- 
gaged in  the  active  occupations  of  life,  and 
no  longer  able  to  devote  to  study  or  to 
books  the  time  requisite  for  improving  or 
preserving  their  acquisitions,  associations  of 
this  jLind,  where  the  mind  may  unbend 
from  its  usual  cares  in  discussions  of 
literature  or  science,  afford  the  most  pleas- 
ing, the  most  useful,  and  the  most  rational 
of  gratifications. 

Whether  in  the  humble  societies  of  which 
he  was  a member,  Burns  acquired  much 
direct  information,  may  perhaps  be  ques- 
tioned. It  cannot,  however,  be  doubted, 
that  by  collision  the  faculties  of  his  mind 
would  be  excited ; that  by  practice  his 
habits  of  enunciation  would  be  established ; 
and  thus  we  have  some  explanation  of  that 
early  command  of  words  and  of  expression 
which  enabled  him  to  pour  forth  his 
thoughts  in  language  not  unworthy  of  his 
genius,  and  which,  of  all  his  endowments, 
seemed,  on  his  appearance  in  Edinburgh, 
the  most  extraordinary.  For  associations 
of  a literary  nature,  our  poet  acquired  a 
considerable  relish ; and  happy  had  it  been 
for  him,  after  he  emerged  from  the  con- 
dition of  a peasant,  if  fortune  had  permitted 
him  to  enjoy  them  in  the  degree  of  which 
he  was  capable,  so  as  to  have  fortified  his 
principles  of  virtue  by  the  purification  of  his 
taste;  and  given  to  the  energies  of  his 
mind,  habits  of  exertion  that  might  have 
excluded  other  associations,  in  which  it 
must  be  acknowledged  they  were  too  often 
wasted,  as  well  as  debased. 

[The  allusions  in  Burns’s  letter,  and  that 
of  his  brother,  to  his  connection  with  Jean 
Armour,  afford  but  a vague  account  of 
that  affair ; and  it  seems  necessary  that 
some  farther  and  clearer  particulars  should 
now  be  given. 

Jolm  Blane  reports  the  following  in- 
teresting circumstances  respecting  the 
attachment  of  the  poet  to  Miss  Armour: — 
There  was  a singing  school  at  Mauchline, 
which  Blane  attended.  Jean  Armour  was 
also  a pupil,  and  he  soon  became  aware  of 
her  talents  as  a vocalist.  He  even  con- 
tracted a kind  of  attachment  to  this  young 
woman,  though  only  such  as  a country  lad 
Cl  his  degree  might  entertain  for  the 
» 


33 

daughter  of  a substantial  country  mason. 
One  night,  there  wras  a rocking  at  Mossgiel, 
where  a lad  named  Ralph  Sillar  sang  a 
number  of  songs  in  what  was  considered  a 
superior  style  When  Burns  and  Blana 
were  retired  to  their  usual  sleeping  place  in 
the  stable-loft,  the  former  asked  the  latter 
what  he  thought  of  Sillar ’s  singing,  to  which 
Blane  answered  that  the  lad  thought  so 
much  of  it  himself,  and  had  so  many  airs 
about  it,  that  there  wras  no  occasion  for 
others  expressing  a favourable  opinion — yet, 
he  added,  "I  would  not  give  Jean  Armour 
for  a score  of  him.”  “You  are  always 
talking  of  this  Jean  Armour,”  said  Bums; 
“ I wish  you  could  contrive  to  bring  me  to 
see  her.”  Blane  readily  consented  to  do  so, 
and  next  evening,  after  the  plough  was 
loosed,  the  two  proceeded  to  Mauchline  for 
that  purpose.  Burns  went  into  a public- 
house,  and  Blane  went  into  the  singing- 
school,  which  chanced  to  be  kept  in  the 
floor  above.  When  the  school  was  dis- 
missing, Blane  asked  Jean  Armour  if  she 
would  come  to  see  Robert  Burns,  who  was 
below,  and  anxious  to  speak  to  her.  Having 
heard  of  his  poetical  talents,  she  said  she 
would  like  much  to  see  him,  but  was  afraid 
to  go  without  a female  companion.  This 
difficulty  being  overcome  by  the  frankness 
of  a Miss  Morton — the  Miss  Morton  of  the 
Six  Mauchlifie  Belles — Jean  went  down  to 
the  room  where  Burns  was  sitting.  “ From 
that  time,”  Blane  adds  very  naively,  “ I had 
little  of  the  company  of  Jean  Armoui  ” 

Here  for  the  present  ends  the  stoiy  of 
Blane.  The  results  of  Burns’s  acquaint- 
ance with  Jean  have  been  already  in  part 
detailed.  When  her  pregnancy  could  be  no 
longer  concealed,  the  poet,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  honourable  feeling,  gave  her  tt 
written  paper,  in  which  he  acknowledged 
his  being  her  husband — a document  suffi- 
cient to  constitute  a marriage  in  Scotland, 
if  not  in  the  eye  of  decency,  at  least  in  that 
of  law.  But  her  father,  from  a dislike  to 
Bums,  whose  theological  satires  had  greatly 
shocked  him,  ana  from  hopelesness  of  his 
being  able  to  support  her  as  a husband, 
insisted  that  she  should  destroy  this  paper, 
and  remain  as  an  unmarried  woman. 

Seme  violent  scenes  ensued.  The  parents 
were  enraged  at  the  imprudence  of  their 
daughter,  and  at  Bums.  The  daughter, 
trembling  beneath  their  indignation,  could 
ill  resist  the  command  to  forget  and 
abandon  her  lover.  He,  in  bis  turn,  was 
filled  with  the  extremest  anguish  when 
informed  that  she  had  given  him  up.  Ano- 
ther event  occurred  to  add  to  the  torments 


H 


LIFE  OF  BURNS 


of  the  unhappy  poet  Jean,  to  avoid  the 
immediate  pressure  of  her  father’s  dis- 
pleasure, went  about  the  month  of  May 
(1786)  to  Paisley,  and  took  refuge  with  a 
relation  of  her  mother,  one  Andrew  Purdie, 
a wright.  There  was  at  Paisley  a certain 
Robert  Wilson,  a good-looking  young 
weaver,  a native  of  Mauchline,  and  who  was 
realising  wages  to  the  amount  of  perhaps 
three  pounds  a-week  by  his  then  flourishing 
profession.  Jean  Armour  had  danced  with 
this  “gallant  weaver”  at  the  Mauchline 
dancing-school  balls,  and,  besides  her 
relative  Purdie,  she  knew  no  other  person 
in  Paisley.  Being  in  much  need  of  a 
email  supply  of  money,  she  found  it  neces- 
sary to  apply  to  Mr.  Wilson,  who  received 
her  kindly,  although  he  did  not  conceal  that 
he  had  a suspicion  of  the  reason  of  her  visit 
to  Paisley.  When  the  reader  is  reminded 
that  village  life  is  not  the  sphere  in  which 
high-wrought  and  romantic  feelings  are 
most  apt  to  flourish,  he  will  be  prepared 
in  some  measure  to  learn  that  Robert 
Wilson  not  only  relieved  the  necessities 
of  the  fair  applicant,  but  formed  the  wish  to 
possess  himself  of  her  hand.  He  called  for 
her  several  times  at  Purdie’s,  and  informed 
her,  that,  if  she  should  not  become  the  wife 
of  Burns,  he  would  engage  himself  to  none 
while  she  remained  unmarried.  Mrs. 
Burns  long  after  assured  a female  friend 
that  she  never  gave  the  least  encourage- 
ment to  Wilson;  but,  nevertheless,  his 
visits  occasioned  some  gossip,  which  soon 
found  its  way  to  Mauchline,  and  entered  the 
soul  of  the  poet  like  a demoniac  possession. 
He  now  seems  to  have  regarded  her  as  lost 
to  him  for  ever,  and  that  not  purely  through 
the  objections  of  her  relations,  but  by  her 
own  cruel  and  perjured  desertion  of  one 
whom  she  had  acknowledged  as  her  hus- 
band. It  requires  these  particulars,  little 
as  there  may  be  of  pleasing  about  them,  to 
make  us  fully  understand  much  of  what 
Burns  wrote  at  this  time,  both  in  verse  and 
prose.  Long  afterwards,  he  became  con- 
vinced that  Jean,  by  no  part  of  her  conduct 
with  respect  to  Wilson,  had  given  him  just 
cause  for  jealousy:  it  is  not  improbable 
that  he  learned  in  time  to  make  it  the  sub- 
ject of  sport,  and  wrote  the  song,  “ Where 
Cart  rins  rowing  to  the  sea,”  in  jocular 
allusion  to  it.  But  for  months — and  it  is 
distressing  to  think  that  these  were  the 
months  during  which  he  was  putting  his 
matchless  poems  for  the  first  time  to  press 
—he  conceived  himself  the  victim  of  a 
faithless  woman,  and  life  was  to  him,  as  he 
himself  describes  it. 


I M a weary  dream, 

] Thp  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks.** 

In  a letter  dated  June  12,  1786,  he  says 
“ Poor  ill-advised,  ungrateful  Armour  cams 
home  on  Friday  last.  You  have  heard  all 
the  particulars  of  that  affair,  and  a black 
affair  it  is.  What  she  thinks  of  her  conduct 
now,  I don’t  know ; one  thing  I do  know, 
she  has  made  me  completely  miserable. 
Never  man  loved,  or  rather  adored,  a wo- 
man more  than  I. did  her;  and,  to  confess  a 
truth  between  you  and  me,  I do  love  her 
still  to  distraction,  after  all,  though  I 
won’t  tell  her  so  if  I were  to  see  her, 
which  I don’t  want  to  do.  * * May 

Almighty  God  forgive  her  ingratitude  and 
perjury  to  me,  as  I from  my  very  soul 
forgive  her.”  On  the  9th  July  he  writes— 
“ I have  waited  on  Armour  since  her  return 
home,  not  from  the  least  view  of  reconcilia- 
tion, but  merely  to  ask  for  her  health,  and — to 
you  I will  confess  it — from  a foolish  hanker- 
ing fondness^ — very  ill-placed  indeed.  The 
mother  forbade  me  the  house,  nor  did  Jean 
show  the  penitence  that  might  have  been 
expected.  However,  the  priest,  I am  in- 
formed, will  give  me  a certificate  as  a single 
man,  if  I comply  with  the  rules  of  the 
church,  which,  for  that  very  reason,  I intend 
to  do.  I am  going  to  put  on  sackcloth  and 
ashes  this  day.  I am  indulged  so  far  as  to 
appear  in  my  own  seat.  Peccavi,  pater , 
miserere  mei.n 

In  a letter  of  July  17,  to  Mr.  David 
Brice  of  Glasgow,  the  poet  thus  continue* 
his  story: — I have  already  appeared  pub- 
licly in  church,  and  was  indulged  in  the 
liberty  of  standing  in  my  own  seat.  Jean 
and  her  friends  insisted  much  that  she 
should  stand  along  with  me  in  the  kirk,  but 
the  minister  would  not  allow  it,  which  bred 
a great  trouble,  I assure  you,  and  I am 
blamed  as  the  cause  of  it,  though  I am  sure 
I am  innocent ; but  I am  very  much  pleased, 
for  all  that,  not  to  have  had  her  company/* 
And  again,  July  30 — “Armour  has  got  a 
warrant  to  throw  me  in  jail  till  I find  secu- 
rity for  an  enormous  sum.  This  they  keep 
an  entire  secret,  but  I got  it  by  a channel 
they  little  dream  of ; and  I am  wandering 
from  one  friend’s  house  to  another,  and, 
like  a true  son  of  the  gospel,  'have  no 
where  to  lay  my  head.’  I know  you  will 
pour  an  execration  on  her  head,  but  spare 
the  poor  ill-adviaed  girl,  for  my  sake; 
though  may  ail  the  furies  that  rend  the 
injured,  enraged  lover’s  bosom,  await  her 
mother  until  her  latest  hour ! I write  in  e 
moment  of  rage,  reflecting  on  my  miserable 
situation — exiled,  abandoned,  forlorn/* 


JEAN  ARMOUR’S  TWIN  CHILDREN. 


89 


Tti  this  dark  period,  or  immediately  before 
ft  (July  22),  the  poet  signed  an  instrument, 
in  anticipation  of  his  immediately  leaving 
the  kingdom,  by  which  he  devised  all 
property  of  whatever  kind  he  might  leave 
behind,  including  the  copyright  of  his 
poems,  to  his  brother  Gilbert,  in  considera- 
tion of  the  latter  having  undertaken  to 
support  his  daughter  Elizabeth,  the  issue  of 
'‘Elizabeth  Paton  in  Largieside.”  Intima- 
tion of  this  instrument  was  publicly  made 
at  the  Cross  of  Ayr,  two  days  after,  by 
William  Chalmers,  writer.  If  he  had  been 
upon  better  terms  with  the  Armours,  it 
seems  unlikely  that  he  would  have  thus 
devised  his  property  without  a respect  for 
the  claims  of  his  offspring  by  Jean. 

After  this  we  hear  no  more  of  the  legal 
severities  of  Mr.  Armour — the  object  of 
which  was,  not  to  abridge  the  liberty  of  the 
unfortunate  Burns,  but  to  drive  him  away 
from  the  country,  so  as  to  leave  Jean  more 
effectually  disengaged.  The  Poems  now 
appeared,  and  probably  had  some  effect  in 
allaying  the  hostility  of  the  old  man  to- 
wards their  author.  It  would  at  least 
appear  that,  at  the  time  of  Jean’s  accouche- 
ment, September  3,  the  " skulking  ” had 
ceased,  and  the  parents  of  the  young  woman 
were  not  so  cruel  as  to  forbid  his  seeing  her. 
We  now  resume  the  story  of  John  Blane. 

At  this  time,  Blane  had  removed  from 
Mossgiel  to  Mauchline,  and  become  servant 
to  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton;  but  Burns  still 
remembered  their  old  acquaintance.  When, 
in  consequence  of  information  sent  by  the 
Armours  as  to  Jean’s  situation,  the  poet 
came  from  Mossgiel  to  visit  her,  he  called 
in  passing  at  Mr.  Hamilton’s,  and  asked 
John  to  accompany  him  to  the  bouse. 
Blane  wrent  with  him  to  Mr.  Armour’s, 
where,  according  to  his  recollection,  the 
bard  was  received  with  all  desirable  civility. 
Jean  held  up  a pretty  female  infant  to 
Burns,  who  took  it  affectionately  in  his 
arms,  and,  after  keeping  it  a little  while, 
returned  it  to  the  mother,  asking  the  bless- 
ing of  God  Almighty  upon  her  and  her 
infant.  He  was  turning  away  to  converse 
with  the  other  people  in  the  room,  when 
Jean  said,  archly,  “But  this  is  not  all — here 
is  another  baby,”  and  handed  him  a male 
child,  which  had  been  born  at  the  same 
time.  He  was  greatly  surprised,  but  took 
that  child  too  for  a little  into  his  arms,  and 
repeated  his  blessing  upon  it.  (This  child 
was  afterwards  named  Robert,  and  still 
lives  : the  girl  was  named  Jean,  but  only 
lived  fourteen  months.)  The  mood  of  the 
taelancholy  poet  then  changed  to  the  mirth- 


ful, and  the  scene  was  concluded  by  Ilia 
giving  the  ailing  lady  a hearty  caress,  and 
rallying  her  on  this  promising  beginning  of 
her  history  as  a mother. 

It  would  appear,  from  the  words  used  by 
the  poet  on  this  occasion,  that  he  was  not 
without  hope  of  yet  making  good  his  matri- 
monial alliance  with  Jean.  This  is  rendered 
the  more  likely  by  the  evidence  which  exists 
of  his  having,  for  some  time  during  Sep- 
tember, entertained  a hope  of  obtaining  an 
excise  appointment,  through  his  friends 
Hamilton  and  Aiken ; in  which  case  he 
would  have  been  able  to  present  a respect- 
able claim  upon  the  countenance  of  the 
Armours.  But  this  prospect  ended  in  dis- 
appointment ; and  there  is  reason  to  con- 
clude, that,  in  a very  short  time  after  the 
accouchement,  he  was  once  more  forbidden 
to  visit  the  house  in  which  his  children  and 
all  but  wife  resided.  There  was  at  this  time 
a person  named  John  Kennedy,  who  tra- 
velled the  district  on  horseback  as  mercan- 
tile agent,  and  was  on  intimate  terms  with 
Burns.  One  day,  as  he  was  passing  Moss- 
giel, Burns  stopped  him,  and  made  the 
request  that  he  would  return  to  Mauchline 
with  a present  for  “ his  poor  wife.”  Kennedy 
consented,  and  the  poet  hoisted  upon  the 
pommel  of  the  saddle  a bag  filled  with  the 
delicacies  of  the  farm.  He  proceeded  to 
Mr.  Armour’s  house,  and  requested  per- 
mission to  see  Jean,  as  the  bearer  of  a 
message  and  a present  from  Robert  Burns. 
Mrs.  Armour  violently  protested  against  his 
being  admitted  to  an  interview,  and  be- 
stowed upon  him  sundry  unceremonious 
appellations  for  being  the  friend  of  such  a 
man  ; she  was,  however,  overruled  in  this 
instance  by  her  husband,  and  Kennedy  was 
permitted  to  enter  the  apartment  where 
Jean  was  lying.  He  had  not  been  there 
many  minutes,  when  he  heard  a rushing 
and  screaming  in  the  stair,  and,  immediately 
after,  Burns  burst  into  the  room,  followed 
closely  by  the  Armours,  who  seemed  to  have 
exhausted  their  strength  in  endeavouring  tc 
repel  his  intrusion.  Burns  flew  to  the  bed. 
and  putting  his  cheek  to  Jean’s,  and  then  in 
succession  to  those  of  the  slumbering 
infants,  wept  bitterly.  The  Armours,  it  is 
added  by  Kennedy,  who  has  himself  re- 
ported the  circumstances  (45),  remained  un- 
affected by  his  distress;  but  whether  he 
was  allowed  to  remain  for  a short  time,  or 
immediately  after  expelled,  is  not  mentioned. 
After  hearing  this  affecting  anecdote  of 
Burns,  the  Lament  may  verily  appear  to  ta 
as  arising  from 

“No  idly  feigned  poetic  pains.” (46) 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


The  whole  course  of  the  Ayr  is  fine ; but 
the  banks  of  that  river,  as  it  bends  to  the 
eastward  above  Mauchline,  are  singularly 
beautiful,  and  they  were  frequented,  as  may 
be  imagined,  by  our  poet  in  his  solitary 
walks.  Here  the  muse  often  visited  him. 
In  one  of  these  wanderings,  he  met  among 
the  woods,  a celebrated  beauty  of  the  west 
of  Scotland — a lady,  of  whom  it  is  said  that 
the  charms  of  her  person  correspond  with 
the  character  of  her  mind.  (47)  This  inci- 
dent gave  rise,  as  might  be  expected,  to  a 
poem,  of  which  an  account  will  be  found  in 
the  following  letter,  in  which  he  enclosed  it 
to  the  object  of  his  inspiration  : — 

“To  Miss 

“Mossgiel,  1 8th  November,  1786. 

* Madam. — Poets  are  such  outre  beings, 
bo  much  the  the  children  of  wayward  fancy 
and  capricious  whim,  that  I believe  the 
world  generally  allows  them  a larger  latitude 
in  the  laws  of  propriety,  than  the  sober  sons 
of  judgment  and  prudence.  I mention  this 
as  an  apology  for  the  liberties  that  a name- 
less stranger  has  taken  with  you  in  the 
enclosed  poem,  which  he  begs  leave  to  pre- 
sent you  with.  Whether  it  has  poetical 
merit  any  way  worthy  of  the  theme,  I am 
not  the  proper  judge,  but  it  is  the  best 
my  abilities  can  produce : and  what  to  a 
good  heart  will  perhaps  be  a superior  grace, 
it  is  equally  sincere  as  fervent. 

“ The  scenery  was  nearly  taken  from  real 
life,  though  I dare  say,  madam,  you  do  not 
recollect  it,  as  I believe  you  scarcely  noticed 
the  poetic  reveur  as  he  wandered  by  you. 
I had  roved  out  as  chance  directed,  in  the 
favourite  haunts  of  my  muse,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Ayr,  to  view  nature  in  all  the  gaiety 
of  the  vernal  year.  The  evening  sun  was 
flaming  over  the  distant  western  hills  ; not 
a breath  stirred  the  crimson  opening 
blossom,  or  the  verdant  spreading  leaf.  It 
was  a golden  moment  for  a poetic  heart. 
I listened  to  the  feathered  warblers,  pouring 
their  harmony  on  every  hand,  with  a con- 
genial kindred  regard,  and  frequently 
turned  out  of  my  path,  lest  I should  disturb 
their  little  songs,  or  frighten  them  to 
another  station.  Surely,  said  I to  myself, 
he  must  be  a wretch  indeed,  who,  regard- 
less of  your  harmonious  endeavours  to 
please  fesn,  can  eye  your  elusive  flights  to 
discover  your  secret  recesses,  and  to  rob  you 
of  all  the  property  nature  gives  you,  your 
dearest  comforts,  your  helpless  nestlings. 
Even  the  hoary  hawthorn  twig  that  shot 
across  the  way,  what  heart  at  such  a time 
but  must  have  been  interested  in  its  wel- 


fare, and  wished  it  preserved  from  the 
rudely-browsing  cattle,  or  the  withering  east- 
ern blast?  Such  was  the  scene,  and  such  the 
hour,  when,  in  a corner  of  my  prospect,  J 
spied  one  of  the  fairest  pieces  of  nature’a 
workmanship  that  ever  crowned  a poetic 
landscape,  or  met  a poet’s  eye ; those  vision- 
ary bards  excepted  who  hold  commerce  with 
aerial  beings!  Had  calumny  and  villany 
taken  my  walk,  they  had  at  that  moment 
sworn  eternal  peace  with  such  an  object. 

“ What  an  hour  of  inspiration  for  a poet ! 
It  would  have  raised  plain,  dull,  historic 
prose  into  metaphor  and  measure. 

“The  enclosed  song  was  the  work  of  my 
return  home;  and  perhaps  it  but  poorly 
answers  what  might  have  been  expected 
from  such  a scene.  (48)  * * * 

“I  have  the  honour  to  be,  madam,  yo»uf 
most  obedient,  and  very  humble  servant, 
“Robert  Burns/* 
’Twas  even— the  dewy  fields  were  green. 

On  every  blade  the  pearls  hang  : (49) 

The  Zephyr  wanton’d  round  the  bean, 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang ; 

In  every  glen  the  mavis  sang. 

All  nature  listening  seemed  the  while. 
Except  where  greenwood  echoes  rang,  1 
Amang  the  braes  o’  Ballochmyle. 

With  careless  step  I onward  strayed, 

My  heart  rejoiced  in  nature’s  joy, 

When,  musing  in  a lonely  glade, 

A maiden  fair  I chanced  to  spy ; 

Her  look  was  like  the  morning’s  eye, 

Her  hair  like  nature’s  vernal  smile. 
Perfection  whispered  passing  by, 

Behold  the  lass  o’  Ballochmyle  ! (50) 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flowery  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  Autumn  mild  ; 
When  roving  through  the  garden  gay, 

Or  wandering  in  the  lonely  wild : 

But  woman,  Nature’s  darling  child  I 
There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile  ; 
Even  there  her  other  works  are  foil’d 
By  the  bony  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Oh  had  she  been  a country  maid. 

And  I the  happy  country  swain  ! 

Though  sheltered  in  the  lowest  shed 
That  ever  rose  on  Scotland’s  plain, 
Through  weary  winter’s  wind  and  rain. 
With  joy,  with  rapture  I would  toil ; 

And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 
The  bonny  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slippery  steeps 
Where  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine  ; 

And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 

Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine ; 

Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks,  or  till  the  soil, 

And  every  day  have  joys  divine 
With  the  bony  lass  o’  Ballochmyle.” 

In  the  manuscript  book  in  which  our  poet 
has  recounted  this  incident,  and  into  which 
the  letter  and  poem  are  copied,  he  complains 
that  the  lady  made  no  reply  to  his  eil'usiona. 


SUSCEPTIBILITY  OF  BURNS. 


37 


tdd  this  appears  to  have  wounded  his  self- 
love.  It  is  not,  howevei  difficult  to  find  an 
excuse  for  her  silence.  Burns  was  at  this 
time  little  known ; and,  where  known  at  all, 
noted  rather  for  the  wild  strength  of  his 
humour,  than  for  those  strains  of  tenderness 
in  which  he  afterwards  so  much  excelled.  To 
the  lady  herself  his  name  had,  perhaps,  never 
been  mentioned,  and  of  such  a poem  she 
might  not  consider  herself  as  the  proper 
judge.  Her  modesty  might  prevent  her 
from  perceiving  that  the  muse  of  Tibullus 
breathed  in  this  nameless  poet,  and  that  her 
beauty  was  awakening  strains  destined  to  im- 
mortality on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr.  It  may 
be  conceived,  also,  that  supposing  the  verse 
duly  appreciated,  delicacy  might  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  express  its  acknowledgments.  The 
fervent  imagination  of  the  rustic  bard  pos- 
sessed more  of  tenderness  than  of  respect. 
Instead  of  raising  himself  to  the  condition  of 
the  object  of  his  admiration,  he  presumed  to 
reduce  her  to  his  own,  and  to  strain  this 
high-born  beauty  to  his  daring  bosom.  It  is 
tr  ue,  Burns  might  have  found  precedents  for 
such  freedoms  among  the  poets  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  and,  indeed,  of  every  country. 
And  it  is  not  to  be  denied,  that  lovely  wo- 
men have  generally  submitted  to  this  sort  of 
profanation  with  patience,  and  even  with 
good  humour.  To  what  purpose  is  it  to  re- 
pine at  a misfortune  which  is  the  necessary 
consequence  of  their  own  charms,  or  to  re- 
monstrate with  a description  of  men  who  are 
incapable  of  control  ? 

“ The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact.5’ 

It  may  be  easily  presumed,  that  the  beau- 
tiful nymph  of  Ballochmyle,  whoever  she 
may  have  been,  did  not  reject  with  scorn  the 
adorations  of  our  poet,  though  she  received 
them  with  silent  modesty  and  dignified 
reserve. 

The  sensibility  of  our  bard’s  temper,  and 
the  force  of  his  imagination,  exposed  him,  in 
a particular  manner,  to  the  impressions  of 
beauty ; and  these  qualities,  united  to  his 
impassioned  eloquence,  gave  him  in  turn  a 
powerful  influence  over  the  female  heart. 
The  banks  of  the  Ayr  formed  the  scene  of 
youthful  passions  of  a still  tenderer  nature, 
the  history  of  which  it  would  be  improper  to 
reveal,  were  it  even  in  our  power;  and  the 
traces  of  which  will  soon  be  discoverable  only 
in  those  strains  of  nature  and  sensibility  to 
which  they  gave  birth.  The  song  entitled 
Highland  Mary  is  known  to  relate  to  one  of 
these  attachments.  * It  was  written,”  says 
Bur  bard,  “ on  one  of  the  most  interesting 
fasaa^ia  of  my  youthful  days.”  The  object 


of  this  passion  died  early  in  life,  and  the  im* 
pression  left  on  the  mind  of  Bums  seems  to 
have  been  deep  and  lasting.  (51)  Several 
years  afterwards,  when  he  was  removed  to 
Nithsdale,  he  gave  vent  to  the  sensibility  of 
his  recollections  in  the  following  impassioned 
lines.  In  the  manuscript  book  from  which 
we  extract  them,  they  are  addressed  To  Mary 
in  Heaven  1 

“ Thou  lingering  star,  with  less’ning  ruy. 

That  lov’st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 

Again  thou  usher’st  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

Oh,  Mary  ! dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 

Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast! 
That  sacred  hour  can  I forget, 

Can  I forget  the  hallowed  grove. 

Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 
To  live  one  day  of  parting  love ! 

Eternity  will  not  efface 
Those  records  dear  of  transports  past  $ 

Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ; 

Ah  ! little  thought  we  ’twas  our  last ! 

Ayr  gurgling  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O’er  hung  with  wild  woods,  thick’ning, 
green ; 

The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 
Twin’d  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene* 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 

Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaim’d  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o’er  these  scenes  my  mem’ry  wakes. 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ; 

Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

Seest  thou  thy  lo\er  lowly  laid  1 [breast  P* 
Ilear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 

To  the  delineations  of  the  poet  by  himself 
by  his  brother,  and  by  his  tutor,  these  addi- 
tions are  necessary,  in  order  that  the  reader 
may  see  his  character  in  its  various  aspects, 
and  may  have  an  opportunity  of  forming  a 
just  notion  of  the  variety,  as  well  ae  of  the 
power  of  his  original  genius.  (52) 

We  have  dwelt  the  longer  on  the  early 
part  of  his  life,  because  it  is  the  least  known, 
and  because,  as  has  already  been  mentioned, 
this  part  of  his  history  is  connected  with 
some  views  of  the  condition  and  manners  of 
the  humblest  ranks  of  society,  hitherto  little 
observed,  and  which  will  perhaps  be  found 
neither  useless  nor  uninteresting. 

About  the  time  of  his  leaving  his  native 
county,  his  correspondence  commences ; and 
in  the  series  of  letters  given  to  the  world, 
the  chief  incidents  of  the  remaining  part  of 
his  life  will  be  found.  This  authentic, 
though  melancholy  record,  will  supersede  iv 


LIRE  Of  BUKN3. 


future  the  necessity  of  any  extended  narra-  1 
tive. 

Burns  set  out  for  Edinburg  a in  the  month 
of  November,  1786.  He  was  furnished  with 
a letter  of  introduction  to  Dr.  Blacklock 

(53) ,  from  the  gentleman  to  whom  the  doctor 
had  addressed  the  letter  which  is  represented 
by  our  bard  as  the  immediate  cause  of  his 
visiting  the  Scottish  metropolis.  He  was 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  university,  and 
had  been  entertained  by  that  gentleman  at 
Catrine,  his  estate  in  Ayrshire.  He  had 
been  introduced  by  Mr.  Alexander  Dalzeil 

(54)  to  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  who  had  ex- 
pressed his  high  approbation  of  his  poetical 
talents.  He  had  friends,  therefore,  who 
could  introduce  him  into  the  circles  of  lite- 
rature as  well  as  of  fashion,  and  his  own 
manners  and  appearance  exceeding  every 
expectation  that  could  have  been  formed  of 
them,  he  soon  became  an  object  of  general 
curiosity  and  admiration.  (55)  The  following 
circumstance  contributed  to  this  in  a con- 
siderable degree : — At  the  time  when  Burns 
arrived  in  Edinburgh,  the  periodical  paper, 
entitled  The  Lounger,  was  publishing,  every 
Saturday  producing  a successive  number. 
His  poems  had  attracted  the  notice  of  the 
gentlemen  engaged  in  that  undertaking,  and 
the  ninety-seventh  number  of  those  unequal, 
though  frequently  beautiful  essays,  is  devoted 
to  An  Account  of  Robert  Burns,  the  Ayrshire 
Ploughman,  with  extracts  from  his  Poems, 
written  by  the  elegant  pen  of  Mr.  Mackenzie. 
The  Lounger  had  an  extensive  circulation 
among  persons  of  taste  and  literature,  not 
in  Scotland  only,  but  in  various  parts  of 
England,  to  whose  acquaintance,  therefore, 
our  bard  was  immediately  introduced.  The 
paper  of  Mr.  Mackenzie  was  calculated  to 
introduce  him  advantageously.  The  extracts 
are  well  selected  ; the  criticisms  and  reflec- 
tions are  judicious  as  well  as  generous;  and 
in  the  style  and  sentiments  there  is  that 
happy  delicacy,  by  which  the  writings  of  the 
author  are  so  eminently  distinguished.  The 
extracts  from  Burns’s  poems  in  the  ninety- 
ee\  enth  number  of  The  Lounger,  were  copied 
into  the  London  as  well  as  into  many  of  the 
provincial  papers,  and  the  fame  of  our  bard 
spread  throughout  the  island.  Of  the 
manners,  character,  and  conduct  of  Burns  at 
this  period,  the  following  account  has  been 
given  by  Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of  Moral 
Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
m a letter  to  the  editor,  which  he  is  particu- 
larly happy  to  have  obtained  permission  to 
insert  in  these  memoirs : — 

“ The  iirst  time  I saw  Robert  Burns  Tas  1 


1 on  the  23rd  of  October,  1786,  when  he  dined 
at  my  house  in  Ayrshire,  together  with  our 
common  friend  Mr.  John  Mackenzie,  surgeon 
in  Mauchline,  to  whom  I am  indebted  for  the 
pleasure  of  his  acquaintance.  I am  enabled 
to  mention  the  date  particularly,  by  some 
verses  which  Burns  wrote  after  he  returned 
home,  and  in  which  the  day  of  our  meeting 
is  recorded.  My  excellent  and  much  lamented 
friend,  the  late  Basil,  Lord  Daer,  happened 
to  arrive  at  Catrine  the  same  day,  and  by 
the  kindness  and  frankness  of  his  manners, 
left  an  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  poet 
which  was  never  effaced.  (56)  The  verses  I 
allude  to  are  among  the  most  imperfect  of 
his  pieces ; but  a few  stanzas  may  perhaps 
be  an  object  of  curiosity  to  you,  both  on 
account  of  the  character  to  which  they  relate, 
and  of  the  light  which  they  throw  on  the 
situation  and  feelings  of  the  writer,  before 
his  name  was  known  to  the  public. 

I cannot  positively  say,  at  this  distance  of 
time,  whether,  at  the  period  of  our  first 
acquaintance,  the  Kilmarnock  edition  of  hi9 
poems  had  been  just  published,  or  was  yet 
in  the  press.  I suspect  that  the  latter  was 
the  case,  as  I have  still  in  my  possession 
copies  in  his  own  handwriting  of  some  of  his 
favourite  performances  ; particularly  of  his 
verses  On  Turning  up  a Mouse  with  his 
Plough;  on  the  Mountain  Daisy  ; and  The 
Lament.  On  my  return  to  Edinburgh,  I 
showed  the  volume,  and  mentioned  what  I 
knew  of  the  author’s  history  to  several  of 
my  friends ; and  among  others  to  Mr.  Henry 
Mackenzie,  who  first  recommended  him  to 
public  notice  in  the  97th  number  of  The 
Lounger. 

“ At  this  time  Burris’s  prospects  in  life 
were  so  extremely  gloomy,  that  he  had 
seriously  formed  a plan  of  going  out  to 
Jamaica  in  a very  humble  situation,  not 
however  without  lamenting  that  his  want  of 
patronage  should  force  him  to  think  of  a 
project  so  repugnant  to  his  feelings,  when 
Ins  ambition  aimed  at  no  higher  an  object 
than  the  station  of  &n  exciseman  or  gauger 
in  his  own  country. 

“His  manners  were  then,  as  they  continued 
ever  afterwards,  simple,  manly,  and  inde- 
pendent; strongly  expressive  of  conscious 
genius  and  worth,  but  without  any  thing  that 
indicated  forwardness,  arrogance,  or  vanity. 
He  took  his  share  in  conversation,  but  uot 
more  than  belonged  to  him  ; and  listened 
with  apparent  attention  and  deference  oa 
subjects  where  his  want  of  education  de- 
prived him  of  the  meani  of  information.  If 
there  had  been  a little  more  of  gentleness 
1 and  accommodation  in  his  temper,  he  would. 


BURNS  VISITS 

| think,  have  been  still  more  interesting; 
but  he  had  been  accustomed  to  give  law  in 
the  circle  of  his  ordinary  acquaintance ; and 
his  dread  of  any  thing  approaching  to  mean- 
ness or  servility,  rendered  his  manner  some- 
what decided  and  hard.  Nothing,  perhaps, 
ras  more  remarkable  among  his  various  at- 
tainments, than  the  fluency,  and  precision. 
And  originality  of  his  language,  when  he 
spoke  in  company ; more  particularly  as  he 
limed  at  purity  in  his  turn  of  expression, 
ind  avoided  more  successfully  than  most 
Scotchmen  the  peculiarities  of  Scottish 
phraseology. 

“He  came  to  Edinburgh  early  in  the  winter 
following,  and  remained  there  for  several 
months.  By  whose  advice  he  took  this 
ttep,  I am  unable  to  say.  Perhaps  it  was 
suggested  only  by  his  own  curiosity  to  see  a 
tettle  more  of  the  world ; but,  I confess,  I 
dreaded  the  consequences  from  the  first, 
Uid  always  wished  that  his  pursuits  and 
habits  should  continue  the  same  as  in  the 
former  part  of  life — with  the  addition  of, 
what  I considered  as  then  completely  within 
Lis  reach,  a good  farm  on  moderate  terms,  in 
a part  of  the  country  agreeable  to  his  taste. 

“ The  attentions  he  received  during  his  stay 
in  town  from  all  ranks  and  descriptions  of 
persons,  were  such  as  would  have  turned 
any  head  but  his  own.  I cannot  say  that  I 
could  perceive  any  unfavourable  effect 
w hich  they  left  on  his  mind.  He  retained 
the  same  simplicity  of  manners  and  ap- 
pearance which  had  struck  me  so  forcibly 
when  I first  saw  him  in  the  country ; nor 
did  he  seem  to  feel  any  additional  self-im- 
portance from  the  number  and  rank  of  his 
new  acquaintance.  His  dress  was  perfectly 
suited  to  his  station,  plain  and  unpretend- 
ing, with  a sufficient  attention  to  neatness. 
If  I recollect  right,  he  always  wore  boots ; 
and,  when  on  more  than  usual  ceremony, 
buckskin  breeches. 

“ The  variety  of  his  engagements,  while  in 
Edinburgh,  prevented  me  from  seeing  him 
■o  often  as  I could  have  wished.  In  the 
course  of  the  spring,  he  called  on  me  once 
or  twice,  at  my  request,  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  walked  with  me  to  Braid  Hills,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  town,  when  he 
charmed  me  still  more  by  his  private  con- 
versation than  he  had  ever  done  in  company. 
He  was  passionately  fond  of  the  beauties  of 
nature ; and  I recollect  once  he  told  me, 
when  I was  admiring  a distant  prospect  in 
one  of  our  morning  walks,  that  the  sight  of 
bo  many  smoKing  cottages  gave  a pleasure 
to  his  mind,  which  none  could  understand 
who  had  not  witnessed,  like  himself,  the 

5 


EDINBURGH.  S9 

happiness  and  the  worth  which  they  con- 
tained. 

“ In  his  political  principles  he  was  then  a 
Jacobite ; which  was  perhaps  owing  partlj 
to  this,  that  hi3  father  was  originally  from 
the  estate  of  Lord  Mareschal.  Indeed,  he 
did  not  appear  to  have  thought  much  on 
such  subjects,  nor  very  consistently.  He 
had  a very  strong  sense  of  religion,  and  ex- 
pressed deep  regret  at  the  levity  with  which 
he  had  heard  it  treated  occasionally  in  some 
convivial  meetings  which  he  frequented.  I 
speak  of  him  as  he  was  in  the  winter  of 
1786-7 ; for  afterwards  we  met  but  seldom, 
and  our  conversations  turned  chiefly  cn  his 
literary  projects,  or  his  private  affairs. 

“ I do  not  recollect  whether  it  appears  of 
not  from  any  of  your  letters  to  me,  that 
you  had  ever  seen  Bums.  (57)  If  you  have, 
it  is  superfluous  for  me  to  add,  that  the 
idea  which  his  conversation  conveyed  of  the 
powers  of  his  mind,  exceeded,  if  possible, 
that  which  is  suggested  by  his  writings. 
Among  the  poets  whom  I have  happened  to 
know,  I have  been  struck,  in  more  than  one 
instance,  with  the  unaccountable  disparity 
between  their  general  talents,  and  the  occa- 
sional inspirations  of  their  more  favoured 
moments.  But  all  the  faculties  of  Burns’s 
mind,  were,  as  far  as  I could  judge,  equally 
vigorous ; and  his  predilection  for  poetry 
was  rather  the  result  of  his  own  enthusiastic 
and  impassioned  temper,  than  of  a genius 
exclusively  adapted  to  that  species  of  com- 
position. From  his  conversation  I should 
have  pronounced  him  to  be  fitted  to  excel  in 
whatever  walk  of  ambition  he  had  chosen  to 
exert  his  abilities. 

“Among  the  subjects  on  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  dwell,  the  characters  of  the 
individuals  with  whom  he  happened  to  meet, 
was  plainly  a favourite  one.  The  remarks 
he  made  on  them  were  always  shrewd  and 
pointed,  though  frequently  inclining  too 
much  to  sarcasm.  His  praise  of  those  he 
loved  wras  sometimes  indiscriminate  and 
extravagant ; but  this,  I suspect,  proceeded 
rather  rather  from  the  caprice  and  humour 
of  the  moment,  than  from  the  effects  of 
attachment  in  blinding  his  judgment.  His 
wit  was  ready,  and  always  impressed  with 
the  marks  of  a vigorous  understanding ; but, 
to  my  taste,  not  often  pleasing  or  happy. 
His  attempts  at  epigram,  in  his  printed 
works,  are  the  only  performances,  perhaps, 
that  he  has  produced  totally  unworthy  of 
his  genius. 

“In  summer  1787, 1 passed  some  week* 
in  Ayrshire,  and  saw  Bums  occasionally, 
I think  that  he  made  a pretty  long  excur- 


40 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


•ion  thaf;  season  to  the  Highlands,  and  that 
he  also  visited  what  Beattie  calls  the  Arca- 
dian ground  of  Scotland,  upon  the  banks  of 
the  Teviot  and  the  Tweed. 

“ I should  have  mentioned  before,  that,  not- 
withstanding various  reports  I heard  during 
the  preceding  winter,  of  Burns’s  predilection 
for  convivial,  and  not  very  select  society,  I 
♦hould  have  concluded  in  favour  of  his 
habits  of  sobriety,  from  all  of  him  that  ever 
fell  under  my  own  observation.  He  told  me 
indeed  himself,  that  the  weakness  of  his 
stomach  was  such  as  to  deprive  him  entirely 
of  any  merit  in  his  temperance.  I was, 
however,  somewhat  alarmed  about  the  effect 
of  his  now  comparatively  sedentary  and 
luxurious  life,  when  he  confessed  to  me,  the 
first  night  he  spent  in  my  house  after  his 
winter’s  campaign  in  town,  that  he  had 
been  much  disturbed  when  in  bed,  by  a 
palpitation  at  his  heart,  which,  he  said,  was 
s complaint  to  which  he  had  of  late  become 
subject. 

“ in  the  course  of  the  same  season,  I was 
led  by  curiosity  to  attend  for  an  hour  or  two 
a Mason  Lodge  in  Mauchline,  where  Burns 
presided.  He  had  occasion  to  make  some 
short  unpremeditated  compliments  to  differ- 
ent individuals  from  whom  he  had  no  reason 
io  expect  a visit,  and  everything  he  said 
was  happily  conceived,  and  forcibly  as  well 
as  fluently  expressed.  If  I am  not  mistaken, 
he  cold  me,  that  in  that  village,  before  going 
to  Edinburgh,  he  had  belonged  to  a small 
flub  of  such  of  the  inhabitants  as  had  a 
taste  for  books,  when  they  used  to  converse 
and  debate  on  any  interesting  questions  that 
occurred  to  them  in  the  course  of  their 
tending.  His  manner  of  speaking  in  public 
had  evidently  the  marks  of  some  practice  in 
extempore  elocution. 

“ I must  not  omit  to  mention,  what  I have 
always  considered  as  characteristical  in  a 
high  degree  of  true  genius,  the  extreme 
facility  and  good-nature  of  his  taste,  in 
judging  of  the  compositions  of  others 
where  there  was  any  real  ground  for  praise 
1 repeated  to  him  many  passages  of  English 
poetry  with  which  he  was  unacquainted,  and 
have  more  than  once  witnessed  the  tears  of 
admiration  and  rapture  with  which  he  heard 
them.  The  collection  of  songs  by  Dr. 
Aikiu,  which  l first  put  into  his  hands,  he 
read  with  unmixed  delight,  notwithstanding 
his  former  efforts  in  that  very  difficult 
species  of  writing ; and  I have  little  doubt 
that  it  had  some  effect  in  polishing  his  sub- 
sequent compositions. 

“ In  judging  of  prose,  I do  not  think  his 
taste  was  equally  sound.  I once  read  to 


him  a passage  or  two  in  Franklin’s  works, 
which  I thought  very  happily  executed, 
upon  the  model  of  Addison ; but  he  did  not 
appear  to  relish,  or  to  perceive  the  beauty 
which  they  derived  from  their  exquisite 
simplicity,  and  spoke  of  them  with  indiffe* 
rence,  when  compared  with  the  point,  and 
antithesis,  and  quaintness  of  Junius.  The 
influence  of  this  taste  is  very  perceptible  in 
his  own  prose  compositions,  although  their 
great  and  various  excellences  render  some 
of  them  scarcely  less  objects  of  wonder 
than  his  poetical  performances.  The  late 
Dr.  Robertson  used  to  say,  that  considering 
his  education,  the  former  seemed  to  him  the 
more  extraordinary  of  the  two. 

“ His  memory  was  uncommonly  retentive, 
at  least  for  poetry,  of  which  he  recited  to  me, 
frequently  long  compositions  with  the  most 
minute  accuracy.  They  were  chiefly  ballads, 
and  other  pieces  in  our  Scottish  dialect ; 
great  part  of  them,  he  told  me,  he  had 
learned  in  his  childhood  from  his  mother, 
who  delighted  in  such  recitations,  and  whose 
poetical  taste,  rude  as  it  probably  was,  gave, 
it  is  presumable,  the  first  direction  to  her 
son’s  genius. 

“ Of  the  more  polished  verses  which  acci- 
dentally fell  into  his  hands  in  his  early 
years,  he  mentioned  particularly  the  recom- 
mendatory poems  by  different  authors,  pre- 
fixed to  Ilervey’s  Meditations ; a book 
which  has  always  had  a very  wide  circula- 
tion among  such  of  the  country  people  of 
Scotland  as  affect  to  unite  some  degree  of 
taste  with  their  religious  studies.  And 
these  poems  (although  they  are  certainly 
below  mediocrity)  he  continued  to  read  with 
a degree  of  rapture  beyond  expression.  He 
took  notice  of  this  fact  himself,  as  a probf 
how  much  the  taste  is  liable  to  be  influ- 
enced by  accidental  circumstances. 

“His  father  appeared  to  me,  from  the 
account  he  gave  of  him,  to  have  been  a 
respectable  and  worthy  character,  possessed 
of  a mind  superior  to  what  might  have  been 
expected  from  his  station  in  life.  He  as- 
cribed much  of  his  own  principles  and  feel- 
ings to  the  early  impressions  he  had  received 
from  his  instructions  and  example.  I recol- 
lect that  he  once  applied  to  him  (and,  he 
added,  that  the  passage  was  a literal  state- 
ment of  the  fact)  the  two  last  lines  of  the 
following  passage  in  the  Minstrel,  the  whole 
of  which  he  repeated  with  great  enthusiasm: 

‘ Shall  I be  left  forgotten  in  the  dust, 

When  fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive; 
Shall  nature’s  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust, 

Bid  him,  though  doom'd  to  perish,  hope  t# 
live! 


LITERARY  RECEPTION  OF  BURNS. 


41 


Is  it  rov  this  fair  virtue  oft  must  strive 

''•Vith  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain? 
flo ! Heaven’s  immortal  spring  shall  yet 
arrive  ; 

And  man’s  majestic  beauty  bloom  again, 
Bright  thro’  th’  eternal  year  of  love’s  tri- 
umphant reign.  [ taught : 

This  truth  sublime.  Ms  simple  sire  had 

In  sooth , Hwas  almost  all  the  shepherd 
knew.1 

"With  respect  to  Burns’s  early  education, 
I cannot  say  anything  with  certainty.  He 
Biways  spoke  with  respect  and  gratitude  of 
the  schoolmaster  who  had  taught  him  to 
read  English,  and  who,  finding  in  his  scholar 
a more  than  ordinary  ardour  for  knowledge, 
had  been  at  pains  to  instruct  him  in  the 
grammatical  principles  of  the  language.  He 
began  the  study  of  Latin,  but  dropt  it 
before  he  had  finished  the  verbs.  I have 
sometimes  heard  him  quote  a few  Latin 
words,  such  as  omnia  vincit  amor,  &c.,  but 
they  seemed  to  be  such  as  he  had  caught 
from  conversation,  and  which  he  repeated 
by  rote.  I think  he  had  a project,  after  he 
came  to-  Edinburgh,  of  prosecuting  the 
study  under  his  intimate  friend,  the  late 
Mr.  Nicol,  one  of  the  masters  of  the  gram- 
mar-school here ; but  I do  not  know  that 
he  ever  proceeded  so  far  as  to  make  the 
attempt. 

“ He  certainly  possessed  a smattering  of 
French;  and  if  he  had  an  affectation  in 
anything,  it  was  in  introducing  occasionally 
a word  or  phrase  from  that  language.  It  is 
possible  that  his  knowledge  in  this  respect 
might  be  more  extensive  than  I suppose  it 
to  be ; but  this  you  can  learn  from  his  more 
intimate  acquaintance.  It  would  be  worth 
while  to  inquire,  whether  he  was  able  to 
read  the  French  authors  with  such  facility 
as  to  receive  from  them  any  improvement 
to  his  taste.  For  my  own  part,  I doubt  it 
much ; nor  would  I believe  it,  but  on  very 
strong  and  pointed  evidence. 

“ If  my  memory  does  not  fail  me,  he  was 
well  instructed  in  arithmetic,  and  knew 
something  of  practical  geometry,  particu- 
larly of  surveying.  All  his  other  attain- 
ments were  entirely  his  own. 

“ The  last  time  I saw  him  was  during  the 
winter  1788-89,(59)  when  he  passed  an 
evening  with  me  at  Drumseugh,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Edinburgh,  where  I was 
then  living.  My  friend,  Mr.  Alison,  was 
the  only  other  person  in  company.  I never 
aaw  him  more  agreeable  or  interesting.  A 
present  which  Mr.  Alison  sent  him  after- 
wards of  his  Essays  on  Taste,  drew  from 
Burns  a letter  of  acknowledgment,  which  I 
•emember  to  have  read  with  some  degree  of 


surprise,  at  the  distinct  conception  he  ap- 
peared from  it  to  have  formed  of  the  genera? 
principles  of  the  doctrine  of  association .”  (60) 

The  scene  that  opened  on  our  bard  in 
Edinburgh  was  altogether  new,  and  in  a 
variety  of  other  respects  highly  interesting, 
especially  to  one  of  his  disposition  of  mind. 
To  use  an  expression  of  his  own,  he  found 
himself  “ suddenly  translated  from  the 
veriest  shades  of  life,”  into  the  presence, 
and,  indeed,  into  the  society,  of  a number 
of  persons,  previously  known  to  him  by 
report  as  of  the  highest  distinction  in  his 
country,  and  whose  characters  it  was  natural 
for  him  to  examine  with  no  common  curi- 
osity. (61) 

From  the  men  of  letters,  in  general,  his 
reception  was  particularly  flattering.  The 
late  Dr.  Robertson,  Dr.  Blair,  Dr.  Gregory, 
Mr.  Stewart,  Mr.  Mackenzie,  and  Mr.  Fraser 
Tytler,  may  be  mentioned  in  the  list  o<t 
those  who  perceived  his  uncommon  talent*, 
who  acknowledged  more  especially  hi* 
powers  in  conversation,  and  who  interested 
themselves  in  the  cultivation  of  his 
genius.  (62)  In  Edinburgh  literary  and 
fashionable  society  are  a good  deal  mixed. 
Our  bard  was  an  acceptable  guest  in  the 
gayest  and  most  elevated  circles,  and  fre- 
quently received  from  female  beauty  and 
elegance  those  attentions  above  all  others 
most  grateful  to  him.  (63)  At  the  table  of 
Lord  Monboddo  he  was  a frequent  guest ; 
and  while  he  enjoyed  the  society,  and  par- 
took of  the  hospitalities  of  the  venerable 
judge,  he  experienced  the  kindness  and  con- 
descension of  his  lovely  and  accomplished 
daughter.  The  singular  beauty  of  this 
young  lady  was  illuminated  by  that  happy 
expression  of  countenance  which  results 
from  the  union  of  cultivated  taste  and 
superior  understanding  with  the  finest  affec- 
tions of  the  mind.  The  influence  of  such 
attractions  was  not  unfelt  by  our  poet. 
“There  has  not  been  anything  like  Miss 
Burnet,”  said  he  in  a letter  to  a friend,  “ in 
all  the  combination  of  beauty,  grace,  and 
goodness,  the  Creator  has  formed  since 
Milton’s  Eve  on  the  first  day  of  her  exist- 
ence ” In  his  Address  to  Edinburgh,  she 
is  celebrated  in  a strain  of  still  greater 
elevation : — 

“ Fair  Burnet  strikes  th*  adorning  eye. 
Heaven’s  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine ! 

I see  the  .Sire  of  Love  on  high, 

And  own  his  work  indeed  divine!*' 

This  lovely  woman  died  a few  years  after- 
wards in  the  flower  of  youth.  Our  bard 
expressed  his  sensibility  on  that  occasion 
in  verses  addressed  to  her  memory. 


43 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


Among  the  men  of  rank  and  fashion. 
Burns  was  particularly  distinguished  by 
James,  Earl  of  Glencairn.  (64)  On  the 
mo  don  of  this  nobleman,  the  Caledonian 
Hunt,  an  association  of  the  principal  of  the 
nobility  and  gentry  of  Scotland,  extended 
their  patronage  to  our  bard,  and  admitted 
him  to  their  gay  orgies.  He  repaid  their 
notice  by  a dedication  of  the  enlarged  and 
im  'roved  edition  of  his  poems,  in  which 
has  celebrated  their  patriotism  and  indepen- 
dence in  very  animated  terms. 

“I  congratulate  my  country  that  the  blood 
Gf  her  ancient  heroes  runs  uncontaminated, 
and  that,  from  your  courage,  knowledge,  and 
public  spirit,  she  may  expect  protection, 
wealth,  and  liberty.  ******* 
May  corruption  shrink  at  your  kindling  in- 
dignant glance;  and  may  tyranny  in  the 
ruler,  and  licentiousness  in  the  people, 
♦equally  find  in  you  an  inexorable  foe.” 

It  is  to  be  presumed  that  these  generous 
sentiments,  uttered  at  an  era  singularly 
propitious  to  independence  of  character  and 
conduct,  were  favourably  received  by  the 
persons  to  whom  they  were  addressed,  and 
that  they  were  echoed  from  every  bosom,  as 
well  as  from  that  of  the  Earl  of  Glencairn. 
This  accomplished  nobleman,  a scholar,  a 
man  of  taste  and  sensibility,  died  soon 
afterwards.  Had  he  lived,  and  had  his 
power  equalled  his  wishes,  Scotland  mig'*t 
still  have  exulted  in  the  genius,  instead  cl* 
lamenting  the  early  fate  of  her  favourite 
bard. 

A taste  for  letters  is  not  always  conjoined 
with  habits  of  temperance  and  regularity ; 
and  Edinburgh,  at  the  period  of  which  we 
epeak,  contained,  perhaps,  an  uncommon 
roportion  of  men  of  considerable  talents, 
evotcd  to  social  excesses,  in  which  their 
talents  were  wasted  and  debased. 

Burns  entered  into  several  parties  of  this 
description,  with  the  usual  vehemence  of  his 
character.  His  generous  affections,  his 
ardent  eloquence,  his  brilliant  and  daring 
imagination,  fitted  him  to  be  the  idol  of  such 
associations ; and  accustoming  himself  to 
conversation  of  unlimited  range,  andto  festive 
indulgences  that  scorned  restraint,  he  gra- 
dually lost  some  portion  of  his  relish  for  the 
more  pure,  but  less  poignant  pleasures,  to  be 
found  in  the  circles  of  taste,  elegance,  and 
literature.  This  sudden  alteration  in  his 
habits  of  life  operated  on  him  physically  as 
well  as  morally.  The  humble  fare  of  an 
Ayrshire  peasant  he  had  exchanged  for  the 
luxuries  of  the  Scottish  metropolis,  and  the 
effects  of  this  change  on  his  ardent  constitu- 
tion couid  not  be  inconsiderable  But 


whatever  influence  might  be  produced  on  hii 
conduct,  his  excellent  understanding  suffered 
no  corresponding  debasement.  He  estimated 
his  friends  and  associates  of  every  descrip- 
tion at  their  proper  value,  and  appreciated 
his  own  conduct  with  a precision  that  might 
give  scope  to  much  curious  and  melancholy 
reflection.  He  saw  his  danger,  and  at  times 
formed  resolutions  to  guard  against  it ; but 
he  had  embarked  on  the  tide  of  dissipation, 
and  was  borne  along  its  stream. 

Of  the  state  of  his  mind  at  this  time,  an 
authentic,  though  imperfect,  document  re- 
mains, in  a book  which  he  procured  in  the 
spring  of  1787,  for  the  purpose,  as  he  himself 
informs  us,  of  recording  in  it  whatever 
seemed  worthy  of  observation.  The  following 
extracts  may  serve  as  a specimen  : — 

“Edinburgh,  April  9, 1787. 

“ As  I have  seen  a good  deal  of  human 
life  in  Edinburgh,  a great  many  characters 
which  are  new  to  one  bred  up  in  the  shades 
of  life  as  I have  been,  I am  determined  to 
take  down  my  remarks  on  the  spot.  Gray 
observes,  in  a letter  to  Mr.  Palgrave,  that 
* half  a word  fixed  upon,  or  near  the  spot,  is 
worth  a cart-load  of  recollection.’  I don’t 
know  how  it  is  with  the  world  in  general, 
but  with  me,  making  my  remarks  is  by  no 
means  a solitary  pleasure.  I want  some  one 
to  laugh  with  me,  some  one  to  be  grave  with  me, 
some  one  to  please  me  and  help  my  discrimi- 
nation, with  his  or  her  own  remark,  and  at 
times,  no  doubt,  to  admire  my  acuteness  and 
penetration.  The  world  are  so  busied  with 
selfish  pursuits,  ambition,  vanity,  interest,  or 
pleasure,  that  very  few  think  it  worth  their 
while  to  make  any  observation  on  what 
passes  around  them,  except  where  that  ob- 
servation is  a sucker,  or  branch  of  the  darling 
plant  they  are  rearing  in  their  fancy.  Nor 
am  I sure,  notwithstanding  all  the  senti- 
mental flights  of  novel-writers,  and  the  sage 
philosophy  of  moralists,  whether  we  are 
capable  of  so  intimate  and  cordial  a coalition 
of  friendship,  as  that  one  man  may  pour  out 
his  bosom,  his  every  thought  and  floating 
fancy,  his  very  inmost  soul,  with  unreserved 
confidence  to  another,  without  hazard  of 
losing  part  of  that  respect  which  man  deserves 
from  man ; or,  from  the  unavoidable  imper- 
fections attending  human  nature,  of  one  day 
repenting  his  confidence. 

“ For  these  reasons  I am  determined  to 
make  these  pages  my  confidant.  1 will  sketch 
every  character  that  any  way  strikes  me,  to 
the  best  of  my  power,  with  unshrinking 
justice.  I will  insert  anecdotes,  and  take 
down  remarks,  in  the  old  laiv  phrase,  without 


BURNS  AND  HIS  CONTEMPORARIES. 


43 


feud  or  favour.  Where  I hit  on  any  thing 
clever,  my  own  applause  will  in  some  measure 
feast  my  vanity ; and,  begging  Patroclus’ 
and  Achates’  pardon,  I think  a lock  and  key 
a.  security,  at  least  equal  to  the  bosom  of  any 
friend  whatever. 

" My  own  private  story  likewise,  my  love 
adventures,  my  rambles;  the  frowns  and 
smiles  of  fortune  on  my  hardship ; my  poems 
and  fragments,  that  must  never  see  the  light, 
shall  be  occasionally  inserted.  In  short, 
never  did  four  shillings  purchase  so  much 
friendship,  since  confidence  went  first  to 
market,  or  honesty  was  set  up  to  sale. 

"To  these  seemingly  invidious,  but  too 
just  ideas  of  human  friendship,  I would 
cheerfully  make  one  exception — the  connec- 
tion between  two  persons  of  different  sexes, 
when  their  interests  are  united  and  absorbed 
by  the  tie  of  love — 

‘ When  thought  meets  thought,  ere  from  the 
lips  it  part,  [heart.’ 

And  each  warm  wish  springs  mutual  from  the 
There  confidence,  confidence  that  exalts  them 
the  more  in  one  another’s  opinion,  that  en- 
dears them  the  more  to  each  other’s  hearts, 
unreservedly  ‘ reigns  and  revels.’  But  this 
is  not  my  lot ; and,  in  my  situation,  if  I am 
wise  (which,  by  the  bye,  I have  no  great 
chance  of  being),  my  fate  should  be  cast 
with  the  Psalmist’s  sparrow,  ‘ to  watch  alone 
on  the  house  tops.’  Oh  the  pity  ! 
*****  * 

"There  are  few  of  the  sore  evils  under 
the  sun  give  me  more  uneasiness  and 
chagrin  than  the  comparison  how  a man  of 
genius,  nay  of  avowed  worth,  is  received 
every  where,  with  the  reception  which  a 
mere  ordinary  character,  decorated  with  the 
trappings  and  futile  distinctions  of  fortune, 
meets.  I imagine  a man  of  abilities,  his 
breast  glowing  with  honest  pride,  conscious 
that  men  are  born  equal,  still  giving  honour 
tc  whom  honour  is  due ; he  meets  at  a great 
man’s  table,  a Squire  something,  or  a Sir 
somebody ; he  knows  the  noble  landlord,  at 
heart,  gives  the  bard  or  whatever  he  is,  a 
share  o T his  good  wishes,  beyond,  perhaps, 
any  one  at  table;  yet  how  will  it  mortify 
him  to  see  a fellow  whose  abilities  would 
scarcely  have  made  an  eightpenny  tailor,  and 
whose  heart  is  not  worth  three  farthings, 
meet  with  attention  and  notice,  that  are 
withheld  from  the  son  of  genius  and 
poverty ! 

"The  noble  Glencairnhas  wounded  me  to 
the  soul  here,  because  I dearly  esteem, 
respect , and  love  him.  He  showed  so  much 
attention,  engrossing  attention,  one  day,  j 
to  the  only  blockhead  at  table  (the  whole  ! 


company  consisted  of  his  lordship,  dunder- 
pate,  and  myself),  that  I was  within  half  a 
point  of  throwing  down  my  gage  of  con- 
temptuous defiance  ; but  he  shook  my  hand, 
and  looked  so  benevolently  good  at  parting 
God  bless  him  ! though  I should  never  see 
him  more,  I shall  love  him  until  my  dying 
day  ! I am  pleased  to  think  I am  so  capahle 
of  the  throes  of  gratitude,  as  I am  miserably 
deficient  in  some  other  virtues. 

" With  Dr.  Blair  I am  more  at  my  ease.  I 
never  respect  him  with  humble  veneration  ; 
but  when  he  kindly  interests  himself  in  my 
welfare,  or  still  more,  when  he  descends 
from  his  pinnacle,  and  meets  me  on  equal 
ground  in  conversation,  my  heart  overflows 
with  what  is  called  liking.  When  he  neg- 
lects me  for  the  mere  carcase  of  greatness, 
or  when  his  eye  measures  the  difference  of 
our  points  of  elevation,  I say  to  myself,  with 
scarcely  any  emotion,  what  do  I care  for  him 
or  his  pomp  either  ? ” 

The  intentions  of  the  poet  in  procuring 
this  book,  so  fully  described  by  himself, 
were  very  imperfectly  executed.  He  has 
inserted  in  it  few  or  no  incidents,  but  seve- 
ral observations  and  reflections,  of  which 
the  greater  part  that  are  proper  for  the 
public  eye  will  be  found  interwoven  in  his 
letters.  The  most  curious  particulars  in 
the  book  are  the  delineations  of  the  charac- 
ters he  met  with.  These  are  not  numerous  ; 
but  they  are  chiefly  of  persons  of  distinc- 
tion in  the  republic  of  letters,  and  nothing 
but  the  delicacy  and  respect  due  to  living 
characters  prevents  us  from  committing 
them  to  the  press.  Though  it  appears  that 
in  his  conversation  he  was  sometimes  dis- 
posed to  sarcastic  remarks  on  the  men  with 
whom  he  lived,  nothing  of  this  kind  is  dis- 
coverable in  these  more  deliberate  efforts  of 
his  understanding,  which,  while  they  exhibit 
great  clearness  of  discrimination,  manifest 
also  the  wish,  as  well  as  the  power,  to 
bestow  high  and  generous  praise. 

As  a specimen  of  these  delineations,  we 
give  the  character  of  Dr.  Blair,  who  has 
now  paid  the  debt  of  nature,  in  the  full 
confidence  that  this  freedom  will  not  be 
found  inconsistent  with  the  respect  and 
veneration  due  to  that  excellent  man,  the 
last  stir  in  the  literary  constellation,  by 
which  the  metropolis  of  Scotland  wjs,  in 
the  earlier  part  of  the  present  reign,  so 
beautifully  illuminated. 

" It  is  not  easy  forming  an  exact  judg- 
ment r of  any  one ; but,  in  my  opinion,  Dr. 
Blair  is  merely  an  astonishing  proc|f  of 
what  industry  and  app  ication  can  do. 
Natur  d parts  like  hiR  are  frequently  to  In 


44 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


met  with ; his  vanity  is  prove rbiftHv  known 
among’  his  acquaintance ; but  he  is  justly  at  j 
the  head  of  what  may  be  called  fine  writing ; 
and  a critic  of  the  first,  the  very  first,  rank  • 
in  prose ; even  in  poetry,  a bard  of  Nature’s 
making  can  only  take  the  pas  of  his.  He 
has  a heart  not  of  the  very  finest  water,  but 
far  from  being  an  ordinary  one.  In  short, 
he  is  truly  a worthy  and  most  respectable 
character.” 

[Mr.  Cromek  informs  us  that  one  of  the 
poet’s  relnarks,  when  he  first  came  to  Edin- 
burgh, was,  that  between  the  men  of  rustic 
life  and  the  polite  world,  he  observed  little 
difference ; that  in  the  former,  though  un- 
polished by  fashion  and  unenlightened  by 
science,  he  had  found  much  observation, 
and  much  intelligence ; but  a refined  and 
accomplished  woman  was  a thing  almost 
new  to  him,  and  of  which  he  had  formed 
but  a very  inadequate  idea.  Mr.  Lockhart 
adds,  that  there  is  reason  to  believe  that 
Burns  was  much  more  a favourite  amongst 
the  female  than  the  male  part  of  elevated 
Edinburgh  society  to  which  he  was  intro- 
duced, and  that  in  consequence,  in  all  pro- 
bability, of  the  greater  deference  he  paid  to 
the  gentler  sex.  “ It  is  sufficiently  apparent,” 
adds  Mr.  L.,  “ that  there  were  many  points 
in  Burns’s  conversational  habits,  which 
men,  accustomed  to  the  delicate  observances 
of  refined  society,  might  be  more  willing 
to  tolerate  under  the  first  excitement  of 
personal  curiosity,  than  from  any  very  de- 
liberate estimate  of  the  claims  of  such  a 
genius,  under  such  circumstances  developed. 
He  by  no  means  restricted  his  sarcastic 
observations  on  those  whom  he  encountered 
in  the  world  to  the  confidence  of  his  note- 
book, but  startled  ears  polite  with  the 
Utterance  of  audacious  epigrams,  far  too 
witty  not  to  obtain  general  circulation  in 
•o  small  a society  as  that  of  the  northern 
capital,  far  too  bitter  not  to  produce  deep 
resentment,  far  too  numerous  not  to  spread 
fear  almost  as  widely  as  admiration.”  An 
example  of  his  unscrupulousness  is  thus 
given  by  Mr.  Cromek.  “At  a private 
breakfast,  in  a literary  circle  of  Edinburgh, 
the  conversation  turned  on  the  poetical 
merit  and  pathos  of  Gray’s  Elegy,  a poem 
of  which  he  was  enthusiastically  fond.  A 
clergyman  present,  remarkable  for  his  love 
of  paradox,  and  for  his  eccentric  notions 
upon  every  subject,  distinguished  himself 
by  an  injudicious  and  ill-timed  attack  on 
this  exquisite  poem,  v^hich  Burns,  with, 
generous  warmth  for  the  reputation  of 
Gray,  manfully  defended.  As  the  gentle- 
man’s remarks  wm  tau*ex  general  than 


; specific,  Burns  urged  him  to  bring  forward 
j the  passages  which  he  thought  exceptionable, 
j He  made  several  attempts  to  quote  the 
poem,  but  always  in  a blundering,  inaccurate 
manner.  Burns  bore  all  this  for  a good 
while  with  his  usual  good-natured  forbear- 
ance. till  at  length,  goaded  by  the  fastidious 
criticisms  and  wretched  quibblings  of  his 
opponent,  he  roused  himself,  and  with  an 
eye  flashing  contempt  and  indignation,  and 
with  great  vehemence  of  gesticulation,  he 
thus  addressed  the  cold  critic  : ‘ Sir,  I now 
perceive  a man  may  be  an  excellent  judge 
of  poetry  by  square  and  rule,  and  after  all, 
be  a d — d blockhead.’”  "To  pass  from 
these  trifles,”  says  Mr.  Lockart,  “ it  needs 
no  effort  of  imagination  to  conceive  what 
the  sensations  of  an  isolated  set  of  scholars 
(almost  all  either  clergymen  or  professors) 
must  have  been  in  the  presence  of  this  big- 
boned, black-browed,  brawny  stranger,  with 
his  great  flashing  eyes,  who  having  forced  his 
way  among  them  from  the  plough-tail,  at  a 
single  stride,  manifested,  in  the  whole 
strain  of  his  bearing  and  conversation,  a 
most  thorough  conviction,  that,  in  the 
society  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  his 
nation,  he  was  exactly  where  he  was  en 
titled  to  be ; hardly  deigned  to  flatter  them 
by  exhibiting  even  an  occasional  symptom 
of  being  flattered  by  their  notice ; by  turns 
calmly  measured  himself  against  the  most 
cultivated  understandings  of  his  time  in 
discussion;  overpowered  the  bon  mots  of 
the  most  celebrated  convivialists  by  broad 
floods  of  merriment,  impregnated  with  all 
the  burning  life  of  genius;  astounded 
bosoms  habitually  enveloped  in  the  thrice- 
plied  folds  of  social  reserve,  by  compelling 
them  to  tremble,  nay,  to  tremble  visibly 
beneath  the  fearless  touch  of  natural  pathos  5 
and  all  this  without  indicating  the  smallest 
willingness  to  be  ranked  among  those  pro- 
fessional ministers  of  excitement,  who  are 
content  to  be  paid  in  money  and  smiles  for 
doing  what  the  spectators  and  auditors 
would  be  ashamed  of  doing  in  their  own 
persons,  even  if  they  had  the  power  of  doing 
it ; and,  last,  and  probably  worst  of  all, 
who  was  known  to  be  in  the  habit  of  enli- 
vening societies  which  they  would  have 
scor  ,ed  to  approach,  still  more  frequently 
than  their  own,  with  eloquence  no  less 
magi  ificent ; with  wit  in  all  likelihood  still 
more  daring ; often  enough,  as  the  superiors 
whom  he  fronted  without  alarm,  might  have 
guessed  from  the  beginning,  and  had,  ere 
long,  no  occasion  to  guess,  with  wit  pointed 
at  themselves.”] 

“ By  the  new  edition  of  his  poems,  (65) 


THE  DIARY.  48 


Barns  acquired  u sum  of  money  that 
enabled  him  not  only  to  partake  of  the 
pleasures  of  Edinburgh,  but  to  gratify  a 
desire  he  1 id  long  entertained,  of  visiting 
those  parts  of  his  native  country  most  at- 
tractive by  their  beauty  or  their  grandeur ; 
a desire  which  the  return  of  summer  natu- 
rally revived.  The  scenery  on  the  banks  of 
the"  Tweed,  and  of  its  tributary  streams, 
strongly  interested  his  fancy ; and  accord- 
ingly lie  left  Edinburgh  on  the  6th  of  May, 
1787,  on  a tour  through  a country  so  much 
celebrated  in  the  rural  songs  of  Scotland. 
He  travelled  on  horseback,  and  was  accom- 
panied, during  some  part  of  his  journey,  by 
Mr.  Amslie,  now  writer  to  the  signet,  a 
gentleman  who  enjoyed  much  of  his  friend- 
ship and  of  his  confidence.  Of  this  tour  a 
journal  remains,  which,  however,  contains 
only  occasional  remarks  on  the  scenery,  and 
which  is  chiefly  occupied  with  an  account  of 
the  author’s  different  stages,  and  with  his 
observations  on  the  various  characters  to 
whom  he  was  introduced.  In  the  course  of 
this  tour  be  visited  Mr.  Ainslie  of  Berry  well, 
the  father  of  his  companion ; Mr.  Brydone, 
the  celebrated  traveller,  to  whom  he  carried 
a letter  of  introduction  from  Mr.  Macken- 
zie; the  Rev.  Dr.  Somerville  of  Jedburgh, 
the  historian ; Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scott  of 
Wauchope ; Dr.  Elliott,  a physician,  retired 
to  a roix  intic  spot  or,  the  banks  of  the 
Koole;  Sir  Alexander  Don;  Sir  James  Hall 
of  Dunglass ; and  a great  variety  of  other 
respectable  characters.  Every  where  the 
fame  of  the  poet  had  .spread  before  him, 
and  every  where  he  received  the  most  hos- 
pitable and  flattering  attentions.  At  Jed- 
burgh he  continued  several  days,  and  was 
honoured  by  the  magistrates  with  the  free- 
dom of  their  borough.  The  following  may 
serve  as  a specimen  of  this  tour,  which  the 
perpetual  reference  to  living  characters  pre- 
vents our  giving  at  large : — 

“ Saturday,  May  6th.  Left  Edinburgh — 
Lammer-muir- hills,  miserably  dreary  in  ge- 
neral, but  at  times  very  picturesque. 

“ Lanson-edge,  a glorious  view  of  the 
Merse.  Reach  Berrywell.  * * * 

The  family  meeting  with  my  compagnon  de 
*°yage,  very  charming ; particularly  the 
•is ter.  * * * 

“ Sunday.  Went  to  Church  st  Dunse. 
Heard  Dr.  Bowmaker. 

“ Monday.  Coldstream  — glorious  river 
Tweed — clear  and  majestic — fine  bridge — 
dine  at  Coldstream  with  Mr.  Ainslie  and 
Mr.  Foreman.  Beat  Mr.  Foreman  in  a 
dispute  about  Voltaire.  Drink  tea  at  Lenel- 
House  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brydone.  * * * 


Reception  extremely  flattering.  Sleep  at 

Coldstream. 

“ Tuesday.  Breakfast  at  Kelsr  * — charm- 
ing situation  of  the  town — line  bridge  over 
the  Tweed.  Enchanting  views  and  pros- 
pects on  both  sides  of  the  river,  especially 
on  the  Scotch  side.  * * * V isit 

Roxburgh  Palace  — fine  situation  of  it. 
Ruins  of  Roxburgh  Castle — a holly-bush 
growing  where  James  II.  was  accidentally 
killed  by  the  bursting  of  a cannon.  A small 
old  religious  ruin,  and  a fine  old  garden 
planted  by  the  religious,  rooted  out  and 
destroyed  by  a Hottentot,  a maitre  d'liotel 
of  the  duke’s — climate  and  soil  of  Ber- 
wickshire, and  even  Roxburghshire,  superior 
to  Ayrshire — bad  roads — turnip  and  sheep 
husbandry,  their  great  improvements.  * * * 
Low  markets,  consequently  low  lands — mag- 
nificence of  farmers  and  farm-houses.  Come 
up  the  Teviot,  and  up  the  Jed  to  Jedburgh 
to  lie,  and  so  wish  myself  good-night. 

“ Wednesday.  Breakfast  with  Mr.  Fair, 
* * * * Charming  romantic  situation 

of  Jedburgh,  with  gardens  and  orchards, 
intermingled  among  the  houses  and  the 
rams  of  a once  magnilicicent  cathedral.  All 
the  towns  here  have  the  appearance  of  old 
rude  grandeur,  but  extremely  idle.  Jed,  a 
fine  romantic  little  river.  Dined  with 
Captain  Rutherford,  * • * return  to 

Jedburgh.  Walk  up  the  Jed  with  some 
ladies  to  be  shown  Love-lane,  and  Black- 
burn, two  fairy-scenes.  Introduced  to  Mr. 
Potts,  writer,  and  to  Mr.  Somerville,  the 
clergyman  of  the  parish,  a man  and  a 
gentleman,  but  sadly  addicted  to  punning. 
(66).  ***** 

“Jedburgh  Saturday.  Was  presented  by 
the  magistrates  with  the  freedom  of  the 
town. 

“Took  farewell  of  Jedburgh  with  some 
melancholy  sensations. 

“ Monday,  May  14 th,  Kelso.  Dine  with 
the  farmers’  club — all  gentlemen  talking  of 
high  matters — each  of  them  keeps  a hunter 
from  £30  to  £50  value,  and  attends  the  fox- 
hunting club  in  the  county.  Go  out  with 
Mr.  Ker,  one  of  the  club,  and  a friend  of 
Mr.  Ainslie’s,  to  sleep.  In  his  mind  and 
manners,  Mr.  Ker  is  astonishingly  like  my 
dear  old  friend  Robert  Muir — every  thing 
in  his  house  elegant.  He  offers  to  accom- 
pany me  in  my  English  tour. 

“ Tuesday.  Dine  with  Sir  Alexander 
Don-  -a  very  wet  day.  * * * Sleep  at 

Mr.  Ktr’s  .again,  and  set  out  next  day  for 
Melrose-— visit  Dryburgh,  a fine  old  ruined 
abbey,  by  the  way.  Cross  the  Leader,  and 
come  up  the  Tweed  to  Melrose,  Dine 


46 


LIFE  OF  BURNS 


there,  and  visit  that  far-famed  glorious 
ruin — come  to  Selkirk  up  the  banks  of 
Ft  trick.  The  whole  country  hereabouts, 
both  on  Tweed  and  Et trick,  remarkably 
stony.” 

Having  spent  three  weeks  in  exploring 
this  interesting  scenery,  Burns  crossed  over  j 
into  Northumberland.  Mr.  Ker,  and  Mr.  j 
Hood,  two  gentlemen  with  whom  he  had 
become  acquainted  in  the  course  of  his  tour, 
accompanied  him.  He  visited  Alnwick 
Castle,  the  princely  seat  of  the  Duke  of 
Northumberland;  the  Hermitage  and  Old 
Castle  of  Wark worth ; Morpeth  and  New- 
castle. In  this  last  town  he  spent  two 
days,  and  then  proceeded  to  the  south-west 
by  Hexam  and  Wardrue,  to  Carlisle.  After 
spending  a day  at  Carlisle  with  his  friend 
Mr.  Mitchel,  he  returned  into  Scotland,  and 
at  Annan  his  journal  terminates  abruptly. 

Of  the  various  persons  with  whom  he 
became  acquainted  in  the  course  of  this 
journey,  he  has,  in  general,  given  some  ac- 
count, and  almost  always  a favourable  one. 
That  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  and  of 
the  Tcviot,  our  bard  should  find  nymphs 
that  were  beautiful,  is  what  might  be  con- 
fidently presumed.'  Two  of  these  are  par- 
ticularly described  in  his  jmrnal.  But  it 
does  not  appear  that  the  scenery,  or  its  in- 
habitants, produced  any  effort  of  his  muse, 
as  was  to  have  been  wished  and  expected. 
From  Annan,  Burns  proceeded  to  Dumfries, 
and  thence  through  Sanquhar,  to  Mossgiel, 
near  Mauchline,  in  Ayrshire,  where  he 
arrived  about  the  8th  of  June,  1787,  after  a 
long  absence  of  six  busy  and  eventful 
months.  It  will  easily  be  conceived  with 
what  pleasure  and  pride  he  was  received  by 
his  mother,  his  brothers,  and  sisters.  He 
had  left  them  poor,  and  comparatively 
friendless ; he  returned  to  them  high  in 
public  estimation,  and  easy  in  his  circum- 
stances He  returned  to  them  unchanged 
in  his  ardent  affections,  and  ready  to  share 
with  them  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  the 
pittance  that  fortune  had  bestowed.  (67) 

Having  remained  with  them  a few  days, 
he  proceeded  again  to  Edinburgh,  and  im- 
mediately set  out  on  a journey  to  the 
Highlands.  Of  this  tour  no  particulars  have 
been  found  among  his  manuscripts.  A 
letter  to  his  friend  Mr.  Ainslie,  dated  Arro- 
thar , by  Loclilong,  June  28, 1787,  commences 
as  follows  : — 

“ I write  you  this  on  my  tour  through  a 
country  where  savage  streams  tumble  over 
savage  mountains,  thinly  overspread  with 
savage  flocks,  which  starvingly  support  as 
tow  age  inhabitants.  My  last  stage  was 


Inverary — to-morrow  night's  stage,  Dursn 
barton.  I ought  sooner  to  have  answered 
your  kind  letter,  but  you  know  I am  a mao 
of  many  sins.” 

Part  of  a letter  from  our  bard  to  a friend 
(68),  giving  some  account  of  his  journey,  has 
been  communicated  to  the  editor.  The 
reader  will  be  amused  with  the  following 
extract : — 

“ On  our  return,  at  a Highland  gentle- 
man’s hospitable  mansion,  we  fell  in  with  a 
merry  party,  and  danced  till  the  ladies  left 
us,  at  three  in  the  morning.  Our  dancing 
was  none  of  the  French  or  English  insipid 
formal  movements ; the  ladies  sang  Scotch 
songs  like  angels,  at  intervals  : then  we  flew 
at  Bab  at  the  bewster,  Tullochgorum,  Loch 
Erroch  side  (69),  &c.,  like  midges  sporting 
in  the  mottie  sun,  or  craws  prognosticating 
a storm  in  a hairst  day.  When  the  dear 
lasses  left  us,  we  ranged  round  the  bowl  till 
the  good-fellow  hour  of  six ; except  a few 
minutes  that  we  went  out  to  pay  our  devo- 
tions to  the  glorious  lamp  of  day  peering 
over  the  towering  top  of  Benlomond.  W e 

all  kneeled ; our  worthy  landlord’s  son  held 
the  bowl,  each  man  a full  glass  in  his  hand  ; 
and  I,  as  priest,  repeated  some  rhyming  non- 
sense, like  Thomas-a-Rhymer’s  prophecies  I 
suppose.  After  a small  refreshment  of  the 
gifts  of  Somnus,  we  proceeded  to  spend  the 
day  on  Lochlomond,  and  reached  Dumbarton 
in  the  evening.  We  dined  at  another  good 
fellow’s  house,  and  consequently  push’d  the 
bottle;  when  we  went  out  to  mount  our 
horses,  we  found  ourselves  * No  vera  fou  but 
gaylie  yet.'  My  two  friends  and  I rode 
soberly  down  the  Loch  side,  till  by  came 
a Highlandman  at  the  gallop,  on  a tolerably 
good  horse,  but  which  had  never  known  the 
ornaments  of  iron  or  leather.  We  scorned 
to  be  out-galloped  by  a Highlandman,  so  oit 
we  started,  whip  and  spur.  My  companions* 
though  seemingly  gaily  mounted,  fell  sadly 
astern ; but  my  old  mare,  Jenny  Geddes, 
one  of  the  Rosinante  family,  she  strained 
past  the  Highlandman  in  spite  of  al1  hia 
efforts,  with  the  hair-halter  : just  as  I was 
passing  him,  Donald  wheeled  his  horse,  as  if 
to  cross  before  me  to  mar  my  progress,  w hen 
down  came  his  horse,  and  threw  his  breekless 
rider  in  a dipt  hedge;  and  down  came 
Jenny  Geddes  over  all,  and  my  hardship 
between  her  and  the  Higlilandman’s  horse. 
Jenny  Gedde»  trode  over  me  with  such 
cautious  re vx rence,  thaf^matters  were  not  so 
bad  as  might  well  have  been  expected  ; so  I 
came  off  with  a few  cuts  and  bruises,  and  a 
thorough  resolution  to  be  a pattern  of 
briety  for  the  future. 


BURNS  AND  NICOL. 


47 


a I have  yet  fixed  on  nothing  with  respect 
to  the  serious  business  of  life.  I am,  just  as 
usual,  a rhyming,  mason-making,  raking, 
aimless,  idle  fellow.  However,  I shall  some- 
where have  a farm  soon.  I was  going  to  say, 
a wife  too ; but  -that  must  never  be  my 
blessed  lot.  I am  but  a younger  son  of  the 
house  of  Parnassus,  and,  like  other  younger 
sons  of  great  families,  I may  intrigue,  if  I 
Choose  to  run  all  risks,  but  must  not  marry. 

“1  am  afraid  I have  almost  ruined  one 
source,  the  principal  one,  indeed,  of  my 
former  happiness — that  eternal  propensity  I 
always  had  to  fall  in  love.  My  heart  no 
more  glows  with  feverish  rapture.  I have  no 
paradisiacal  evening  interviews  stolen  from 
the  restless  cares  and  prying  inhabitants  of 
this  weary  world.  I have  only  * * * *. 
This  last  is  one  of  your  distant  acquaintance, 
has  a fine  figure,  ai  d elegant  manners,  and, 
in  the  train  of  some  great  folks  whom  you 
know,  has  seen  the  politest  quarters  in 
Europe.  I do  like  her  a good  deal;  but 
what  piques  me  is  her  conduct  at  the  com- 
mencement of  our  acquaintance.  I frequently 

visited  her  when  I was  in , and  after 

passing  regularly  the  intermediate  degrees 
between  the  distant  formal  bow  and  the 
familiar  grasp  round  the  waist,  I ventured, 
in  my  careless  way,  to  talk  of  friendship  in 
rather  ambiguous  terms ; and,  after  her 

return  to  — •,  I wrote  to  her  in  the  same 

style.  Miss,  construing  my  words  farther  I 
suppose  than  I intended,  flew  off  in  a tangent 
of  female  dignity  and  re  serve,  like  a moun tain- 
lark  in  an  April  morning ; and  wrote  me  an 
answer  which  measured  me  out  very  com- 
pletely what  an  immense  way  I had  to  travel 
before  I could  reach  the  climate  of  her  favour. 
But  I am  an  old  hawk  at‘  the  sport ; and 
wrote  her  such  a cool,  deliberate,  prudent 
reply,  as  brought  my  bird  from  her  aerial 
towenngs,  pop  down  at  my  foot  like  corporal 
Trim’s  hat.  (70) 

“ As  for  the  rest  of  my  acts,  and  my  wars, 
*nd  all  my  wise  sayings,  and  why  my  mare 
was  called  Jenny  Geddes,  they  shall  be 
recorded  in  a few  weeks  hence,  at  Linlithgow, 
in  the  chronicles  of  your  memory,  by 

“Robert  Burns.” 

From  this  journey  Burns  returned  to  his 
friends  in  Ayrshire,  with  whom  he  spent  the 
month  of  July,  renewing  his  friendships,  and 
extending  his  acquaintance  throughout  the 
country,  where  he  was  now  very  generally 
known  and  admired.  In  August  he  again 
visittd  Edinburgh,  whence  he  undertook 
another  journey  towards  the  middle  of  this 
ipouth,  in  company  with  Mr.  M.  Adair,  nqw 


Dr.  Adair,  of  Harrowgate  (71),  of  which  this 
gentleman  has  favoured  us  with  the  following 
account : — 

“ Burns  and  I left  Edinburgh  together  'n 
August,  1787.  We  rode  by  Iinglithgow 
and  Carron,  to  Stirling.  We  visited  the  iron 
works  at  Carron,  with  which  the  poet  was 
forcibly  struck.  The  resemblance  between 
that  place  and  its  inhabitants,  to  the  cave  of 
the  Cyclops,  which  must  have  occurred  to 
every  classical  reader,  presented  itself  to 
Burns.  At  Stirling  the  prospects  from  the 
castle  strongly  interested  him  ; in  a former 
visit  to  which,  his  national  feelings  had  been 
powerfully  excited  by  the  ruinous  and  roofless 
state  of  the  hall  in  which  the  Scottish  par- 
liaments had  frequently  been  held.  His 
indignation  had  vented  itself  in  some  impru- 
dent, butnotunpoetical  lines, which  had  given 
much  offence,  and  which  he  took  this  opportu- 
nity of  erasing,  by  breaking  the  pane  of  the 
window  at  the  inn  on  which  they  were  written. 

“ At  Stirling  we  met  with  a company  of 
travellers  from  Edinburgh,  among  whom  was 
a character  in  many  respects  congenial  with 
that  of  Burns.  This  was  Nicol,  one  of  th  * 
teachers  of  the  High  Grammar  School  a 
Edinburgh — the  same  wit  and  power  of 
conversation,  tjie  same  fondness  for  convivial 
society,  and  thoughtlessness  of  to-morrow, 
characterised  both.  Jacobitical  principles  in 
politics  were  common  to  both  of  them; 
and  these  have  been  suspected,  since  the 
revolution  of  France,  to  have  given  place 
in  each  to  opinions  apparently  opposite.  (72) 
I regret  that  I have  preserved  no  mem- 
orabilia of  their  conversation,  either  on 
this  or  on  other  occasions,  when  I happened 
to  meet  them  together.  Many  songs  were 
sung;  which  I mention  for  the  sake  of  ob- 
serving, that  when  Burns  was  called  on  iu 
his  turn,  he  was  accustomed,  instead  of 
singing,  to  recite  one  or  other  of  his  own 
shorter  poems,  with  a tone  and  emphasis 
which,  though  not  correct  or  harmonious, 
were  impressive  and  pathetic.  This  he  did 
on  the  present  occasion. 

“From  Stirling  we  went  next  morning 
through  the  romantic  and  fertile  vale  of 
Devon  to  Harvieston,  in  Clackmannanshire, 
then  inhabited  by  Mrs.  Hamilton  (73),  with 
the  younger  part  of  whose  family  Burns  had 
been  previously  acquainted.  He  introduced 
me  to  the  family,  and  there  was  formed  my 
first  acquaintance  with  Mrs,  Hamilton ’a 
eldest  daughter,  to  whom  I have  been 
married  for  nine  years.  Thus  was  I in- 
debted to  Burns  for  a connection  from 
which  I have  derived,  and  expect  farther  t« 
derive,  much  happiness, 


4a 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


“ During  a residence  of  about  ten  days  at 
Harvieston,  we  made  excursions  to  visit 
various  parts  of  the  surrounding  scenery, 
inferior  to  none  in  Scotland  in  beauty, 
sublimity,  and  romantic  interest : par- 
ticularly Castle  Campbell,  the  ancient  seat 
of  the  family  of  Argyle ; and  the  famous 
cataract  of  the  Devon,  called  the  Caldron 
linn ; and  the  Rumbling  Bridge,  a single 
broad  arch,  thrown  by  the  devil,  if  tradition 
im  to  be  believed,  across  the  river,  at  about 
the  height  of  a hundred  feet  above  its  bed. 
I 9m  surprised  that  none  of  these  scenes 
should  have  called  forth  an  exertion  of 
Burns’s  muse.  But  I doubt  if  he  had  much 
taste  for  the  picturesque.  I well  remember, 
that  the  ladies  at  Harvieston,  who  accom- 
panied us  on  this  jaunt,  expressed  their’ 
disappointment  at  his  not  expressing,  in 
more  glowing  and  fervid  language,  his  im- 
pressions of  the  Caldron  Linn  scene,  cer- 
tainly highly  sublime,  and  somewhat  horrible. 

“ A visit  to  Mrs.  Bruce  of  Clackmannan, 
a lady  above  ninety,  the  lineal  descendant  of 
that  race  which  gave  the  Scottish  throne  its 
brightest  ornament,  interested  his  feelings 
more  powerfully.  This  venerable  dame,  with 
characteristical  dignity,  informed  me,  on  my 
observing  that  I believed  she  was  descended 
from  the  family  of  Robert  Bruce,  that 
Robert  Bruce  was  sprung  from  her  family. 
Though  almost  deprived  of  speech  by  a 
paralytic  affection,  she  preserved  her  hospi- 
tality and  urbanity.  She  was  in  possession 
of  the  hero’s  helmet  and  two-handed  sword, 
with  which  she  conferred  on  Burns  and 
myself  the  honour  of  knighthood,  remarking, 
that  she  had  a better  right  to  confer  that 
title  than  some  people.  * * You 

will,  of  course,  conclude,  that  the  old  lady’s 
political  tenets  were  as  Jacobitical  as  the 
poet’s,  a conformity  which  contributed  not  a 
little  to  the  cordiality  of  our  reception  and 
entertainment.  She  gave,  as  her  first  toast 
after  dinner,  Awa’  Uncos,  or  Away  with  the 
Strangers.  Who  these  strangers  were,  you 
will  readily  understand.  Mrs.  A.  corrects 
me  by  saying  it  should  be  Hooi,  or  Hooi 
Uncos,  a sound  used  by  shepherds  to  direct 
their  dogs  to  drive  away  the  sheep.  (74) 

“We  returned  to  Edinburgh  by  Kinross 
(on  the  shore  of  Lochleven)  and  Queensferry. 
I am  inclined  to  think  Burns  knew  nothing 
m poor  Michael  Bruce,  who  wa$  then  alive 
ftt  Kinross,  or  had  died  there  a short  while 
beforp.  A meeting  between  the  bards,  or  a 
visit  to  the  deserted  cottage  and  early  grave 
of  poor  Bruce,  would  have  been  highly 
Interesting.  (75) 

“ At  Dunfermline  we  visited  the  ruined 


abbey,  and  the  abbey-church,  now 
secrated  to  Presbyterian  worship.  IK  re  ! 
mounted  the  cutty  stool,  or  stool  of  re* 
pentance,  assuming  the  character  of  a 
penitent  for  fornication  ; while  Burns,  from 
the  pulpit,  addressed  to  me  a luihcrou® 
reproof  and  exhortation  parodied  from  that 
which  had  been  delivered  to  himself  in 
Ayrshire,  where  he  had,  as  he  assured  me, 
once  been  one  of  seven  who  mounted  the 
seat  of  shame  together. 

“ In  the  church-yard  two  broad  flag-stone® 
marked  the  grave  of  Robert  Bruce,  for  whose 
memory  Burns  had  more  than  common 
veneration.  He  knelt  and  kissed  the  stone 
with  sacred  fervour,  and  heartily  (suus  ut 
mos  erat)  execrated  the  worse  than  Got  hi  $ 
neglect  of  the  first  of  Scottish  heroes.”  (76) 

The  surprise  expressed  by  Dr.  Adair,  in 
his  excellent  letter,  that  the  romantic 
scenery  of  the  Devon  should  have  failed 
to  call  forth  any  exertion  of  the  poet’s  muse, 
is  not  in  its  nature  singular ; and  the  dis- 
appointment felt  at  his  not  expressing 
in  more  glowing  language  his  emotions  on 
the  sight  of  the  famous  cataract  of  that 
river,  is  similar  to  what  was  felt  by  the 
friends  of  Burns  on  other  occasions  of  the 
same  nature.  Yet  the  inference  that  Dr. 
Adair  seems  inclined  to  draw  from  it,  that 
he  had  little  taste  for  the  picturesque  might 
be  questioned,  even  if  it  stood  uncon- 
troverted by  other  evidence.  The  muse  of 
Burns  was  in  a high  degree  capricious ; she 
came  uncalled,  and  often  refused  to  attend 
at  his  bidding.  Of  all  the  numerous  sub- 
jects suggested  to  him  by  his  friends  and 
correspondents,  there  is  scarcely  one  that  lie 
adopted.  The  very  expectation  that  a par- 
ticular occasion  would  excite  the  energies 
of  fancy,  if  communicated  to  Burns,  seemed 
in  him,  as  in  other  poets,  destructive  of  the 
effect  expected.  Hence  perhaps  may  be 
explained,  why  the  banks  of  the  Devon  and 
of  the  Tweed  form  no  art  of  the  subject® 
of  his  song. 

A similar  train  of  reasoning  may  perhaps 
explain  the  want  of  emotion  with  which  he 
viewed  the  Caldron  Linn.  Certainly  there 
are  no  affections  of  the  mind  more  deadened 
by  the  influence  of  previous  expectation, 
than  those  arising  from  the  sight  of  natural 
objects,  and  more  especially  of  objects  of 
grandeur.  Minute  descriptions  of  scenes, 
of  a sublime  nature,  should  never  be  given 
to  those  who  are  about  to  view  them,  par 
ticularly  if  they  are  persons  of  great  strength 
and  sensibility  of  imagination.  Language 
seldom  or  never  conveys  an  adequate  idea  of 
such  objects,  but  in  the  mi»d  of  a great  poef 


LINES  OX  THE  DEVON. 


4S 


it  may  excite  a picture  that  far  transcends 
them  The  imagination  of  Burns  might 
form  a cataract,  in  comparison  with  which 
the  Caldron  Linn  should  seem  the  purling 
of  a rill,  and  even  the  mighty  falls  of  Niagara 
H humble  cascade.  (77) 

Whether  these  suggestions  may  assist  in 
explaining  our  bard’s  deficiency  of  impres- 
sion on  the  occasion  referred  to,  or  whether 
it  ought  rather  to  be  imputed  to  some 
pre-occupation,  or  indisposition  of  mind,  we 
presume  not  to  decide : but  that  he  was  in 
general  feelingly  alive  to  the  beautiful  or 
•ublime  in  scenery,  may  be  supported  by 
irresistible  evidence.  It  is  true  this  pleasure 
was  greatly  heightened  in  his  mind,  as  might 
he  expected,  when  combined  with  moral 
emotions  of  a kind  with  which  it  happily 
unites.  That  under  this  association  Burns 
contemplated  the  scenery  of  the  Devon  with 
the  eye  of  a genuine  poet,  the  following  lines 
written  at  this  very  period  may  bear 
witness : — 

“on  a young  lady,  (78)  residing  on  the 

BANKS  OP  THE  SMALL  RIVER  DEVON,  IN 
CLACKMANNANSHIRE,  BUT  WHOSE  INFANT 
YEARS  WERE  SPENT  IN  AYRSHIRE. 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear-winding 
Devon,  [blooming  fair ; 

With  green-spreading  hushes,  and  bowers 
But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  Banks  of  the 
Devon  [Ayr. 

Was  once  a sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the 
Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet-blushing 
flower  [dew ! 

In  the  gay  rosy  morn  as  it  bathes  in  the 
And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower, 
That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to 
renew. 

Oh  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 
With  chill  hoary  wing  as  ye  usher  the 
dawn ! 

An  cl  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 
The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and 
lawn ! 

Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies, 

And  England  triumphant  display  her  proud 
rose ; 

A fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  vallies 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering 
flows.” 

The  different  journies  already  mentioned 
tid  not  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  Burns. 
About  the  beginning  of  September,  he  again 
■et  out  from  Edinburgh  on  a more  extended 
tour  to  the  highlands,  in  company  with 
Mr.  Nicol,  with  whom  he  had  now  con- 
tracted a particular  intimacy,  which  lasted 
during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  Mr.  Nicol 
was  of  Dumfries -shire,  of  a descent  equally 
humble  with  our  poet.  Like  him  he  rose 
by  the  strength  of  his  talents, 

E 


the  strength  of  his  passions.  He  died  in  the 
summer  of  1797.  Having  received  the 
elements  of  a classical  instruction  at  his 
parish-school,  Mr.  Nicol  made  a very  rapid 
and  singular  proficiency;  and  by  early 
undertaking  the  office  of  an  instructor  him- 
self, he  acquired  the  means  of  entering  him» 
self  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  Then 
he  was  first  a student  of  theology,  then  a 
student  of  medicine,  and  was  afterwards 
employed  in  the  assistance  and  instruction 
of  graduates  in  medicine,  in  those  parts  of 
their  exercises  in  which  the  Latin  language 
is  employed.  In  this  situation  he  was  the 
contemporary  and  rival  of  the  celebrated 
Dr.  Brown,  whom  he  resembled  in  the 
particulars  of  his  history,  as  well  as  in  th© 
leading  features  of  his  character.  The 
office  of  assistant-teacher  in  the  High  School 
being  vacant,  it  was  as  usual  filled  up  by 
competition ; and  in  the  face  of  some  pre« 
judices,  and  perhaps  of  some  well-founded 
I objections,  Mr.  Nicol,  by  superior  learning, 
carried  it  from  all  the  other  candidates. 
This  office  he  filled  at  the  period  of  which 
we  speak. 

It  is  to  be  lamented,  that  an  acquaintance 
with  the  writers  of  Greece  and  Rome  does 
not  always  supply  an  original  want  of  taste 
and  correctness  in  manners  and  conduct; 
and  where  it  fails  of  this  effect,  it  sometimes 
inflames  the  native  pride  of  temper,  which 
treats  with  disdain  those  delicacies  in  which 
it  has  not  learnt  to  excel.  It  was  thus  with 
the  fellow-traveller  of  Burns.  Formed  by 
nature  in  a model  of  great  strength,  neither 
his  person  nor  his  manners  had  any  tincture 
of  taste  or  elegance ; and  his  coarseness  was 
not  compensated  by  that  romantic  sensi- 
bility, and  those  towering  flights  of  imagi- 
| nation,  which  distinguished  the  conversation 
I of  Burns,  in  the  blaze  of  whose  genius  all 
I the  deficiencies  of  his  manners  were  ab- 
sorbed and  disappeared. 

Mr.  Nicol  and  our  poet  travelled  in  a 
post-chaise,  which  they  engaged  for  the 
journey,  and  passing  through  the  heart  of 
the  Highlands,  stretched  northwards,  about 
ten  miles  beyond  Inverness.  There  they 
bent  their  course  eastward,  across  the  island, 
and  returned  by  the  shore  of  the  German 
sea  to  Edinburgh.  In  the  course  of  this 
tour,  some  particulars  of  which  will  be  found 
in  a letter  of  our  bard,  they  visited  a number 
of  remarkable  scenes,  and  the  imagination  of 
Burns  was  constantly  excited  by  the  wild 
and  sublime  scenery  through  which  he 
passed.  Of  this  several  proofs  may  be  found 
in  the  poems  formerly  printed.  (79)  Of  the 
; history  of  one  of  these  poems,  the  Humble 


10 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


Petition  of  Bruar  Water,  and  of  the  bard’s 
visit  to  Athole-house,  some  particulars  will 
be  found  in  his  correspondence  ; and  by  the 
favour  of  Mr.  Walker,  of  Perth,  then  residing 
in  ihe  family  of  the  Duke  of  Athole,  we 
are  enabled  to  give  the  following  additional 
account : — 

“ On  reaching  Blair,  he  sent  ipe  notice  of 
his  arrival  (as  I had  been  previously  ac- 
quainted with  him),  and  I hastened  to  meet 
him  at  the  inn.  The  Duke,  to  whom  he 
brought  a letter  of  introduction,  was  from 
home ; but  the  Duchess,  being  informed  of 
his  arrival,  gave  him  an  invitation  to  sup 
and  sleep  at  Athole-house.  He  accepted 
the  invitation ; but  as  the  hour  of  supper 
was  at  some  distance,  begged  I would  in  the 
interval  be  his  guide  through  the  grounds. 
It  was  already  growing  dark;  yet  the 
softened  though  faint  and  uncertain  view  of 
their  beauties,  which  the  moonlight  afforded 
us,  seemed  exactly  suited  to  the  state  of  his 
feelings  at  the  time.  I had  often,  like 
others,  experienced  the  pleasures  which  arise 
from  the  sublime  or  elegant  landscape,  but 
I never  saw  those  feelings  so  intense  as  in 
Burns.  When  we  reached  a rustic  hut  on 
the  river  Tilt,  where  it  is  overhung  by  a 
woody  precipice,  from  which  there  is  a noble 
waterfall,  he  threw  himself  on  the  heathy 
seat,  and  gave  himself  up  to  a tender, 
abstracted,  and  voluptuous  enthusiasm  of 
imagination.  I cannot  help  thinking  it 
might  have  been  here  that  he  conceived  the 
idea  of  the  following  lines,  which  he  after- 
wards introduced  into  his  poem  on  Bruar 
Water,  when  only  fancying  such  a combina- 
tion of  objects  aa  were  now  present  to  his 
eye. 

‘ Or  by  the  reaper’s  nightly  beam, 

Mild,  chequering  through  the  trees, 

Save  to  my  darkly-dashing  stream, 
Hoarse-swelling  on  the  breeze.’ 

It  w as  with  much  difficulty  I prevailed  on  j 
him  to  quit  this  spot,  and  to  be  introduced 
in  proper  time  to  supper. 

“ My  curiosity  wras  great  to  see  how  he 
would  conduct  himself  in  company  so 
different  from  what  he  had  been  accustomed 
to.  (801  His  manner  was  unembarrassed, 
plain,  and  firm.  He  appeared  to  have  com- 
plete reliance  on  his  own  native  good  sense 
for  directing  his  behaviour.  He  seemed  at 
once  to  perceive  and  to  appreciate  wdiat  was 
due  to  the  company  and  to  himself,  and 
never  to  forget  a proper  respect  for  the 
separate  species  of  dignity  belonging  to 
each.  He  did  not  arrogate  conversation,  j 
but,  when  led  into  it,  he  spoke  with  ease, 
propriety,  and  manliness.  He  tried  to  e*ert  i 


his  abilities,  because  he  knew  it  was  ability 
alone  gave  him  a title  to  be  there.  Tne 
Duke’s  fine  young  family  attracted  much  of 
his  admiration;  he  drank  their  healths  as 
honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses,  an  idea  which 
was  much  applauded  by  the  company,  and 
with  which  he  has  very  felicitously  closed 
his  poem.  (81) 

“Next  day  I took  a ride  with  him 
through  some  of  the  most  romantic  part  of 
that  neighbourhood,  and  was  highly  grati- 
fied , by  his  conversation.  As  a specimen  ot 
his  happiness  of  conception  and  strength  of 
expression,  I will  mention  a remark  which 
he  made  on  his  fellow-traveller,  who  was 
walking  at  the  time  a few  paces  before  us. 
He  was  a man  of  a robust  but  clumsy 
person ; and  while  Burns  was  expressing  to 
me  the  value  he  entertained  for  him,  on 
account  of  his  vigorous  talents,  although 
they  were  clouded  at  times  by  coarseness  of 
manners ; ‘ in  short/  he  added,  * his  mind  it 
like  his  body — he  has  a confounded  strong 
in-knee’d  sort  of  a soul.’ 

“ Much  attention  was  paid  to  Burns  both 
before  and  after  the  Duke’s  return,  of  which 
he  was  perfectly  sensible,  without  being 
vain ; and  at  his  departure  I recommended 
to  him,  as  the  most  appropriate  return  he 
could  make,  to  write  some  descriptive  verses 
on  any  of  the  scenes  with  which  he  had 
been  so  much  delighted.  After  leaving 
Blair,  he,  by  the  Duke’s  advice,  visited  the 
Falls  of  Bruar,  and  in  a few  days  1 received 
a letter  from  Inverness,  with  the  versea 
enclosed.”  (821 

It  appears  that  the  impression  made  by 
our  poet  on  the  noble  family  of  Athole,  was 
in  a high  degree  favourable ; it  is  certain  he 
was  charmed  with  the  reception  he  received 
from  them,  and  he  often  mentioned  the  two 
days  he  spent  at  Athole-house  as  among 
the  happiest  of  his  life.  He  was  warmly 
| invited  to  prolong  his  stay,  but  sacrificed 
his  inclinations  to  his  engagement  with 
Mr.  Nicol;  which  is  the  more  to  be  re- 
gretted, as  he  would  otherwise  have  been 
introduced  to  Mr.  Dunda?)  (83)  (then  daily 
expected  on  a visit  to  the  Duke),  a circum- 
stance that  might  have  had  a favourable 
influence  on  Burns’s  future  fortunes.  At 
Athole-house  he  met,  for  the  first  time, 
Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry,  to  whom  he  was 
afterwards  indebted  for  his  ofiice  in  the 
Excise. 

The  letters  and  poems  w hich  he  addressed 
to  Mr.  Graham,  bear  testimony  of  his  sen- 
I sibility,  and  justify  the  supposition,  that  he 
would  not  have  been  deficient  in  gratitude 
! had  he  been  devated  to  a *it\uuiun  better 


BURNS  LEAVES  GORDON  * CASTLE. 


61 


niter!  to  his  disposition  and  to  his 
talents 

A few  days  after  leaving  Blair  of  Athole, 
our  poet  and  his  fellow-traveller  arrived  at 
Fochabers.  In  the  course  of  the  preceding 
winter  Burns  had  been  introduced  to  the 
Duchess  of  Gordon  at  Edinburgh,  and  pre- 
suming on  this  acquaintance,  he  proceeded 
to  Gordon  Castle,  leaving  Mr.  Nicol  at  the 
inn  in  the  village.  At  the  castle  our  poet 
was  received  with  the  utmost  hospitality 
and  kindness,  and  the  family  being  about  to 
sit  down  to  dinner,  he  was  invited  to  take 
his  place  at  table  as  a matter  of  course. 
This  invitation  he  acoepted,  and  after  drink- 
ing a few  glasses  of  wine,  he  rose  up,  and 
proposed  to  withdraw.  On  being  pressed 
to  stay,  he  mentioned,  for  the  first  time,  his 
engagement  with  his  fellow-traveller;  and 
his  noble  host  offering  to  send  a servant  to 
conduct  Mr.  Nicol  to  the  castle,  Burns  in- 
sisted on  undertaking  that  office  himself. 
He  was,  however,  accompanied  by  a gentle- 
man, a particular  acquaintance  of  the  duke, 
by  whom  the  invitation  was  delivered  in  all 
the  forms  of  politeness.  The  invitation 
came  too  late;  the  pride  of  Nicol  was 
inflamed  into  a high  degree  of  passion,  by 
the  neglect  which  he  had  already  suffered. 
He  had  ordered  the  horses  to  be  put  to  the 
carriage,  being  determined  to  proceed  on 
his  journey  alone;  and  they  found  him 
parading  the  streets  of  Fochabers,  before 
the  door  of  the  inn,  venting  his  anger  on 
the  postilion,  for  the  slowness  with  which 
he  obeyed  his  commands.  As  no  explana- 
tion nor  entreaty  could  change  the  purpose 
of  his  fellow-traveller,  our  poet  was  reduced 
to  the  necessity  of  separating  from  him 
entirely,  or  of  instantly  proceeding  with  him 
on  their  journey.  He  chose  the  last  of 
these  alternatives;  and  seating  himself 
beside  Nicol  in  the  post-chaise,  with  morti- 
fication and  regret,  he  turned  his  back  on 
Gordon  Castle,  where  he  had  promised  him- 
self some  happy  days.  Sensible,  however, 
of  the  great  kindness  of  the  noble  family, 
he  made  the  best  return  in  his  power,  by 
the  following  poem ; — (8  *) 

“ Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains, 

Never  bound  by  winter’s  chains  ; 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands. 

There  commix’d  with  foulest  stains 
From  tyranny’s  empurpled  bands ; 

These,  their  richly-gleaming  waves, 

I leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves  ; 

GiTe  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 
The  banks  by  Castle-Gordon. 

Spicy  forests,  ever  gay, 

Shading  from  the  burning  ray 

6 


Helpless  wretches  sold  to  toil. 

Or  the  ruthless  native’s  way, 

Bent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoilt 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 

I leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave ; 

Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  bravo 
The  storms  by  Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly  here,  without  control, 

Nature  reigns  and  rules  the  whole; 

In  that  sober  pensive  mood 
Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 

She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood; 
Life’s  poor  day  .I’ll  musing  rave, 

And  find  at  night  a sheltering  cave, 

Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave. 
By  bonnie  Castle-Gordon.”  (8ft) 

Burns  remained  at  Edinburgh  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  winter,  1787-8,  (86)  and 
again  entered  into  the  society  and  dissipa- 
tion of  that  metropolis.  (87)  It  appears 
that  on  the  31st  December  he  attended  a 
meeting  to  celebrate  the  birth-day  of  the 
lineal  descendant  of  the  Scottish  race  of 
kings,  the  late  unfortunate  Prince  Charles 
Edward.  Whatever  might  have  been  the 
wish  or  purpose  of  the  original  institutors 
of  this  annual  meeting,  there  is  no  reason 
to  suppose  that  the  gentlemen  of  whom  it 
was  at  this  Ume  composed,  were  not  per- 
fectly loyal  to  the  king  on  the  throne.  It 
is  not  to  be  conceived  that  they  entertained 
any  hope  of,  any  wish  for,  the  restoration  of 
the  House  of  Stuart ; but,  over  their  spark- 
ling wine,  they  indulged  the  generous  feel- 
ings which  the  recollection  of  fallen  greatness 
is  calculated  to  inspire,  and  commemorated 
the  heroic  valour  which  strove  to  sustain  it 
in  vain — valour  worthy  of  a nobler  cause, 
and  a happier  fortune.  On  this  occasion 
our  bard  took  upon  himself  the  office  of  a 
poet-laureate,  and  produced  an  ode,  which, 
though  deficient  in  the  complicated  rhythm 
and  polished  versification  that  such  com- 
positions require,  might  on  a fair  competi- 
tion, where  energy  of  feelings  and  of 
expression  were  alone  in  question,  have  won 
the  butt  of  Malmsey  from  the  real  laureate 
of  that  day. 

The  following  extracts  may  serve  as  a 
specimen : — 


* * • • 


“False  flatterer,  Hope,  away  I 
Nor  think  to  lure  us  as  in  days  of  yore  : 
We  solemnise  this  sorrowing  natal  day, 
To  prove  our  loyal  truth— we  can  no  more  ; 
And,  owning  heaven’s  mysterious  sway, 
Submissive  low,  adore. 


Ye  honoured  mighty  dead ! 

Who  nobly  perished  in  the  glorious  cause, 
Your  king,  }our  country,  and  her  laws  l 
From  great  Dundee,  who  smiling  victory 

0. 

LIBRARY 


62 


LIFE  OF  BURRS. 


And  foil  a martyr  in  her  arms, 

(What  breast  of  northern  ice  but  warms  ?) 

To  bold  Balmerino’s  undying  name,  [flame, 

V hose  soul  of  fire,  lighted  at  heaven’s  high 
Deserves  the  proudest  wreath  departed  heroes 
claim.  (88) 

Nor  unreveng’d  your  fate  shall  be, 

It  only  lags  the  fatal  hour  : 

Four  blood  shall  with  incessant  cry 

Awake  at  last  th’  unsparing  power. 

As  from  the  cliff,  with  thundering  course, 

The  snowy  ruin  smokes  along, 

With  doubling  speed  and  gathering  force, 
Till  deep  it  crashing  whelms  the  cottage  in 
So  vengeance  ” * * * [the  vale ! 

In  relating  the  incidents  of  our  poet’s 
life  in  Edinburgh,  we  ought  to  have  men- 
tioned the  sentiments  of  respect  and  sympa- 
thy with  which  he  traced  out  the  grave  of 
his  predecessor  Fergusson,  over  whose 
ashes,  in  the  Canongate  churchyard,  he  ob- 
tained leave  to  erect  a humble  monument, 
which  will  be  viewed  by  reflecting  minds 
with  no  common  interest,  and  which  will 
awake  in  the  bosom  of  kindred  genius  many 
a high  emotion.  Neither  should  we  pass 
over  the  continued  friendship  he  experienced 
from  a poet  then  living,  the  amiable  and 
accomplished  Blacklock.  To  his  encourag- 
ing advice  it  was  owing  (as  has  already 
appeared)  that  Burns,  instead  of  emigrating 
to  the  West  Indies,  repaired  to  Edinburgh. 
He  received  him  there  with  all  the  ardour 
of  affectionate  admiration — he  eagerly  in- 
troduced him  to  the  respectable  circle  of  his 
friends — he  consulted  his  interest — he  bla- 
zoned his  fame — he  lavished  upon  him  all 
the  kindness  of  a generous  and  feeling 
heart,  into  which  nothing  selfish  or  envious 
ever  found  admittance.  Among  the  friends 
to  whom  he  introduced  Burns,  was  Mr. 
Ramsay  of  Ochtertvre  (89),  to  whom  our  poet 
paid  a visit  iu  the  autumn  of  1787  [October], 
at  his  delightful  retirement  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Stirling,  and  on  the  banks  of 
the  Teith.  Of  this  visit  we  have  the  follow- 
ing particulars : — 

“ 1 have  been  in  the  company  of  many 
men  of  genius5’  says  Mr.  Ramsay,  “ some  olf 
them  poets ; but  never  witnessed  such 
flashes  of  intellectual  brightness  as  from 
him,  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  sparks  of 
celestial  fire  1 I never  was  more  delighted, 
therefore,  than  with  his  company  for  two 
day  s,  tete-a-tete.  In  a mixed  company  I 
should  have  made  little  of  him ; for,  in  the 
gamester’s  phrase,  he  did  not  always  know’ 
when  to  play  off  and  when  to  play  on. 
* * * I not  only  proposed  to  him  the 

writing  of  a play  similar  to  the  Gentle 
Bhepherd,  qualem  decet  esse  sororem,  but 


Scottish  Georgies,  a subject  which  Thomson 
has  by  no  means  exhausted  in  hi3  Seasons, 
What  beautiful  landscapes  of  rural  life  and 
manners  might  not  have  been  expected  from 
a pencil  so  faithful  and  forcible  as  his, 
which  could  have  exhibited  scenes  as  fami- 
liar and  interesting  as  those  in  the  Gentle 
Shepherd,  whicli  every  one  who  knows  oiu 
swains  in  their  unadulterated  state,  in- 
stantly recognises  as  true  to  nature.  But 
to  have  executed  either  of  these  plans, 
steadiness  and  abstraction  from  company 
were  wanting,  not  talents.  When  I asked 
him  whether  the  Edinburgh  literati  had 
mended  lias  poems  by  their  criticisms.  * Sir/ 
said  he,  * these  gentlemen  remind  me  of 
some  spinsters  in  my  country,  who  spin 
their  thread  so  fine  that  it  is  neither  fit  for 
weft  nor  woof.’  He  said  he  had  not  changed 
a word  except  one,  to  please  Dr.  Blair.”  (90) 
Having  settled  with  his  publisher,  Mr, 
Creech,  in  February  1788,  Burns  found  him- 
self master  of  nearly  five  hundred  pounds, 
after  discharging  ail  his  expenses.  Two 
hundred  pounds  he  immediately  advanced 
to  his  brother  Gilbert,  who  had  taken  upon 
himself  the  support  of  their  aged  mother, 
and  was  struggling  with  many  difficulties  in 
the  farm  of  Mossgiel.  With  the  remainder 
of  this  sum,  and  some  farther  eventual  pro- 
fits from  his  poems,  he  determined  on  settling 
himself  for  life  in  the  occupation  of  agricul- 
ture, and  took  from  Mr.  Miller  of  Dais  win- 
ton  (91),  the  farm  of  Ellisland,  on  the  banka 
of  the  river  Nith,  six  miles  above  Dumfries, 
on  w’hich  he  entered  at  Whitsunday,  1788. 
Having  been  previously  recommended  to 
the  Board  of  Excise,  his  name  had  been 
put  on  the  list  of  candidates  for  the  humble 
office  of  a gauger  or  exciseman  (92) ; and 
he  immediately  applied  to  acquiring  the  in- 
formation necessary  for  filling  that  office, 
when  the  honourable  board  might  judge  it 
proper  to  employ  him.  He  expected  to  he 
called  into  service  in  the  district  in  which 
his  farm  wras  situated,  and  vainly  hoped  to 
unite  with  success  the  labours  of  the  farmer 
with  the  duties  of  the  exciseman. 

When  Burns  had  in  this  manner  arranged 
his  plans  for  futurity,  his  generous  heart 
turned  to  the  object  of  his  most  ardent 
: attachment,  and,  listening  to  no  considera- 
! tions  but  those  of  honour  and  affection,  he 
i joined  with  her  in  a public  declaration  of 
marriage,  thus  legalising  their  union,  and 
j rendering  it  permanent  for  life, 
j Before  Burns  was  known  in  Edinburgh, 
a specimen  of  his  poetry  had  recommended 
; him  to  Mr.  Miller  of  Dalswinton.  Under- 
i standing  that  he  intended  to  resume  the 


AVCWM)  MARRIAGE  OF  BURNS. 


53 


fife  of  a farmer,  Mr.  Miller  had  invited  him, 
in  the  spring  of  1787,  to  view  his  estate  in 
Nithsdale,  offering  him  at  the  same  time  the 
choice  of  any  of  his  farms  out  of  lease,  at 
such  a rent  as  Burns  and  his  friends  might 
judge  proper.  It  was  not  in  the  nature  of 
Burns  to  take  an  undue  advantage  of  the 
liberality  of  Mr.  Miller.  He  proceeded  in 
this  business,  however,  with  more  than 
usual  deliberation.  Having  made  choice  of 
the  farm  of  Ellisland,  he  employed  two  of 
his  friends  skilled  in  the  value  of  land,  to 
examine  it,  and,  with  their  approbation, 
offend  a rent  to  Mr.  Miller,  which  was  im- 
mediately accepted.  (93)  It  wa3  not  conve- 
nient for  Mrs.  Burns  to  remove  immediately 
from  Ayrshire,  and  our  poet  therefore  took 
up  his  residence  alone  at  Ellisland,  to  pre- 
pare for  the  reception  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, who  joined  him  towards  the  end  of  the 
year. 

[Dr.  Currie  omits  all  allusion  to  the  cir- 
cumstances which  led  to  a permanent  union 
between  Burns  and  his  Jean.  That  the 
mind  of  the  poet,  notwithstanding  all  past 
irritation,  and  various  entanglements  with 
other  beauties,  was  never  altogether  alienated 
from  her,  is  evident;  but  up  to  June  1787, 
when  he  first  returned  from  Edinburgh  to 
Mauchline,  he  certainly  did  not  entertain 
any  self  avowed  notion  of  ever  again  renew- 
ing his  acquaintance  with  her.  It  was  in 
this  state  of  his  feelings,  that,  one  day, 
soon  after  his  return  from  Edinburgh,  when 
meeting  some  friends  over  a glass  at  John 
Dow’s  tavern,  close  to  the  residence  of  his 
once  fondly  loved  mistress,  he  chanced  to 
encounter  her  in  the  court  behind  the  inn, 
and  was  immediately  inflamed  with  all  his 
former  affection.  Their  correspondence  was 
renewed — was  attended  with  its  former  re- 
sults— and,  towards  the  end  of  the  year, 
when  the  poet  was  fixed  helplessly  in  Edin- 
burgh by  a bruised  limb,  her  shame  becom- 
ing apparent  to  her  parents,,  she  was  turned 
out  of  doors,  and  would  have  been  utterly 
destitute,  if  she  had  not  obtained  shelter 
from  a relation  in  the  village  of  Ardrossan. 
Jean  was  once  more  delivered  of  twins— 
girls — on  the  3rd  of  March,  1788 : the 
infants  died  a few  days  after  their  birth. 
In  a letter  of  that  date  to  Mr.  It.  Ainslie, 
written  from  Mauchline,  Burns  says — “1 
found  Jean  banished,  forlorn,  destitute,  and 
friendless : I have  reconciled  her  to  her 
fate,  and  I have  reconciled  her  to  her 
mother.”  Soon  after,  he  seems  to  have 
formed  the  resolution  of  overlooking  all  dis- 
honouring circumstances,  in  her  past  his- 
tory, and  making  her  really  his  own  for  life. 


On  the  7th  of  April,  we  find  him  writing  to 
Miss  Chalmers,  evidently  with  allusion  to 
this  resolution  : — “ 1 have  lately  made  some 
sacrifices,  for  which,  were  I viva  voce  with 
you  to  paint  the  situation  and  recount  the 
circumstances,  you  would  applaud  me  ” 
And  then,  on  the  28th,  in  a letter  to  Smith, 
we  see  the  resolution  has  been  virtually 
acted  upon.  “ To  let  you  a little  into  the 
secrets  of  my  pericranium,  there  is,  you 
must  know,  a certain  clean-limbed,  hand- 
some, bewitching  young  hussy  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, to  whom  I have  lately  given  a 
matrimonial  title  to  my  corpus.  * * I 

intend  to  present  Mrs.  Burns  with  a printed 
shawl,  an  article  of  which  I dare  say  yoa 
have  variety:  ’tis  my  first  present  to  her 
since  I irrevocably  called  her  mine.  * • 

Mrs.  Burns  (’tis  only  her  private  designa- 
tion) presents  her  best  compliments  to  you/* 
He  tells  Ainslie,  May  26,  that  the  title  is 
now  avowed  to  the  world — a sufficient  legal 
proof  of  marriage  in  Scotland.  Ultimately, 
on  the  3rd  of  August,  as  we  learn  from  the 
session  books,  the  poet  and  Jean  were 
openly  married;  when  Burns,  being  in- 
formed that  it  was  customary  for  the  bride- 
groom, in  such  cases,  to  bestow  something 
on  the  poor  of  the  parish,  gave  a guinea  for 
that  purpose.  The  ceremony  took  place  in 
Dow’s  tavern,  unsanctioned  by  the  lad/s 
father,  who  never,  to  the  day  of  the  poet’s 
death,  would  treat  him  as  a friend;  even 
Gavin  Hamilton,  from  respect  for  the  feel- 
ings of  Armour,  declined  being  present.  It 
was  not  till  the  ensuing  winter  that  Mrs. 
Burns  joined  her  husband  at  Ellisland — • 
their  only  child  Robert  following  her  in  the 
subsequent  spring.] 

The  situation  in  which  Burns  now  found 
himself  was  calculated  to  awaken  reflection. 
The  different  steps  he  had  of  late  taken 
were  in  their  nature  highly  important,  and 
might  be  said  to  have,  in  some  measure, 
fixed  his  destiny.  He  had  become  a husband 
and  a father ; he  had  engaged  in  the  manage- 
ment of  a considerable  farm,  a difficult  and  la- 
borious undertaking;  in  his  success  the  happi- 
ness of  his  family  was  involved.  It  was 
time,  therefore,  to  abandon  the  gaiety  and 
dissipation  of  which  he  had  been  too  much 
enamoured ; to  ponder  seriously  on  the  past, 
and  to  form  virtuous  resolutions  respecting 
the  future.  That  such  was  actually  the 
state  of  his  mind,  the  following  extract  from 
his  common-place  book  may  bear  witness 

“Ellisland,  Sunday,  14 th  June,  1788. 

“ This  is  new  the  third  day  that  I hav« 
been  in  this  country.  * Lord,  what  is  man  1 


64 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


What  a bustling  little  bundle  of  passions, 
appetites,  ideas,  and  fancies  ! And  what  a 
capricious  kind  of  existence  he  has  here!  * * 
There  is  indeed  an  elsewhere,  where,  as 
Thomson  says,  virtue  sole  survives. 

* Tell  us,  ye  dead ; 

Will  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret, 
What  ’tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be  ; 

1 A little  time 

Will  make  us  wise  as  you  are,  and  as  close.* 

" I am  such  a coward  in  life,  so  tired  of 
the  service,  that  I would  almost  at  any  time, 
with  Milton’s  Adam,  ‘gladly  lay  me  in  my 
mother’s  lap,  and  be  at  peace.’  But  a -wife 
and  children  bind  me  to  struggle  with  the 
stream,  till  some  sudden  squall  shall  overset 
the  silly  vessel,  or,  in  the  listless  return  of 
years,  its  own  craziness  reduce  it  to  a wreck. 
Farewell  now  to  those  giddy  follies,  those 
varnished  vices,  which,  though  half  sancti- 
fied by  the  bewitching  levity  of  wit  and 
humour,  are  at  best  but  thriftless  idling  with 
the  precious  current  of  existence ; nay,  often 
poisoning  the  whole,  that,  like  the  plains  of 
Jericho,  the  water  is  naught  and  the  ground 
barren , and  nothing  short  of  a supernaturally 
gifted  Elisha  can  ever  after  heal  the  evils. 

" Wedlock,  the  circumstance  that  buckles 
me  hardest  to  care,  if  virtue  and  religion 
were  to  be  any  thing  with  me  but  names, 
was  what  in  a few  seasons  [ must  have 
resolved  on  ; in  my  present  situation  it  w as 
absolutely  necessary.  Humanity,  generosity, 
honest  pride  of  character,  justice  to  my  own 
happiness  for  after-life,  so  far  as  it  could  de- 
pend (which  it  surely  will  a great  deal)  on 
internal  peace ; all  these  joined  their  w armest 
suffrages,  their  most  powerful  solicitations, 
with  a rooted  attachment,  to  urge  the  step 
I have  taken.  Nor  have  I any  reason  on  her 
part  to  repent  it.  I can  fancy  how,  but  have 
never  seen  where,  I could  have  made  a better 
choice.  Come  then,  let  me  act  up  to  my 
favourite  motto,  that  glorious  passage  in 
Young — 

* On  reason  build  resolve, 

That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man!’” 
"Under  the  impulse  of  these  reflections. 
Burns  immediately  engaged  in  rebuilding 
the  dwelling-house  on  his  farm,  which,  in 
the  state  he  found  it,  was  inadequate  to  the 
accommodation  of  his  family.  On  this  occa- 
sion he  himself  resumed  at  times  the  occupa- 
tion of  a labourer,  and  found  neither  his 
strength  nor  his  skill  impaired.  Pleased  with 
surveying  the  grounds  he  was  about  to  cul- 
tivate, and  witli  the  rearing  of  a building  that 
should  give  shelter  to  his  wife  and  children, 
and,  as  he  fondly  hoped,  to  his  own  grey 
hairs,  sentiments  of  independence  buoyed  up 


his  mind  pictures  of  domestic  content  and 
peace  rose  on  his  imagination;  and  a few 
days  passed  away,  as  he  himself  informs  us, 
the  most  tranquil,  if  not  the  happiest,  which 
he  had  ever  experienced.  (94.) 

It  is  to  be  lamented  that  at  this  critical 
period  of  his  life,  our  poet  was  without  the 
society  of  his  wife  and  children.  A great 
change  had  taken  place  in  his  situation  ; his 
old  habits  were  broken,  and  the  new  circum- 
stances in  which  he  was  placed  were  calcu- 
lated to  give  a new  direction  to  his  thoughts 
and  conduct.  But  hi3  application  to  the 
cares  and  labours  of  his  farm  was  interrupted 
by  several  visits  to  his  family  in  Ayrshire; 
and  as  the  distance  was  too  great  for  a single 
day’s  journey,  he  generally  spent  a night  at 
an  inn  on  the  road.  On  such  occasions  he 
sometimes  fell  into  company,  and  forgot  the 
resolutions  he  had  formed.  In  a little  while, 
temptation  assailed  him  nearer  home. 

His  fame  naturally  drew  upon  him  the 
attention  of  his  neighbours,  and  he  sooa 
formed  a general  acquaintance  in  the  district 
in  which  he  lived.  The  public  voice  had  now 
pronounced  on  the  subject  of  his  talents ; 
the  reception  he  had  met  with  in  Edinburgh 
had  given  him  the  currency  which  fashion 
bestows ; he  had  surmounted  the  prejudices 
arising  from  his  humble  birth,  and  he  was 
received  at  the  table  of  the  gentlemen  of 
Nithsdale  with  welcome,  with  kindness^  and 
even  with  respect.  Their  social  parties  too 
often  seduced  him  from  his  rustic  labours 
and  his  rustic  fare,  overthrew  the  unsteady 
fabric  of  his  resolutions,  and  inflamed  those 
propensities  which  temperance  might  have 
weakened,  and  prudence  ultimately  sup- 
pressed. (95)  It  was  not  long,  therefore, 
before  Burns  began  to  view  his  farm  with 
dislike  and  despondence,  if  not  with  disgust. 

Unfortunately,  he  had  for  several  years 
looked  to  an  office  in  the  Excise  as  a certain 
means  of  livelihood,  should  his  other  expecta- 
tions fail.  As  has  already  been  mentioned, 
he  had  been  recommended  to  the  Board  of 
Excise,  and  had  received  the  instruction 
necessary  for  such  a situation.  He  now 
applied  to  be  employed ; and  by  the  interest 
of  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry,  was  appointed 
exciseman,  or,  as  it  is  vulgarly  called,  gauger, 
of  the  district  in  which  he  lived.  (96.)  His 
farm  was  after  this  in  a great  measure 
abandoned  to  servants,  while  he  betook  him- 
self to  the  duties  of  his  new  appointment. 

He  might,  indeed,  still  be  seen  in  the 
spring  directing  his  plough,  a labour  in 
which  he  excelled ; or  with  » white  sheet, 
containing  his  seed-corn,  slung  across  his 
shoulders,  striding  with  measured  step« 


BURNS  IN  TFIE  EXCISE. 


a 


along  hiti  turned-up  furrows,  and  scattering 
the  grain  in  the  earth.  But  his  farm  no 
longer  occupied  the  principal  part  of  his 
care  or  his  thoughts.  (97)  It  was  not  at 
Ellisland  that  he  was  now  in  general  to  be 
Jfound.  Mounted  on  horseback,  this  high- 
minded  poet  was  pursuing  the  defaulters  of 
the  revenue  among  the  hills  and  vales  of 
Nithsdale,  his  roving  eye  wandering  over 
the  charms  of  nature,  and  muttering  his 
wayward  fancies  as  he  moved  along. 

"I  had  an  adventure  with  him  in  the 
year  1790,”  says  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre, 
in  a letter  to  the  editor,  “when  passing 
through  Dumfries-shire,  on  a tour  to  the 
south,  with  Dr.  Stewart  of  Luss.  Seeing 
him  pass  quickly,  near  Closebura,  I said  to 
my  companion,  ‘ that  is  Burns/  On  coming 
to  the  inn,  the  hostler  told  us  he  would  be 
back  in  a few  hours  to  grant  permits ; that 
where  he  met  with  anything  seizable  he  was 
no  better  than  any  other  gauger ; in  every- 
thing else,  that  he  was  perfectly  a gentle- 
man. After  leaving  a note  to  be  delivered 
to  him  on  his  return,  I proceeded  to  his 
house,  being  curious  to  see  his  Jean,  &c.  I 
was  much  pleased  with  his  uxor  Sabina 
qualis,  and  the  poet’s  modest  mansion,  so 
unlike  the  habitation  of  ordinary  rustics. 
In  the  evening  he  suddenly  bounced  in 
upon  us,  and  said,  as  he  entered,  ‘ I come, 
to  use  the  words  of  Shakspeare,  stewed  in 
haste / In  fact,  he  had  ridden  incredibly 
fast  after  receiving  my  note  We  fell  into 
conversation  directly,  and  soon  got  into  the 
mare  magnum  of  poetry.  He  told  me  that 
he  had  now  gotten  a story  for  a drama, 
which  he  was  to  call  Rob  Macquechan’s 
Elshon,  from  a popular  story  of  Robert 
Bruce  being  defeated  on  the  water  of  Caern, 
when  the  heel  of  his  boot  having  loosened 
in  his  flight,  he  applied  to  Robert  Mac- 
quechan  to  fit  it;  who,  to  make  sure,  ran 
his  awl  nine  inches  up  the  king’s  heel.  We 
were  now  going  on  at  a great  rate,  when 

Mr.  S popped  in  his  head ; which  put 

a stop  to  our  discourse,  which  had  become 
very  interesting.  Yet  in  a little  while  it 
was  resumed ; and  such  was  the  force  and 
versatility  of  the  bard’s  genius,  that  lie 

made  the  tears  run  down  Mr.  S ’s 

cheeks,  albeit  unused  to  the  poetic  strain. 
* * * Fro*i  that  time  we  met  no  more, 

and  I was  grieved  at  the  reports  of  him 
afterwards.  Poor  Bums ! we  shall  hardly 
ever  see  his  like  again.  He  was,  in  truth,  a 
sort  of  comet  in  literature,  irregular  in  its 
motions,  which  did  not  do  good  propor- 
tioned to  the  blaze  of  light  it  displayed.” 

In  the  summer  of  1791,  two  English 


gentlemen,  who  had  before  met  with  him  in 
Edinburgh,  paid  a visit  to  him  at  Ellisland. 
On  calling  at  the  house,  they  were  informed 
that  he  had  walked  out  on  the  banks  of  the 
river ; and  dismounting  from  their  horses, 
they  proceeded  in  search  of  him.  On  a 
rock  that  projected  into  the  stream,  they 
saw  a man  employed  in  angling,  of  a 
singular  appearance.  He  had  a cap  made 
of  a fox’s  skin  on  his  head,  a loose  great* 
coat  fixed  round  him  by  a belt,  from  which 
depended  an  enormous  Highland  broad- 
sword. It  was  Burns.  He  received  them 
with  great  cordiality,  and  asked  them  to 
share  his  humble  dinner — an  invitation 
which  they  accepted.  On  the  table  they 
found  boiled  beef,  with  vegetables,  and 
barley-broth,  after  the  manner  of  Scotland, 
of  which  they  partook  heartily.  After 
dinner,  the  bard  told  them  ingenuously 
that  he  had  no  wine  to  offer  them,  nothing 
better  than  Highland  whisky,  a bottle  of 
which  Mrs.  Burns  set  on  the  board.  He 
produced  at  the  same  time  his  punch-bowl 
made  of  Inverary  marble ; and,  mixing  the 
spirit  with  water  and  sugar,  filled  their 
glasses,  and  invited  them  to  drink.  (98)  The 
travellers  were  in  hasrte,  and,  besides,  the 
flavour  of  the  whisky  to  their  suthron 
palates  was  scarcely  tolerable;  but  the 
generous  poet  offered  them  his  best,  and 
his  ardent  hospitality  they  found  it  impos- 
sible to  resist.  Burns  was  in  his  happiest 
mood,  and  the  charms  of  his  conversation 
were  altogether  fascinating.  He  ranged 
over  a great  variety  of  topies,  illuminating 
whatever  he  touched.  He  related  the  tales 
of  his  infancy  and  of  his  youth ; he  recited 
some  of  the  gayest  and  some  of  the  ten- 
derest  of  his  poems;  in  the  wildest  of  hia 
strains  of  mirth,  he  threw  in  some  touches 
of  melancholy,  and  spread  around  him  the 
electric  emotions  of  his  powerful  mind. 
The  Highland  whisky  improved  in  its 
flavour;  the  marble  bowl  was  again  and 
again  emptied  and  replenished;  the  guests 
of  our  poet  forgot  the  flight  of  time,  and 
the  dictates  of  prudence : at  the  hour  of 
midnight  they  lost  their  way  in  returning 
to  Dumfries,  and  could  scarcely  distinguish 
it  when  assisted  by  the  morning’s  dawn. 

Besides  his  duties  in  the  excise,  and  hia 
social  pleasures,  other  circumstances  inter- 
fered with  the  attention  of  Burns  to  hia 
farm.  He  engaged  in  the  formation  of  a 
society  for  purchasing  and  circulating  books 
among  the  farmers  of  his  neighbourhood,  of 
which  he  undertook  the  management ; and 
he  occupied  himself  occasionally  m <om« 
posing  songs  for  the  musicai  work  o.f  Mr-. 


LIFE  OF  B1JRN& 


66 


Johnson,  then  in  the  course  of  publication. 
These  engagements,  useful  and  honourable 
in  themselves,  contributed,  no  doubt,  to  the 
abstraction  of  his  thoughts  from  the  busi- 
ness of  agriculture. 

The  consequences  may  be  easily  imagined. 
Notwithstanding  the  uniform  prudence  and 
good  management  of  Mrs,  Burns,  and 
though  his  rent  was  moderate  and  reason- 
able, our  poet  found  it  convenient,  if  not 
necessary,  to  resign  his  farm  to  Mr.  Miller, 
after  having  occupied  it  three  years  and  a 
half.  H s office  in  the  excise  had  originally 
produced  about  fifty  pounds  per  annum. 
Having  acquitted  himself  to  the  satisfaction 
of  the  board,  he  had  been  appointed  to  a 
new  district,  the  emoluments  of  which  rose 
to  about  seventy  pounds  per  annum. 
Hoping  to  support  himself  and  his  family 
on  this  humble  income  till  promotion  should 
reach  him,  he  disposed  of  his  stock  and  of 
his  crop  on  Ellisland  by  public  auction,  and 
removed  to  a small  house  which  he  had 
taken  in  Dumfries,  about  the  end  of  the 
year  1791. 

Hitherto  Burns,  though  addicted  to  excess 
in  social  parties,  had  abstained  from  the 
habitual  use  of  strong  liquors,  and  his  con- 
stitution had  not  suffered  any  permanent 
injury  from  the  irregularities  of  his  conduct. 
In  Dumfries,  temptations  to  the  sin  that  so 
easily  beset  him  continually  presented  them- 
selves ; and  his  irregularities  grew  by 
degrees  into  habits.  These  temptations 
unhappily  occurred  during  his  engagements 
in  the  business  of  his  office,  as  well  as 
during  his  hours  of  relaxation]  and  though 
he  clearly  foresaw  the  consequences  of 
yielding  to  them,  his  appetites  and  sensa- 
tions, which  could  not  prevent  the  dictates 
of  his  judgment,  finally  triumphed  over  the 
powers  of  his  will.  Yet  this  victory  was 
not  obtained  without  many  obstinate  strug- 
gles, and  at  times  temperance  and  virtue 
seemed  to  have  obtained  the  mastery.  Be- 
sides his  engagements  in  the  excise,  and  the 
society  into  which  they  led,  many  circum- 
stances contributed  to  the  melancholy  fate 
of  Burns.  His  great  celebrity  made  him 
An  object  of  interest  and  curiosity  to 
Btrangers,  and  few  persons  of  cultivated 
minds  passed  through  Dumfries  without 
attempting  to  see  our  poet,  and  to  enjoy 
the  pleasure  of  his  conversation.  As  he 
could  not  receive  them  under  his  own 
humble  roof,  these  interviews  passed  at  the 
inns  of  the  town,  and  often  terminated  in 
those  excesses  which  Burns  sometimes  pro- 
voked, and  was  seldom  able  to  resist.  And 
among  the  inhabitants  of  Dumfries  and  its 


vicinity,  there  wt.  e never  wanting  persona 
to  share  his  social  pleasures ; to  lead  or 
accompany  him  to  the  tavern;  to  partake 
in  the  wildest  sallies  of  his  wit ; to  witness 
the  strength  and  the  degradation  of  his 
genius. 

Still,  however,  he  cultivated  the  society 
of  persons  of  taste  and  of  respectability, 
and  in  their  company  could  impose  on  him- 
self the  restraints  of  temperance  and  de- 
corum. Nor  was  his  muse  dormant.  In 
the  four  years  which  he  lived  in  Dumfries, 
he  produced  many  of  his  beautiful  lyrics, 
though  it  does  not  appear  that  he  attempted 
any  poem  of  considerable  length.  During 
this  time  he  made  several  excursions  into 
the  neighbouring  country,  of  one  of  which, 
through  Galloway,  an  account  is  preserved 
in  a letter  of  Mr.  Syme,  written  soon  after ; 
which,  as  it  gives  an  animated  picture  of 
him  by  a correct  and  masterly  hand,  wo 
shall  present  to  the  reader. 

“ I got  Burns  a grey  Highland  shelty  to 
ride  on.”  We  dined  the  first  day,  27th 
July,  1793,  at  Glen  den  wynes  of  Parton  ! a 
beautiful  situation  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee. 
In  the  evening  we  walked  out,  and  ascended 
a gentle  eminence,  from  which  we  had  as 
fine  a view  of  Alpine  scenery  as  can  well  be 
imagined.  A delightful  soft  evening  showed 
all  its  wilder  as  well  as  its  grander  graces. 
Immediately  opposite,  and  within  a mile  of 
us,  we  saw  Airds,  a charming  romantic 
place,  where  dwelt  Low,  the  author  of  Mary 
weep  no  more  for  me.  (99)  Thh  was  classical 
ground  for  Burns.  He  viewed  * the  highest 
hill  which  rises  o’er  the  source  of  Dee ; * 
and  would  have  staid  till f the  passing  spirit  * 
had  appeared,  had  we  not  resolved  to  reach 
Kennure  that  night.  We  arrived  as  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Gordon  (100)  were  sitting  down 
to  supper. 

“ Here  is  a genuine  baron’a  seat.  The 
castle,  an  old  building,  stands  on  a large 
natural  moat.  In  front,  the  river  Ken 
winds  for  several  miles  through  the  most 
fertile  and  beautiful  holm  (101),  till  it  ex- 
pands into  a lake  twelve  miles  long,  the 
banks  of  which,  on  the  south,  present  a fine 
and  soft  landscape  of  green  knolls,  natural 
wood,  and  here  and  there  a grey  rock.  On 
the  north,  the  aspect  is  great,  wild,  and,  I 
may  say,  tremendous.  In  short,  I can 
scarcely  conceive  a scene  more  terribly  ro- 
mantic than  the  castle  of  Kenmure.  Burns 
thinks  so  highly  of  it,  that  he  meditates  a 
description  of  it  in  poetry.  Indeed,  1 be- 
lieve lie  has  begun  the  work.  We  spent 
three  days  with  Mr.  Gordon,  whose  polished 
hospitality  is  of  an  original  and  endearing 


ST.  MARTS  ISLE. 


5? 


kind.  Mrs.  Gordon’s  lap-dog,  Echo,  was 
dead.  She  would  have  an  epitaph  for  him. 
Several  had  been  made.  Burns  was  asked 
for  one.  This  was  setting  Hercules  to  his 
distaff.  He  disliked  the  subject;  but,  to 
please  the  lady,  he  would  try.  Here  is 
what  he  produced : — 

‘In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng, 
Your  heavy  loss  deplore  ! 

Now  half  extinct  your  powers  of  song, 
Sweet  Echo  is  no  more. 

Ye  jarring  screeching  things  around, 
Scream  your  discordant  joys  ! 

Now  half  your  din  of  tuneless  song 
With  Echo  silent  lies.’ 

"We  left  Kenmure,  and  went  to  Gate- 
house. I took  him  the  moor-road,  where 
savage  and  desolate  regions  extended  wide 
around.  The  sky  was  sympathetic  with  the 
wretchedness  of  the  soil ; it  became  lower- 
ing and  dark.  The  hollow  winds  sighed,  the 
lightnings  gleamed,  the  thunder  rolled.  The 
poet  enjoyed  the  awful  scene  ; he  spoke  not 
a word,  but  seemed  rapt  in  meditation.  In 
a little  while  the  rain  began  to  fall ; it  poured 
in  floods  upon  us.  For  three  hours  did  the 
wild  elements  rumble  their  belly  full  upon 
our  defenceless  heads.  Oh  ! oh ! ’twas  foul. 
We  got  utterly  wet ; and,  to  revenge  our- 
selves, Burns  insisted  at  Gatehouse  on  our 
getting  utterly  drunk. 

" From  Gatehouse,  we  went  next  day  to 
Kirkcudbright,  through  a fine  country.  But 
here  I must  tell  you  that  Burns  had  got  a 
pair  of  jemmy  boots  for  the  journey,  which 
had  been  thoroughly  wet,  and  which  had 
been  dried  in  such  manner  that  it  was  not 
possible  to  get  them  on  again.  The  brawny 
poet  tried  force,  and  tore  them  to  shreds. 
A whiffling  vexation  of  this  sort  is  more 
trying  to  the  temper  than  a serious  calamity. 
We  were  going  to  Saint  Mary’s  Isle,  the 
seat  of  the  Earl  of  Selkirk,  and  the  forlorn 
Burns  was  discomfited  at  the  thought  of  his 
ruined  boots.  A sick  stomach,  and  a head- 
ache, lent  their  aid,  and  the  man  of  verse 
was  quite  accable.  I attempted  to  reason 
with  him.  Mercy  on  us,  how  he  did  fume 
and  rage  ! Nothing  could  reinstate  him  in 
temper.  I tried  various  expedients,  and  at 
last  hit  on  one  that  succeeded.  I showed 
him  the  house  of  * * * * , across  the 

bay  of  Wigton.  Against  * * * * , with 

whom  he  was  offended,  he  expectorated  his 
spleen,  and  regained  a most  agreeable  tem- 
per. He  was  in  a most  epigrammatic 
humour  indeed ! He  afterwards  fell  on 
humbler  game  There  is  one  * * * * * 
whom  he  does  not  love.  He  had  a passing 
blow  at  him. 


‘ When , deceased  to  the  devil  went 

down,  [own  crown? 

’Twas  nothing  would  serve  him  but  Satan’s 
Thy  fool’s  head,  quoth  Satan,  that  crown  sh  ill 
wear  never,  [clever.* 

I grant  thou’rt  as  wicked,  but  not  quite  so 

"Well,  I am  to  bring  you  to  Kirkcudbright 
along  with  our  poet,  without  boots.  I 
carried  the  torn  ruins  across  my  saddle  in 
spite  of  his  fulminations,  *and  in  contempt 
of  appearances;  and  what  is  more.  Lord 
Selkirk  (102)  carried  them  in  his  coach  to 
Dumfries.  He  insisted  they  were  worth 
mending. 

"We  reached  Kirkcudbright  about  one 
o’clock.  I had  promised  that  we  should 
dine  with  one  of  the  first  men  in  our 
country,  J.  Dalzell.  But  Burns  was  in  a 
wild  and  obstreperous  humour,  and  swore 
he  would  not  dine  where  he  should  be  under 
the  smallest  restraint.  We  prevailed,  there- 
fore, on  Mr.  Dalzell  to  dine  with  us  in  the 
inn,  and  had  a very  agreeable  party.  In  the 
evening  we  set  out  for  St.  Mary’s  Isle. 
Robert  had  not  absolutely  regained  the 
milkiness  of  good  temper,  and  it  occurred 
once  or  twice  to  him,  as  he  rode  along,  that 
St.  Mary’s  Isle  was  the  seat  of  a Lord ; yet 
that  Lord  was  not  an  aristocrat,  at  least  in 
his  sense  of  the  word.  We  arrived  about 
eight  o’clock,  as  the  family  were  at  tea  and 
coifee.  St.  Mary’s  Isle  is  one  of  the  most 
delightful  places  that  can,  in  my  opinion 
be  formed  by  the  assemblage  of  every  soft, 
but  not  tame  object,  which  constitutes 
natural  and  cultivated  beauty.  But  not  to 
dwell  on  its  external  graces,  let  me  tell  you 
that  we  found  all  the  ladies  of  the  family 
(all  beautiful)  at  home,  and  some  strangers ; 
and,  among  others,  who  but  Urbani ! The 
Italian  sang  us  many  Scottish  songs,  accom- 
panied with  instrumental  music.  The  two 
young  ladies  of  Selkirk  sang  also.  We  had 
the  song  of  Lord  Gregory,  which  I asked 
for,  to  have  an  opportunity  of  calling  on 
Burns  to  recite  his  ballad  to  that  tune.  He 
did  recite  it ; and  such  was  the  effect,  that 
a dead  silence  ensued.  It  was  such  a silence 
as  a mind  of  feeling  naturally  preserves 
when  it  is  touched  with  that  enthusiasm 
which  banishes  every  other  thought  but  the 
contemplation  and  indulgence  of  the  sym- 
pathy produced.  Burns’s  Lord  Gregory  is, 
in  my  opinion,  a most  beautiful  and  affect- 
ing ballad.  The  fastidious  critic  may  per- 
haps say,  some  of  the  sentiments  and 
imagery  are  of  too  elevated  a kind  for  such 
a style  of  composition ; for  instance,  ‘ Thou 
bolt  of  Heaven  that  ppsest  by;  ’ and,  * Ye 
mustering  thunder/  &b. ; but  this  is  a ci>ld 


5S 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


blooded  objection,  which  will  be  said  rather 
than  felt, 

"We  enjoyed  a most  happy  evening  at 
Lord  Selkirk’s.  We  had,  in  every  sense  of 
the  word,  a feast,  in  which  our  minds  and 
our  senses  were  equally  gratified.  The  poet 
was  delighted  with  his  company,  and  ac- 
quitted himself  to  admiration.  The  lion 
that  had  raged  so  violently  in  the  morning, 
was  now  as  mil(j  and  gentle  as  a lamb. 
Next  day  we  returned  to  Dumfries,  and  so 
ends  our  peregrination.  I told  you  that,  in 
the  midst  of  the  storm,  on  the  wilds  of 
Kenmure,  Burns  was  wrapt  in  meditation. 
What  do  you  think  he  was  about  ? He  was 
charging  the  English  army,  along  with 
Bruce,  at  Bannockburn.  He  was  engaged 
in  the  same  manner  on  our  ride  home 
from  St.  Mary’s  Isle,  and  I did  not  disturb 
him.  Next  day  he  produced  me  the  folio  w- 
ing  address  of  Bruce  to  his  troops,  and 
gave  me  a copy  for  Balzell : — 

‘Scots  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled,’  &c.  (103)” 

Burns  had  entertained  hopes  of  promo- 
tion in  the  Excise ; but  circumstances  oc- 
curred which  retarded  their  fulfilment,  and 
which,  in  his  own  mind,  destroyed  all  ex- 
pectation of  their  being  ever  fulfilled.  The 
extraordinary  events  which  ushered  in  the 
revolution  of  France,  interested  the  feelings, 
and  excited  the  hopes  of  men  in  every 
corner  of  Europe.  Prejudice  and  tyranny 
6eemed  about  to  disappear  from  among 
men,  and  the  day-star  of  reason  to  rise 
upon  a benighted  world.  In  the  dawn  of 
this  beautiful  morning,  the  genius  of  French 
freedom  appeared  on  our  southern  horizon 
with  the  countenance  of  an  angel,  but 
speedily  assumed  the  features  of  a demon, 
and  vanished  in  a shower  of  blood. 

Though  previously  a Jacobite  and  a 
cavalier.  Burns  had  shared  in  the  original 
hopes  entertained  of  this  astonishing 
revolution  by  ardent  and  benevolent  minds. 
The  novelty  and  the  hazard  of  the  attempt 
meditated  by  the  First,  or  Constituent 
Assembly,  served  rather,  it  is  probable,  to 
recommend  it  to  his  daring  temper ; and  the 
unfettered  scope  proposed  to  be  given  to 
every  kind  of  talent,  was  doubtless  gratify- 
ing to  the  feelings  of  conscious  but  in- 
dignant genius.  Burns  foresaw  not  the 
mighty  ruin  that  was  to  be  the  im- 
mediate consequence  of  an  enterprise,  which, 
on  its  commencement  promised  so  much 
happiness  to  the  human  race.  And  even 
after  the  career  of  guilt  and  of  blood  com- 
menced, he  could  not  immediately,  it  may 
oe  presumed,  withdraw  his  partial  fcaze 


from  a people  who  had  so  lately  breathed 
the  sentiments  of  universal  peace  and 
benignity,  or  obliterate  in  his  bosom  the 
pictures  of  hope  and  of  happiness  to  which 
those  sentiments  had  given  birth.  Under 
these  impressions,  he  did  not  always  cor*, 
duct  himself  with  the  circumspection  ar.d 
prudence  which  his  dependent  situation 
seemed  to  demand.  He  engaged,  indeed, 
in  no  popular  associations,  so  common  at 
the  time  of  which  we  speak ; but  in  com- 
pany he  did  not  conceal  his  opinions  of 
public  measures,  or  of  the  reforms  required 
in  the  practice  of  our  government;  and 
sometimes,  in  his  social  and  unguarded 
moments,  he  uttered  them  with  a wild  and 
unjustifiable  vehemence.  Information  of 
this  was  given  to  the  Board  of  Excise,  with 
the  exaggerations  so  general  in  such  cases. 
A superior  officer  in  that  department  was 
authorized  to  inquire  into  his  conduct. 
Burns  defended  himself  in  a letter  ad- 
dressed to  one  of  the  board  [Mr.  Graham 
of  Fintry],  written  with  great  independence 
of  spirit,  and  with  more  than  his  accustomed 
eloquence.  The  officer  appointed  to  inquire 
into  his  conduct  gave  a favourable  re- 
port. (104)  His  steady  friend,  Mr.  Graham 
of  Fintry,  interposed  his  good  offices  in  his 
behalf;  and  the  imprudent  gauger  was 
suffered  to  retain  his  situation,  but  given  to 
understand  that  his  promotion  was  deferred, 
and  must  depend  on  his  future  behaviour. 

This  circumstance  made  a deep  impres- 
sion on  the  mind  of.  Burns.  Fame  ex- 
aggerated his  misconduct,  and  represented 
him  as  actually  dismissed  from  his  office; 
and  this  report  induced  a gentleman  of 
much  respectability  [Mr.  Erskine  of  Marr] 
to  propose  a subscription  in  his  favour. 
The  offer  was  refused  by  our  poet  in  a 
letter  of  great  elevation  of  sentiment,  in 
which  he  gives  an  account  of  the  whole  of 
this  transaction,  and  defends  himself  from 
the  imputation  of  disloyal  sentiments  on 
the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other,  from  the 
charge  of  having  made  submissions  for  the 
sake  of  his  office  unworthy  of  his  character. 

" The  partiality  of  my  countrymen,”  he 
observes,  "has  brought  me  forward  as  a 
man  of  genius,  and  has  given  me  a character 
to  support.  In  the  poet  I have  avowed 
manly  and  independent  sentiments,  which  I 
hope  have  been  found  in  the  man.  Reasons 
of  no  less  weight  than  the  support  of  a wife 
and  children,  have  pointed  out  my  present 
occupation  as  the  only  eligible  line  of  life 
within  my  reach.  Still  mj  honest  fame  is 
my  dearest  concern,  and  a thousand  times 
have  I trembled  at  the  idea  of  the  degrading 


BURNS’S  POLITICS. 


epithets  that  malice  or  misrepresentation 
may  affix  to  my  name.  Often  in  blasting 
anticipation  have  I listened  to  some  future 
hackney  scribbler,  with  the  heavy  malice  of 
savage  stupidity,  exultingly  asserting  that 
Burns,  notwithstanding  the  fanfaronade  of 
independence  to  be  found  in  his  works,  and 
after  having  been  held  up  to  public  view, 
and  to  public  estimation,  as  a man  of  some 
genius,  yet,  quite  destitute  of  resources 
within  himself  to  support  his  borrowed 
dignity,  dwindled  into  a paltry  exciseman, 
and  slunk  out  the  rest  of  his  insignificant 
existence  in  the  meanest  of  pursuits,  and 
among  the  lowest  of  mankind. 

“ In  your  illustrious  hands,  Sir,  permit  me 
to  lodge  my  strong  disavowal  and  defiance 
of  such  slanderous  falsehoods.  Burns  was 
a poor  man  from  his  birth,  and  an  exciseman 
by  necessity ; but — I will  say  it ! the 
sterling  of  his  honest  worth  poverty  could 
not  debase,  and  his  independent  British 
spirit  oppression  might  bend,  but  could  not 
subdue.” 

It  was  one  of  the  last  acts  of  his  life  to 
copy  this  letter  into  his  book  of  manuscripts, 
accompanied  by  some  additional  remarks  on 
the  same  subject.  It  is  not  surprising,  that 
at  a season  of  universal  alarm  for  the 
safety  of  the  constitution,  the  indiscreet 
expressions  of  a man  so  powerful  as  Burns 
should  have  attracted  notice.  The  times 
certainly  required  extraordinary  vigilance  in 
those  entrusted  with  the  administration  of 
the  government,  and  to  ensure  the  safety  of 
the  constitution  was  doubtless  their  first 
duty.  Yet  generous  minds  will  lament 
that  their  measures  of  precaution  should 
have  robbed  the  imagination  of  our  poet 
of  the  last  prop  on  which  his  hopes  of 
independence  rested;  and  by  embittering 
his  peace,  have  aggravated  those  excesses 
which  were  soon  to  conduct  him  to  an 
untimely  grave.  (105) 

Though  the  vehemence  of  Burns’s  temper, 
increased  as  it  often  was  by  stimulating 
liquors,  might  lead  him  into  many  improper 
and  unguarded  expressions,  there  seems  no 
reason  to  doubt  of  his  attachment  to  our 
mixed  form  of  government.  In  his  common- 
place book,  where  he  could  have  no  tempta- 
tion to  disguise,  are  the  following  senti- 
ments : — "‘Whatever  might  be  my  sentiments 
of  republics,  ancient  or  modern,  as  to 
Britain,  I ever  abjured  the  idea.  A con- 
stitution, which,  in  its  original  principles, 
experience  has  proved  to  be  every  way  fitted 
for  our  happiness,  it  would  be  insanity  to 
abandon  for  an  untried  visionary  theory.” 
\n  conformity  to  these  sentiments,  when 


the  pressing  nature  of  public  affairs  called, 
in  1795,  for  a general  arming  of  the  people. 
Burns  appeared  in  the  ranks  of  the  Dumfries 
volunteers,  and  employed  his  poetical  talents 
in  stimulating  their  patriotism  (106) ; and 
at  this  season  of  alarm,  he  brought  forward 
the  following  hymn,  worthy  of  the  Grecian 
Muse,  when  Greece  was  most  conspicuous 
for  genius  and  valour  : — 

Scene— A field  of  battle— Time  of  the  day, 
evening— The  wounded  and  dying  of  the 
victorious  army  are  supposed  to  join  in  tbs 
following  song : — 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth  and 
ye  skies, 

Now  gay  with  the  bright  settingsun  ! 
Farewell  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear 
tender  ties, 

Our  race  of  existence  is  run  ! 

Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  thou  life’s  gloomy 
foe, 

Go,  frighten  the  coward  and  slave ; [know, 
Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant ! but 
No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave  ! 

Thou  strik’st  the  dull  peasant,  he  sinks  in  th6 
dark, 

Nor  saves  e’en  the  wreck  of  a name  ; 

Thou  strik’st  the  young  hero— a glorious 
mark  ! 

He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame  ! 

In  the  field  of  proud  honour — our  swords  in 
our  hands, 

Our  king  and  our  country  to  save — [sands, 
While  victory  shines  on  life’s  last  ebbing 
Oh ! who  would  not  rest  with  the 
brave!  (107) 

Though  by  nature  of  an  athletic  form. 
Burns  had  in  his  constitution  the  pecu- 
liarities and  the  delicacies  that  belong  to 
the  temperament  of  genius.  He  was  liable, 
from  a very  early  period  of  life,  to  that 
interruption  in  the  process  of  digestion, 
which  arises  from  deep  and  anxious  thought, 
and  which  is  sometimes  the  effect,  and 
sometimes  the  cause,  of  depression  of 
spirits.  Connected  with  this  disorder  of  the 
stomach,  there  was  a disposition  to  head- 
ache, affecting  more  especially  the  temples 
and  eye-balls,  and  frequently  accompanied 
by  violent  and  irregular  movements  of  the 
heart.  Endowed  by  nature  with  great 
sensibility  of  nerves,  Burns  was,  in  his  cor- 
poreal, as  well  as  in  his  mental  system, 
liable  to  inordinate  impressions — to  fever 
of  body  as  well  as  of  mind.  This  pre- 
disposition to  disease,  which  strict  tempe- 
rance in  diet,  regular  exercise,  and  sound 
sleep,  might  have  subdued,  habits  of  a very 
different  nature  strengthened  and  inflamed. 
Perpetually  stimulated  by  alcohol  in  one  or 
other  of  its  various  forms,  the  inordinate 
actions  of  the  circulating  system  became  at 
length  habitual;  the  process  of  nutrition 


60 


LITE  OE  BURN'S. 


was  unable  to  supply  the  waste,  and  the 
powers  of  life  began  to  fail.  Upwards  of  a 
year  before  his  death,  there  was  an  evident 
decline  in  our  poet’s  personal  appearance, 
end  though  his  appetite  continued  unim- 
paired, he  was  himself  sensible  that  his 
constitution  was  sinking.  In  his  moments 
of  thought  he  reflected  with  the  deepest 
regret  on  his  fatal  progress,  clearly  foresee- 
ing the  goal  towards  which  he  was  hastening, 
without  the  strength  of  mind  necessary  to 
stop,  or  even  to  slacken  his  course.  His 
temper  now  became  more  irritable  and 
gloomy;  he  fled  from  himself  into  society, 
often  of  the  lowest  kind.  And  in  such 
company,  that  part  of  the  convivial  scene  in 
which  wine  increases  sensibility  and  excites 
benevolence,  was  hurried  over,  to  reach  the 
succeeding  part,  over  which  uncontrolled 
passion  generally  presided.  He  who  suffers 
the  pollution  of  inebriation,  how  shall  he 
escape  other  pollution  ? But  let  us  refrain 
from  the  mention  of  errors  over  which 
delicacy  and  humanity  draw  the  veil. 

[A  similar  view  of  the  latter  days  of 
Burns  is  taken  bv  his  biographers,  Heron, 
Irving,  Walker,  and,  in  general,  by  all  who 
wrote  soon  after  his  death.  Mr.  Lockhart, 
supported  by  attestations  from  Gilbert 
Burns,  James  Gray,  then  rector  of  the 
grammar-school  of  Dumfries,  and  Mr.  Find- 
later,  the  poet’s  superior  officer,  gives  a 
more  favourable  representation.  The  letter 
of  Gray  presents  so  interesting  a picture  of 
Burns  in  all  respects,  that  we  cannot  resist 
the  temptation  to  connect  it  with  the  text 
of  Currie : — 

“ I love  Dr.  Currie,  but  I love  the  memory 
Df  Burns  more,  and  no  consideration  shall 
deter  me  from  a bold  declaration  of  the 
truth.  The  poet  of  the  Cotter’s  Saturday 
Night,  who  felt  all  the  charms  of  the 
humble  piety  and  virtue  which  he  sang,  is 
charged  (in  Dr.  Currie’s  narrative)  with 
Vices  which  would  reduce  him  to  a level 
with  the  most  degraded  of  his  species.  As 
1 knew  him  during  that  period  of  his  life 
emphatically  called  his  evil  days,  I am 
enabled  to  speak  from  my  own  observation. 
It  is  not  my  intention  to  extenuate  hi3 
errors,  because  they  were  combined  with 
genius ; on  that  account,  they  were  only 
the  more  dangerous,  because  the  more 
led  active,  and  deserve  the  more  severe  re- 
prehension ; but  I shall  likewise  claim  that 
nothing  may  be  said  in  malice  even  against 
him It  came  under  my  own  view  pro- 

fessionally, that  he  superintended  the  educa- 
tion of  his  children  with  a degree  of  care 
♦hat  / have  never  seen  surpassed  by  any 


parent  in  any  rank  of  life  whatever.  In 
the  bosom  of  his  family  he  spent  many  a 
delightful  hour  in  directing  the  studies  of 
his  eldest  son,  a boy  of  uncommon  talenta. 
I have  frequently  found  him  explaining  to 
this  youth,  then  not  more  than  nine  years 
of  age,  the  English  poets,  from  Shakspeare 
to  Gray,  or  storing  his  mind  with  examples 
of  heroic  virtue,  as  they  live  in  the  pages  of 
our  most  celebrated  English  historians.  I 
would  ask  any  person  of  common  candour, 
if  employments  like  these  are  consistent 
with  habitual  drunkenness  ? It  is  not  denied 
that  he  sometimes  mingled  with  society 
unworthy  of  him.  He  was  of  a social  and 
convivial  nature.  He  was  courted  by  all 
classes  of  men  for  the  fascinating  powers  of 
his  conversation,  but  over  his  social  scene 
uncontrolled  passion  never  presided.  Over 
the  social  bowl,  his  wit  flashed  for  hours 
together,  penetrating  whatever  it  struck, 
like  the  fire  from  heaven ; but  even  in  the 
hour  of  thoughtless  gaiety  and  merriment, 
I never  knew  it  tainted  by  indecency.  It 
was  playful  or  caustic  by  turns,  following  an 
allusion  through  all  its  windings ; astonish- 
ing by  its  rapidity,  or  amusing  by  its  wild 
originality,  and  grotesque,  yet  natural  com- 
binations, but  never,  within  my  observation, 
disgusting  by  its  grossness.  In  his  morning 
hours,  I never  saw  him  like  one  suffering 
from  the  effects  of  last  night’s  intemperance. 
He  appeared  then  clear  and  unclouded.  He 
was  the  eloquent  advocate  of  humanity, 
justice,  and  political  freedom.  From  hia 
paintings,  virtue  appeared  more  lovely,  and 
piety  assumed  a more  celestial  mien.  While 
his  keen  eye  was  pregnant  with  fancy  and 
feeling,  and  his  voice  attuned  to  the  very 
passion  which  he  wished  to  communicate,  it 
would  hardly  have  been  possible  to  conceive 
z.ny  being  more  interesting  and  delightful. 
I may  likewise  add,  that,  to  the  very  end  of 
his  life,  reading  was  his  favourite  amuse- 
ment. I have  never  known  any  man  so 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  elegant 
English  authors.  He  seemed  to  have  the 
poets  by  heart.  The  prose  authors  he  could 
quote  either  in  their  own  words,  or  clothe 
their  ideas  in  language  more  beautiful  than 
their  own.  Nor  was  there  ever  any  decay 
in  any  of  the  powers  of  his  mind.  To  the 
last  day  of  his  life,  his  judgment,  his 
memory,  his  imagination,  were  fresh  and 
vigorous  as  when  he  composed  the  Cotter’.. 
Saturday  Night.  The  truth  is,  tilt  Burni 
was  seldom  intoxicated,  lhe  drunkard  soou 
becomes  besotted,  and  is  shunned  even  by 
the  convivial.  Had  he  been  so,  he  could 
not  long  have  continued  the  idol  of  every 


HALITS  OF  INTOXICATION. 


61 


jmrty.  It  will  be  freely  confessed,  that  the 
iiour  of  enjoyment  was  often  prolonged 
beyond  the  limit  marked  by  prudence;  but 
what  man  will  venture  to  affirm,  that  in 
situations  where  he  was  conscious  of  giving 
so  much  pleasure,  he  could  at  all  times  have 
listened  to  her  voice  ? 

“ The  men  with  whom  he  generally  asso- 
ciated were  not  of  the  lowest  order,  He 
numbered  among  his  intimate  friends  many 
of  the  most  respectable  inhabitants  of  Dum- 
fries and  the  vicinity.  Several  of  those  were 
attached  to  him  by  ties  that  th  e hand  of  the 
calumny,  busy  as  it  was,  could  never  snap 
asunder.  They  admired  the  poet  for  his 
genius,  and  loved  the  man  for  the  candour, 
generosity,  and  kindness  of  his  nature.  His 
early  friends  clung  to  him  through  good  and 
bad  report,  with  a zeal  and  fidelity  that 
prove  their  disbelief  of  the  malicious  stories 
circulated  to  his  disadvantage.  Among  them 
were  some  of  the  most  distinguished  charac- 
ters in  this  country,  and  not  a few  females 
eminent  for  delicacy,  taste,  and  genius.  They 
were  proud  of  his  friendship,  and  cherished 
him  to  the  last  moment  of  his  existence. 
He  was  endeared  to  them  even  by  his  mis- 
fortunes, and  they  still  retain  for  his  memory 
that  affectionate  veneration  which  virtue 
alone  inspires.” 

In  the  midst  of  all  his  wanderings,  Burns 
met  nothing  in  his  domestic  circle  but  gen- 
tleness and  forgiveness,  except  in  the  gnaw- 
ings of  his  own  remorse.  He  acknowledged 
his  transgressions  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom, 
promised  amendment,  and  again  and  again 
received  pardon  for  his  offences.  But  as 
the  strength  of  his  body  decayed,  his  resolu- 
tion became  feebler,  and  habit  acquired  pre- 
dominating strength. 

From  October  1795  to  the  January  follow- 
ing, an  accidental  complaint  confined  him  to 
the  house.  A few  days  after  he  began  to  go 
abroad,  he  dined  at  a tavern,  and  returned 
home  about  three  o’clock  in  a very  cold 
morning,  benumbed  and  intoxicated.  (108) 
This  was  followed  by  an  attack  of  rheuma- 
tism, which  confined  him  about  a week.  His 
appetite  now  began  to  fail ; his  hand  shook, 
and  his  voice  faltered  on  any  exertion  or 
emotion.  His  pulse  became  weaker  and 
more  rapid,  and  pain  in  the  larger  joints,  and 
in  the  hands  and  feet,  deprived  him  of  the 
enjoyment  of  refreshing  sleep.  Too  much 
dejected  in  his  spirits,  and  too  well  aware  of 
his  real  situation  to  entertain  hopes  of  re- 
covery, he  was  ever  musing  on  the  approach- 
ing desolation  of  his  family,  and  his  spirits 
Milk  into  a uniform  gloom. 

It  was  hoped  by  some  of  his  friends,  that 


if  he  could  live  through  the  norths  of 
spring,  the  succeeding  season  might  resto.re 
him.  But  they  were  disappointed.  The 
genial  beams  of  the  sun  infused  no  vigour 
into  his  languid  frame;  the  summer  wind 
blew  upon  him,  but  produced  no  refreshment. 
About  the  latter  end  of  June  he  was  advised 
to  go  into  the  country;  and  impatient  of 
medical  advice,  as  w ell  as  of  every  species  of 
control,  he  determined  for  himself  to  try  the 
effects  of  bathing  in  the  sea.  For  this  pur- 
pose he  took  up  his  residence  at  Brow,  in 
Annandale,  about  ten  miles  east  of  Dum- 
fries, on  the  shore  of  the  Solway  Firth. 

It  happened  that  at  that  time  a lady  with 
whom  he  had  been  connected  in  friendship 
by  the  sympathies  of  kindred  genius,  was 
residing  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood. 
(109)  Being  informed  of  his  arrival,  she  in- 
vited him  to  dinner,  and  sent  her  carriage 
for  him  to  the  cottage  where  he  lodged,  as 
he  was  unable  to  w7alk.  “I  was  struck,’* 
says  this  lady  (in  a confidential  letter  to  a 
friend  written  soon  after),  “ with  his  appear- 
ance on  entering  the  room.  The  stamp  of 
death  was  imprinted  on  his  features.  He 
seemed  already  touching  the  brink  of  eternity. 
His  first  salutation  was,  ‘Well,  madam,  have 
you  any  commands  for  the  other  world?  ’ 1 
replied,  that  it  seemed  a doubtful  case  which 
of  us  should  be  there  sopnest,  and  that  I 
hoped  he  wrould  yet  live  to  write  my  epitaph. 
(I  was  then  in  a bad  state  of  health.)  He 
looked  in  my  face  with  an  air  of  great  kind 
ness,  and  expressed  his  concern  at  seeing  me 
look  so  ill,  with  his  accustomed  sensibility. 
At  table  he  ate  little  or  nothing,  and  he  com- 
plained of  having  entirely  lost  the  tone  of 
his  stomach.  We  had  a long  and  serious 
conversation  about  his  present  situation,  and 
the  approaching  termination  of  all  his  earthly 
prospects.  He  spoke  of  his  death  without 
any  of  the  ostentation  of  philosophy,  but 
with  firmness  as  well  as  feeling,  as  an  event 
likely  to  happen  very  soon,  and  which  gave 
him  concern  chiefly  from  leaving  his  four 
children  so  young  and  unprotected,  and  hi# 
wife  in  so  interesting  a situation — in  hourly 
expectation  of  lying  in  of  a fifth.  He  men- 
tioned, with  seeming  pride  and  satisfaction, 
the  promising  genius  of  his  eldest  son,  and 
the  flattering  marks  of  approbation  he  had 
received  from  his  teachers,  and  dwTelt  par- 
ticularly on  his  hopes  of  that  boy’s  future 
conduct  and  merit.  His  anxiety  for  his 
family  seemed  to  hang  heavy  upon  him,  and 
the  more  perhaps  from  the  reflection  that  he 
had  not  done  them  all  the  justice  he  was  so 
well  qualified  to  do.  Passing  from  this  sub- 
ject, he  showed  great  concern  about  the  cart 


'62 


LIFE  OF  BUBNS. 


of  iiis  literary  fame,  and  particularly  the 
publication  of  his  posthumous  works.  He 
said  he  was  well  aware  that  his  death  would 
occasion  some  noise,  and  that  every  scrap  of 
his  writing  would  be  revived  against  him  to 
the  injury  of  his  future  reputation;  that 
letters  and  verses  written  with  unguarded 
and  improper  freedom, and  which  he  earnestly 
wished  to  have  buried  in  oblivion,  would  be 
handed  about  by  idle  vanity  or  malevolence, 
when  no  dread  of  his  resentment  would  re- 
strain them,  or  prevent  the  censures  of  shrill- 
tongued  malice,  or  the  insidious  sarcasms  of 
envy,  from  pouring  forth  all  their  venom  to 
blast  his  fame. 

“ He  lamented  that  he  had  written  many 
epigrams  on  persons  against  whom  he  enter- 
tained no  enmity,  and  whose  characters  he 
should  be  sorry  to  wound;  and  many  in- 
different poetical  pieces,  which  he  feared 
would  now,  with  all  their  imperfections  on 
their  head,  be  thrust  upon  the  world.  On 
this  account  he  deeply  regretted  having  de- 
ferred to  put  his  papers  in  a state  of  arrange- 
ment, as  he  was  now  quite  incapable  of  the 
exertion.”  The  lady  goes  on  to  mention 
many  other  topics  of  a private  nature  on 
which  he  spoke.  “The  conversation,”  she 
adds,  “ was  kept  up  with  great  evenness  and 
animation  on  his  side.  1 had  seldom  seen 
his  mind  greater  or  more  collected.  There 
was  frequently  a considerable  degree  of  viva- 
city in  his  sallies,  and  they  would  probably 
have  had  a greater  share,  had  not  the  con- 
cern and  dejection  I could  not  disguise 
damped  the  spirit  of  pleasantry  he  seemed 
not  unwilling  to  indulge. 

“We  parted  about  sunset  on  the  evening 
of  that  day  (the  5tli  of  July  1796) : the  next 
day  I saw  him  again,  and  we  parted  to  meet 
no  more ! ” 

At  first  Burns  imagined  bathing  in  the 
sea  had  been  of  benefit  to  him  : the  pains  in 
his  limbs  were  relieved;  but  this  was  imme- 
diately followed  by  a new  attack  of  fever. 
When  brought  back  to  his  own  house  in 
Dumfries,  on  the  18th  of  July,  he  was  no 
longer  able  to  stand  upright.  At  this  time 
a tremor  pervaded  his  frame : his  tongue  was 
parched,  and  his  mind  sank  into  delirium, 
when  not  roused  by  conversation.  On  the 
second  and  third  day  the  fever  increased,  and 
his  strength  diminished.  On  the  fourth,  the 
sufferings  of  this  great,  but  ill-fated  genius, 
were  terminated;  and  a life  was  closed  in 
which  virtue  and  passiouhad  beenin  perpetual 
variance.  (110) 

The  death  of  Burns  made  a strong  and 
general  impression  on  all  who  had  interested 

themselves  in  his  character,  and  especially 


on  the  inhabitant®  of  fchp  town  and  county  in 
which  he  had  spent  the  latter  years  of  hii 
life.  Flagrant  as  his  follies  and  errors  had 
been,  they  had  not  deprived  him  of  the  re- 
spect and  regard  entertained  for  the  extra- 
ordinary powers  of  his  genius,  and  the 
generous  qualities  of  his  heart.  The  Gentle- 
men-Volunteers  of  Dumfries  determined  to 
bury  their  illustrious  associate  with  military 
honours,  and  every  preparation  was  made  to 
render  this  last  service  solemn  and  impressive. 
The  Fencible  Infantry  of  Angus-shire,  and 
the  regiment  of  cavalry  of  the  Cinque  Ports, 
at  that  time  quartered  in  Dumfries,  offered 
their  assistance  on  this  occasion ; the  prin- 
cipal inhabitants  of  the  town  and  neighbour- 
hood determined  to  walk  in  the  funeral 
procession ; and  a vast  concourse  of  persons 
assembled,  some  of  them  from  a considerable 
distance,  to  witness  the  obsequies  of  the 
Scottish  Bard.  On  the  evening  of  the  25th 
of  July,  the  remains  of  Burns  were  removed 
from  his  house  to  the  Town  Hall,  and  the 
funeral  took  place  on  the  succeeding  day.  A 
party  of  the  volunteers,  selected  to  perform 
the  military  duty  in  the  churchyard,  station ea 
themselves  in  the  front  of  the  procession,  with 
their  arms  reversed ; the  main  body  of  the 
corps  surrounded  and  supported  the  coffin, 
on  which  were  placed  the  hat  and  sword  of 
their  friend  and  fellow-soldier ; the  numerous 
body  of  attendants  ranged  themselves  in  the 
rear;  while  the  Fencible  regiments  of  infantry 
and  cavalry  lined  the  streets  from  the  Town 
Hall  to  the  burial  ground  in  the  southern 
churchyard,  a distance  of  more  than  half  a 
mile.  The  whole  procession  moved  forward 
to  that  sublime  and  affecting  strain  of  music, 
the  Dead  March  in  Saul ; and  three  vollies 
lired  over  his  grave  marked  the  return  of 
Burns  to  his  parent  earth!  The  spectacle 
was  in  a high  degree  grand  and  solemn,  and 
accorded  with  the  general  sentiments  of 
sympathy  and  sorrow  which  the  occasion  had 
called  forth. 

It  was  an  affecting  circumstance,  that,  on 
the  morning  of  the  day  of  her  husband’s 
funeral,  Mrs.  Burns  was  undergoing  the 
pains  of  labour ; and  that  during  the  solemn 
service  we  have  just  been  describing,  the 
posthumous  son  of  our  poet  was  born. 
This  infant  boy,  who  received  the  name  of 
Maxwell,  was  not  destined  to  a long  life. 
He  has  already  become  an  inhabitant  of  the 
same  grave  with  his  celebrated  father.  T he 
four  other  children  of  our  poet,  all  sons  (the 
eldest  at  that  time  about  ten  years  of  age), 
yet  survive,  and  give  every  promise  of  pru- 
dence and  virtue  vhat  can  be  expected  f i om 
their  tender  years.  They  remain  under  th* 


ILLNESS  AND  DEATH  OF  BURNS. 


care  of  their  affectionate  mother  in  Dum- 
fries, and  are  enjoying  the  means  of  educa- 
tion which  the  excellent  schools  of  that 
town  afford ; the  teachers  of  which,  in 
their  conduct  to  the  children  of  Burns,  do 
themselves  great  honour.  On  this  occasion 
the  name  of  Mr.  Whyte  deserves  to  be  par- 
ticularly mentioned,  himself  a poet  as  well 
as  a man  of  science.  (Ill) 

Burns  died  in  great  poverty ; but  the  in- 
dependence of  his  spirit,  and  the  exemplary 
prudence  of  his  wife,  had  preserved  him 
fnm  debt.  (112)  He  had  received  from  his 
p >ems  a clear  prolit  of  about  nine  hundred 
pounds.  Of  this  sum,  the  part  expended  on 
liis  library  (which  was  far  from  extensive) 
and  in  the  humble  furniture  of  his  house, 
remained;  and  obligations  were  found  for 
two  hundred  pounds  advanced  by  him  to  the 
assistance  of  those  to  whom  he  was  united 
by  the  ties  of  blood,  and  still  more  by  those 
of  esteem  and  affection.  When  it  is  con- 
sidered, that  his  expenses  in  Edinburgh,  and 
on  his  various  journies,  could  not  be  incon- 
siderable ; that  his  agricultural  undertaking 
was  unsuccessful ; that  his  income  from  the 
Excise  was  for  some  time  as  low  as  fifty, 
and  never  rose  to  above  seventy  pounds 
a-year ; that  his  family  was  large,  and  his 
spirit  liberal — no  one  will  be  surprised  that 
his  circumstances  were  so  poor,  or  that,  as 
his  health  decayed,  his  proud  and  feeling 
heart  sank  under  the  secret  consciousness  of 
indigence,  and  the  apprehensions  of  absolute 
want.  Yet  poverty  never  bent  the  spirit  of 
Burns  to  any  pecuniary  meanness.  Neither 
chicanery  nor  sordidness  ever  appeared  in 
his  conduct.  He  carried  his  disregard  of 
money  to  a blameable  excess.  Even  in  the 
midst  of  distress  he  bore  himself  loftily  to 
the  world,  and  received  with  a jealous  re- 
luctance every  offer  of  friendly  assistance. 
His  printed  poems  had  procured  him  great 
celebrity  and  a just  and  fair  recompense  for 
the  latter  offsprings  of  his  pen  might  have 
produced  him  considerable  emolument.  In 
the  year  1795,  the  editor  of  a London  news- 
paper, high  in  its  character  for  literature  and 
independence  of  sentiment,  made  a proposal 
to  him  that  he  should  furnish  them,  once 
a-week,  with  an  article  for  their  poetical 
department,  and  receive  from  them  a recom- 
pense of  fifty-two  guineas  per  annum;  an 
offer  which  the  pride  of  genius  disdained  to 
accept.  Yet  he  had  for  several  years  fur- 
nished, and  was  at  that  time  furnishing,  the 
Museum  of  Johnson  with  his  beautiful 
Ivncs,  without  fee  or  reward,  and  was  obsti- 
nately refusing  all  recompense  for  his  assist- 
ant to  the  greater  work  of  Mr.  Thomson, 


which  the  justice  and  generosity  of  that 
gentleman  was  pressing  upon  him. 

The  sense  of  his  poverty,  and  of  the  ap- 
proaching distress  of  his  infant  family, 
pressed  heavily  on  Bums  as  he  lay  on  the 
bed  of  death.  Yet  he  alluded  to  his  indi- 
gence, at  times,  with  something  approaching 
to  his  wonted  gaiety.  “What  business,’* 
said  he  to  Dr.  Maxwell,  who  attended  him 
with  the  utmost  zeal,  “ has  a physician  to 
waste  his  time  on  me  ? I am  a poor  pigeon 
not  worth  plucking.  Alas ! I have  not 
feathers  enough  upon  me  to  carry  me  to  my 
grave.”  And  when  his  reason  was  lost  in 
delirium,  his  ideas  ran  in  the  same  melan- 
choly train ; the  horrors  of  a jail  were  con- 
tinually present  to  his  troubled  imagination, 
and  produced  the  most  affecting  exclama- 
tions. 

As  for  some  months  previous  to  his  death 
he  had  been  incapable  of  the  duties  of  his 
office.  Burns  dreaded  that  his  salary  should 
be  reduced  one  half,  as  is  usual  in  such 
cases.  His  full  emoluments  were,  howrever, 
continued  to  him  by  the  kindness  of  Mr. 
Stobie  (113),  a young  expectant  in  the  Ex- 
cise, who  performed  the  duties  of  his  office 
without  fee  or  rew  ard  ; and  Mr.  Graham  of 
Eintry,  hearing  of  his  illness,  though  un- 
acquainted with  its  dangerous  nature,  made 
an  offer  of  his  assistance  towards  procuring 
him  the  means  of  preserving  his  health. 
Whatever  might  be  the  faults  of  Burns,  in- 
gratitude was  not  of  the  number.  Amongst 
his  manuscripts,  various  proofs  are  found  of 
the  sense  he  entertained  of  Mr.  Graham’s 
friendship,  which  delicacy  towards  that  gen- 
tleman has  induced  us  to  suppress  ; and  on 
this  last  occasion  there  is  no  doubt  that  his 
heart  overflowed  towards  him,  though  he 
had  no  longer  the  power  of  expressing  his 
feelings.  (114) 

On  the  death  of  Burns,  the  inhabitants 
of  Dumfries  and  its  neighbourhood  opened 
a subscription  for  the  support  of  his  wife 
and  family  ; and  Mr.  Miller,  Air.  M'Murdo, 
Dr.  Maxwell,  Mr.  Syne,  and  Mr.  Cunning- 
ham, gentlemen  of  the  first  respectability, 
became  trustees  for  the  application  of  the 
money  to  its  proper  objects.  The  subscript 
tion  was  extended  to  other  parts  of  Scotland, 
and  of  England  also,  particularly  London 
and  Liverpool.  By  this  means  a sum  was 
raised  amounting  to  seven  hundred  pounds; 
and  thus  the  widow  and  children  were  res* 
cued  fyom  immediate  distress,  and  the  most 
melancholy  of  the  forebodings  of  Bumf 
happily  disappointed.  It  is  true,  this  sum, 
though  equal  to  their  present  support,  is  in- 
sufficient to  seer  re  them  from  future  penury 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


to 

Their  hops  in  regard  to  futurity  depends  on 
the  favourable  reception  of  these  volumes 
from  the  public  at  large,  in  the  promoting  of 
which  the  candour  and  humanity  of  the 
reader  may  induce  him  to  lend  his  assist- 
ance. 

Burns,  as  has  already  been  mentioned, 
was  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height, tind 
of  a form  that  indicated  agility  as  well  as 
Strength.  His  well-raised  forehead,  shaded 
with  black  curling  hair,  indicated  extensive 
capacity.  His  eyes  were  large,  dark,  full  of 
ardour  and  intelligence.  His  face  was  well 
formed. ; and  his  countenance  uncommonly 
interesting  and  expressive.  His  mode  of 
dressing,  which  was  often  slovenly,  and  a 
certain  fulness  and  bend  in  his  shoulders, 
characteristic  of  his  original  profession,  dis- 
guised in  some  degree  the  natural  symmetry 
t<nd  elegance  of  his  form.  The  external 
appearance  of  Burns  was  most  strikingly 
indicative  of  the  character  of  his  mind. 
On  a first  view,  his  physiognomy  had  a cer- 
tain air  of  coarseness,  mingled,  however, 
with  an  expression  of  deep  penetration,  and 
of  calm  thoughtfulness,  approaching  to  me- 
lancholy. There  appeared  in  his  first  manner 
*nd  address,  perfect  ease  and  self-possession, 
out  a stern  and  almost  supercilious  elevation, 
not,  indeed,  incompatible  with  openness  and 
affability,  which,  however,  bespoke  a mind 
conscious  of  superior  talents.  Strangers 
that  supposed-  themselves  approaching  an 
Ayrshire  peasant  who  could  make  rhymes, 
-aid  to  whom  their  notice  was  an  honour, 
found  themselves  speedily  overawed  by  the 
presence  of  a man  who  bore  himself  with 
dignity,  and  who  possessed  a singular  power 
correcting  forwardness  and  of  repelling 
intrusion.  (115)  But  though  jealous  of  the 
'espect  due  to  himself,  Burns  never  enforced 
it  where  he  saw  h was  willingly  paid  ; and, 
though  inaccessible  to  the  approaches  of 
pride,  he  was  open  to  every  advance  of 
kindness  and  of  benevolence.  His  dark  and 
haughty  countenance  easily  relaxed  into  a 
look  of  good  will,  of  pity,  or  of  tenderness; 
and,  as  the  various  emotions  succeeded  each 
other  in  his  mind,  assumed  with  equal  ease 
the  expression  of  the  broadest  humour,  of 
the  most  extravagant  mirth,  cf  the  deepest 
melancholy,  or  of  the  most  9unlime  emotion. 
The  tones  of  his  voice  happily  corresponded 
with  the  expression  of  his  features,  and  with 
the  feelings  of  his  mind.  When  to  these 
endowments  are  added  a rapid  and  distinct 
apprehension,  a most  powerful  understand-  | 
ing,  and  a happy  command  of  language — of 
•length  as  well  as  brilliancy  of  expression — 
for  the  extraor-  I 


dinary  attractions  of  hi3  conversation — fol 
the  sorcery  which  in  his  social  parties  he 
seemed  to  exert  on  all  around  him.  In  the 
company  of  women  this  sorcery  was  more 
especially  apparent.  Their  presence  charmed 
the  fiend  of  melancholy  in  his  bosom,  and 
awoke  his  happiest  feelings ; it  excited  the 
powers  of  his  fancy,  as  well  as  the  tenderness 
of  his  heart ; and,  by  restraining  the  vehe- 
mence and  exuberance  of  hi3  language,  at 
times  gave  to  his  manners  the  impression  of 
taste,  and  even  of  elegance,  which  in  the 
company  of  men  they  seldom  possessed. 
This  influence  was  doubtless  reciprocal.  A 
Scottish  lady  accustomed  to  the  best  society, 
declared  with  characteristic  naivete,  that  no 
man’s  conversation  ever  carried  her  so  com - 
pletely  off  her  feet  as  that  of  Burns ; and 
an  English  lady,  familiarly  acquainted  with 
several  of  the  most  distinguished  character# 
of  the  present  times,  assured  the  editor,  that 
in  the  happiest  of  his  social  hours,  there  was 
a charm  about  Burns  which  she  had  never 
seen  equalled.  This  charm  arose  not  more 
from  the  power  than  the  versatility  of  his 
genius.  No  languor  could  be  felt  in  the 
society  of  a man  who  passed  at  pleasure 
from  grave  to  gay,  from  the  ludicrous  to 
the  pathetic,  from  the  simple  to  the  sub- 
lime; who  wielded  all  his  faculties  with 
equal  strength  and  ease,  and  never  failed  to 
impress  the  offspring  of  his  fancy  with  the 
stamp  of  his  understanding. 

This,  indeed,  is  to  represent  Burns  in  his 
happiest  phasis.  In  large  and  mixed  parties 
he  was  often  silent  and  dark,  sometimes 
fierce  and  overbearing;  he  was  jealous  of 
the  proud  man’s  scorn,  jealous  to  an  extreme 
of  the  insolence  of  wealth,  and  prone  to 
avenge,  even  on  its  innocent  possessor,  the 
partiality  of  fortune.  By  nature  kind,  brave, 
sincere,  and  in  a singular  degree  compas- 
sionate, he  was  on  the  other  hand  proud, 
irascible,  and  vindictive.  His  virtues  and  his 
failings  had  their  origin  in  the  extraordinary 
sensibility  of  his  mind,  and  equally  partook 
of  the  chills  and  glows  of  sentiment.  His 
friendships  were  liable  to  interruption  from 
jealousy  or  disgust,  and  his  enmities  died 
away  under  the  influence  of  pity  or  self- 
accusation. His  understanding  was  equal 
to  the  other  powers  of  his  mind,  and  his 
deliberate  opinions  were  singularly  candid 
and  just ; but,  like  other  men  of  great  and 
irregular  genius,  the  opinions  which  he  de- 
livered in  conversation  were  ofren  the 
| offspring  of  temporary  feelings,  and  widely 
different  from  the  calm  decisions  of  his 
judgment.  This  was  not  merely  true  re- 
I spec  ting  the  characters  of  others  but  in 


CB  IB  ACT  ERISTICS  OF  BURNS. 


regard  to  some  of  the  most  important  points 
c*f  human  speculation. 

On  no  subject  did  he  give  a more  striking 
proof  of  the  strength  of  his  understanding, 
than  in  the  correct  estimate  he  formed  of 
himself.  He  knew  his  own  failings;  he 
predicted  their  consequence  ; the  melancholy 
foreboding  was  never  long  absent  from  his 
mind;  yet  his  passions  carried  him  down 
the  stream  of  error,  and  swept  him  over  the 
precipice  he  saw  directly  in  his  course.  The 
fatal  defect  in  his  character  lay  in  the 
comparative  weakness  of  his  volition,  that 
superior  faculty  of  the  mind,  which,  govern- 
ing the  conduct  according  to  the  dictates  of 
the  understanding,  alone  entitles  it  to  be 
denominated  rational ; which  is  the  parent 
of  fortitude,  patience,  and  self-denial;  which, 
by  regulating  and  combining  human  exer- 
tions, may  be  said  to  have  effected  all  that 
is  great  in  the  works  of  man,  in  literature, 
in  science,  or  on  the  face  of  nature.  The 
occupations  of  a poet  are  not  calculated  to 
strengthen  the  governing  powers  of  the 
mind,  or  to  weaken  that  sensibility  which 
requires  perpetual  control,  since  it  gives 
birth  to  the  vehemence  of  passion  as  well 
as  to  the  higher  powers  of  imagination. 
Unfortunately,  the  favourite  occupations  of 
genius  are  calculated  to  increase  all  its  pecu- 
liarities; to  nourish  that  lofty  pride  which 
disdains  the  littleness  of  prudence,  and  the 
restrictions  of  order:  and,  by  indulgence, 
to  increase  that  sensibility  which,  in  the 
present  form  of  our  existence,  is  scarcely 
compatible  with  peace  or  happiness,  even 
when  accompanied  with  the  choicest  gifts  of 
fortune ! 

It  is  observed  by  one  who  was  a friend 
and  associate  of  Burns  (116),  and  who  has 
contemplated  and  explained  the  system  of 
animated  nature,  that  no  sentient  being  with 
mental  powers  greatly  superior  to  those  of 
men,  could  possibly  live  and  be  happy  in 
this  world.  “If  such  a being  really  existed,” 
continues  he,  “his  misery  would  be  extreme. 
W ith  senses  more  delicate  £nd  refined;  with 
perceptions  more  acute  and  penetrating: 
with  a taste  so  exquisite  that  the  objects 
around  him  would  by  no  means  gratify  it ; 
obliged  to  feed  on  nourishment  too  gross  for 
his  frame — he  must  be  born  only  to  be 
miserable,  and  the  continuation  of  his  exist- 
ence would  be  utterly  impossible.  Even  in 
our  present  condition,  the  sameness  and  the 
insipidity  of  objects  and  pursuits,  the  futility 
©f  pleasure,  and  the  infinite  sources  of  ex- 
cruciating pain,  are  supported  with  great 
difficulty  by  cultivated  and  refined  minds. 
Increase  our  sensibilities,  continue  the  same 
W 


65 

objects  and  situation,  and  no  man  could  bear 
to  live.” 

Thus  it  appears,  that  our  powers  of  sen- 
sation, as  well  as  all  our  other  powers,  are 
adapted  to  the  scene  of  our  existence  ; that 
they  are  limited  in  mercy,  as  well  as  in 
wisdom. 

Tne  speculations  of  Mr.  Smellie  are  not  to 
be  considered  as  the  dreams  of  a theorist ; 
they  were  probably  founded  on  sad  experi- 
ence. The  being  he  supposes  “ with  senses 
more  delicate  and  refined,  with  perceptions 
more  acute  and  penetrating,”  is  vo  be  found 
in  real  life.  He  is  of  the  temperament  of 
genius,  and  perhaps  a poet.  Is  there,  then, 
no  remedy  for  this  inordinate  sensibility? 
Are  there  no  means  by  which  the  happiness 
of  one  so  constituted  by  nature  may  be  con- 
sulted? Perhaps  it  will  be  found,  that 
regular  and  constant  occupation,  irksome 
though  at  first  it  may  be,  is  the  true  remedy 
Occupation  in  which  the  powers  of  the  un 
derstanding  are  exercised,  will  diminish  th^ 
force  of  external  impressions,  and  keep  tha 
imagination  under  restraint. 

That  the  bent  of  every  man’s  mind  should 
he  followed  in  his  education  and  in  his  des- 
tination in  life,  is  a maxim  which  has  been 
often  repeated,  but  which  cannot  lie  admitted 
without  many  restrictions.  It  may  be  gene- 
rally true  when  applied  to  weak  minds,  which 
being  capable  of  little,  must  be  encouraged 
and  strengthened  in  the  feeble  impulses  by 
which  that  little  is  produced.  But  where 
indulgent  nature  has  bestowed  her  gifts  with 
a liberal  hand,  the  very  reverse  of  this  maxim 
ought  frequently  to  be  the  rule  of  conduct 
In  minds  of  a higher  order,  the  object  of 
instruction  and  of  discipline  is  very  often  to 
restrain,  rather  than  to  impel ; to  curb  the 
impulses  of  imagination,  so  that  the  passions 
also  may  be  kept  under  control.  (117} 

Hence  the  advantages,  even  in  a moral 
point  of  view,  of  studies  of  a severer  nature, 
which,  while  they  inform  the  understanding, 
employ  the  volition,  that  regulating  power 
of  the  mind,  which,  like  all  our  other  facul- 
ties, is  strengthened  by  exercise,  and  on  the 
superiority  of  which  virtue,  happiness,  and 
honourable  fame,  are  wholly  dependent. 
Hence  also  the  advantage  of  regular  and 
constant  application,  which  aids  the  volun- 
tary power  by  the  production  of  habits  so 
necessary  to  the  support  of  order  and  virtue, 
and  sb  difficult  to  be  formed  in  the  tempera- 
ment of  genius.  The  man  who  is  so 
endowed  and  so  regulated,  may  pursue  his 
course  with  confidence  in  almost  any  of  the 
various  walks  of  fife  which  choice  >r  acci- 
dent shall  open  to  him;  and,  provided  ha 


66 


LIFE  OF  BTJRN&. 


employ  the  talents  he  ha*  cultivated,  may 
hope  for  such  impel  feet  happiness,  and  such 
limited  success,  as  are  reasonably  to  be  ex- 
pected from  human  exertions. 

The  pre-eminence  among  men,  which  pro- 
cures personal  respect,  and  which  terminates 
in  lasting  reputation,  is  seldom  or  never 
obtained  by  the  excellence  of  a single  faculty 
of  mind.  Experience  teaches  us,  that  it  has 
been  acquired  by  those  only  who  have  pos- 
sessed the  comprehension  and  the  energy  of 
general  talents,  and  who  have  regulated 
their  application  in  the  line  which  choice,  or 
perhaps  accident,  may  have  determined,  by 
the  dictates  of  their  judgment.  Imagination 
is  supposed,  and  with  justice,  to  be  the 
leading  faculty  of  the  poet.  But  what  poet 
has  stood  the  test  of  time  by  the  force  of 
this  single  faculty  ? Who  does  not  see  that 
Homer  and  Sliakspeare  excelled  the  rest  of 
their  species  in  understanding  as  well  as  in 
imagination ; that  they  were  pre-eminent  in 
the  highest  species  of  knowledge — the  know- 
ledge of  the  nature  and  character  of  man? 
•On  the  other  hand,  the  talent  of  ratiocination 
is  more  especially  requisite  to  the  orator; 
but  no  man  ever  obtained  the  palm  of  oratory, 
even  by  the  highest  excellence  in  this  single 
talent.  Who  does  not  perceive  that  Demos- 
thenes and  Cicero  were  not  more  happy  in 
their  addresses  to  the  reason  than  in  their 
appeals  to  the  passions?  They  knew,  that 
to  excite,  to  agitate,  and  to  delight,  are 
among  the  most  potent  arts  of  persuasion  ; 
and  they  enforced  their  impression  on  the 
understanding,  by  their  command  of  all  the 
sympathies  of  the  heart.  These  observations 
might  be  extended  to  other  walks  of  life. 
He  who  has  the  faculties  fitted  to  excel  in 
poetry,  has  the  faculties  which,  duly  governed, 
and  differently  directed,  might  lead  to  pre- 
eminence in  other,  and,  as  far  as  respects 
himself,  perhaps  in  happier  destinations. 
The  talents  necessary  to  the  construction 
of  an  Iliad,  under  different  discipline  and 
application,  might  have  led  armies  to  vic- 
tory, or  kingdoms  to  prosperity ; might  have 
wielded  the  thunder  of  eloquence,  or  dis- 
covered and  enlarged  the  sciences  that  con- 
stitute the  power  and  improve  the  condition 
of  our  species.  (118)  Such  talents  are, 
indeed,  rare  among  the  productions  of  na- 
ture, and  occasions  of  bringing  them  into 
full  exertion  are  rarer  still.  But  safe  and 
salutary  occupations  may  be  found  for  men 
of  g enius  in  every  direction,  while  the  useful 
And  ornamental  arts  remain  to  be  cultivated, 
while  the  sciences  remain  to  be  studied  and 
to  be  extended,  and  principles  of  science  to 
be  applied  to  the  correction  and  improve- 


ment of  art.  In  the  temperament  of  sensi- 
bility, which  is,  in  truth,  the  temperament  ol 
general  talents,  the  principal  object  of  disci- 
pline and  instruction  is,  as  has  already  been 
mentioned,  to  strengthen  the  self-command  ; 
and  this  may  be  promoted  by  the  direction  of 
the  studies,  more  effectually,  perhaps,  than 
has  been  generally  understood. 

If  these  observations  be  founded  in  truth, 
they  may  lead  to  practical  consequences  of 
some  importance.  It  has  been  too  much 
the  custom  to  consider  the  possession  of 
poetical  talents  as  excluding  the  possibility 
of  application  to  the  severer  branches  of 
study,  and  as,  in  some  degree,  incapacitating 
the  possessor  from  attaining  those  habits, 
and  from  bestowing  that  attention,  which 
are  necessary  to  success  in  the  details  of 
business,  and  in  the  engagements  of  active 
life.  It  has  been  common  for  persons  con- 
scious of  such  talents,  to  look  with  a sort  of 
disdain  on  other  kinds  of  intellectual  excel- 
lence, and  to  consider  themselves  as  in  some 
degree  absolved  from  those  rules  of  prudence 
by  which  humbler  minds  are  restricted. 
They  are  too  much  disposed  to  abandon 
themselves  to  their  own  sensations,  and  to 
suffer  life  to  pass  away  without  regular 
exertion  or  settled  purpose. 

But  though  men  of  genius  are  generally 
prone  to  indolence,  with  them  indolence  and 
unhappiness  are  in  a more  especial  manner 
allied.  The  unbidden  splendours  of  imagi- 
nation may,  indeed,  at  times  irradiate  tho 
gloom  which  inactivity  produces ; but  such 
visions,  though  bright,  are  transient,  and 
serve  to  cast  the  realities  of  life  into  deeper 
shade.  In  bestowing  great  talents,  Nature 
seems  very  generally  to  have  imposed  on  the 
possessor  the  necessity  of  exertion,  if  he 
would  escape  wretchedness.  Better  for  him 
than  sloth,  toils  the  most  painful,  or  adven- 
tures the  most  hazardous.  Happier  to  him 
than  idleness  were  the  condition  of  the 
peasant,  earning  with  incessant  labour  hi* 
scanty  food ; or  that  of  the  sailor,  though 
hanging  on  the  yard-arm,  and  wrestling  with 
the  hurricane. 

These  observations  might  be  amply  illus- 
trated by  the  biography  of  men  of  genius  of 
every  denomination,  and  more  especially  by 
the  biography  of  the  poets.  Of  this  last 
description  of  men,  few  seem  to  have  enjoyed 
the  usual  portion  of  happiness  that  falls  to 
the  lot  of  humanity,  those  excepted  who 
have  cultivated  poetry  as  an  elegant  amuse- 
ment in  the  hours  of  relaxation  from  other 
occupations,  or  the  small  number  m ho  have 
engaged  with  success  in  the  greater  or  more 
arduous  attempt  ! of  the  muse,  in  which  all 


INFLUENCES  OF  MELANCHOLY. 


6T 


the  faculties  of  the  mind  have  been  fully 
and  permanently  employed.  Even  taste, 
virtue,  and  comparative  independence,  do 
not  seem  capable  of  bestowing  on  men  of 
genius  peace  and  tranquillity,  without  such 
occupation  as  may  give  regular  and  healthful 
exercise  to  the  faculties  of  body  and  mind. 
The  amiable  Shenstone  has  left  us  the  re- 
cords of  his  imprudence,  of  his  indolence, 
and  of  his  unhappiness,  amidst  the  shades 
of  the  Leasowes ; and  the  virtues,  the  learn- 
ing, and  the  genius  of  Gray,  equal  to  the 
loftiest  attempts  of  the  epic  muse,  failed  to 
procure  him  in  the  academic  bowers  of  Cam- 
bridge that  tranquillity  and  that  respect 
which  less  fastidiousness  of  taste,  and  greater 
constancy  and  vigour  of  exertion,  would  have 
doubtless  obtained. 

It  is  more  necessary  that  men  of  genius 
should  be  aware  of  the  importance  of  self- 
command,  and  of  exertion,  because  their 
indolence  is  peculiarly  exposed,  not  merely 
to  unhappiness,  but  to  diseases  of  mind,  and 
to  errors  of  conduct,  which  are  generally 
fatal.  This  interesting  subject  deserves  a 
particular  investigation ; but  we  must  content 
ourselves  with  one  or  two  cursory  remarks. 
Belief  is  sometimes  sought  from  the  melan- 
choly of  indolence  in  practices  which,  for  a 
time,  soothe  and  gratify  the  sensations,  but 
which,  in  the  end,  involve  the  sufferer  in 
darker  gloom.  To  command  the  external 
circumstances  by  which  happiness  is  affected, 
is  not  in  human  pow  er ; but  there  are  various 
substances  in  nature  which  operate  on  the 
system  of  the  nerves,  so  as  to  give  a fictitious 
gaiety  to  the  ideas  of  imagination,  and  to 
alter  the  effect  of  the  external  impressions 
which  wre  receive.  Opium  is  chiefly  em- 
ployed for  this  purpose  by  the  disciples  of 
Mahomet  and  the  inhabitants  of  Asia ; but 
alcohol,  the  principle  of  intoxication  in 
vinous  and  spirituous  liquors,  is  preferred  in 
Europe,  arid  is  universally  used  in  the  Chris- 
tian world.  (119)  Under  the  various  wrnunds  to 
which  indolent  insensibility  is  exposed,  and 
under  the  gloomy  apprehensions  respecting 
futurity  to  which  it  is  so  often  a prey,  how 
strong  is  the  temptation  to  have  recourse 
to  an  antidote  by  which  the  pain  of  these 
wounds  is  suspended,  by  which  the  heart  is 
exhilirated,  visions  of  happiness  are  excited 
in  the  mind,  and  the  forms  of  external  na- 
ture clothed  with  new  beauty ! 

“ Elysium  opens  round, 

A pleasing  phrenzy  buoys  the  lighten’d  soul, 
And  sanguine  hopes  dispel  your  fleeting  care; 
And  what  was  difficult,  and  what  was  dire, 
Yields  to  your  prowess,  and  superior  stars  : 
The  happiest  you  of  all  that  e’er  were  mad, 


Or  are,  or  shall  be,  could  this  folly  last. 

But  soon  your  heaven  is  gone;  a heavier 

gloom 

Shuts  o’er  your  head 

* * * • 

Morning  comes ; your  cares  return 

With  tenfold  rage.  An  anxious  stomach  well 
May  be  endured— so  may  the  throbbing  head? 
But  such  a dim  delirium,  such  a dream 
Involves  you ; such  a dastardly  despair 
Unmans  your  soul,  as  madd’ning  PentheuS 

felt, 

When,  baited  round  Cithceron’s  cruel  sides. 
He  saw  two  suns  and  double  Thebes  ascend.” 
—Armstrong' s Art  of  Preserving  Health , b.  iv. 

1.  163. 

Such  are  the  pleasures  and  pains  of  intoxi- 
cation, as  they  occur  in  the  temperament  of 
sensibility,  described  by  a genuine  poet,  wfith 
a degree  of  truth  and  energy  which  nothing 
but  experience  could  have  dictated.  There 
are,  indeed,  some  individuals  of  this  tem- 
perament on  whom  wine  produces  no  cheer- 
ing* influence.  On  some,  even  in  very 
moderate  quantities,  its  effects  are  painfully 
irritating ; in  large  draughts  it  excites  dark 
and  melancholy  ideas  ; and  in  draughts  still 
larger,  the  fierceness  of  insanity  itself.  Such 
men  are  happily  exempted  from  a temptation 
to  which  experience  teaches  us  the  finest 
dispositions  often  yield,  and  the  influence  of 
which,  when  strengthened  by  habit,  it  is  a 
humiliating  truth,  that  the  most  powerful 
minds  have  not  been  able  to  resist. 

It  is  the  more  necessary  for  men  of  genius 
to  be  on  their  guard  against  the  habitual 
use  of  wine,  because  it  is  apt  to  steal  on 
them  insensibly,  and  because  the  temptation 
to  excess  usually  presents  itself  to  them  in 
their  social  hours,  when  they  are  alive  only 
to  warm  and  generous  emotions,  and  w7hen 
prudence  and  moderation  are  often  con- 
temned as  selfishness  and  timidity. 

It  is  the  more  necessary  for  them  to  guard 
against  excess  in  the  use  of  wine,  because  on 
them  its  effects  are,  physically  and  morally, 
in  an  especial  manner  injurious.  In  pro- 
portion to  its  stimulating  influence  on  the 
system  (on  which  the  pleasurable  sensation! 
depend,  is  the  debility  that  ensues — a de- 
bility that  destroys  digestion,  and  terminates 
in  habitual  fever,  dropsy,  jaundice,  paralysis, 
or  insanity.  As  the  strength  of  the  body 
decays,  the  volition  fails ; in  proportion  as 
I the  sensations  are  soothed  and  gratified,  the 
sensibility  increases  ; and  morbid  sensibility 
is  the  parent  of  indolence,  because,  while  it 
impairs  the  regulating  powder  of  the  mind,  it 
exaggerates  all  the  obstacles  to  exertion. 
Activity,  perseverance,  and  self-command, 
become  more  and  more  difficult,  and  the  great 
purposes  of  utility,  patriotism,  or  of  honour- 


68 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


able  ambition,  which  had  occupied  the  ima- 
gination,, die  away  in  fruitless  resolutions,  or 
in  feeble  efforts. 

To  apply  these  observations  to  the  subject 
of  our  memoirs,  would  be  a useless  as  well 
as  a painful  task.  It  is,  indeed,  a duty  we 
owe  to  the  living,  not  to  allow  our  admira- 
tion of  great  genius,  or  even  our  pity  for  its 
unhappy  destiny,  to  conceal  or  disguise  its 
errors.  But  there  are  sentiments  of  respect, 
and  even  of  tenderness,  with  which  this 
duty  should  be  performed ; there  is  an  awful 
sanctity  which  invests  the  mansions  of  the 
dead;  and  let  those  who  moralise  over  the 
graves  of  their  contemporaries,  reflect  with 
humility  on  their  own  errors,  nor  forget  how 
soon  they  may  themselves  require  the  can- 
dour and  the  sympathy  they  are  called  upon 
to  bestow 


Soon  after  the  death  of  Burns,  the  follow- 
ing article  appeared  in  the  Dumfries  Journal, 
from  which  it  was  copied  into  the  Edinburgh 
newspapers,  and  into  various  other  periodical 
publications.  It  is  from  the  elegant  pen  of 
a lady,  already  alluded  to  in  the  course  of 
these  memoirs  (120),  whose  exertions  for  the 
family  of  our  bard,  in  the  circles  of  literature 
and  fashion  in  which  she  moves,  have  done 
her  so  much  honour. 

“ The  attention  of  the  public  seems  to  be 
much  occupied  at  present  with  the  loss  it 
has  recently  sustained  in  the  death  of  the 
Caledonian  poet,  Robert  Bums  ; a loss  cal- 
culated to  be  severely  felt  throughout  the 
literary  world,  as  well  as  lamented  in  the 
narrower  sphere  of  private  friendship.  It 
was  aot,  therefore,  probable  that  such  an 
evexit  should  be  long  unattended  with  the 
accustomed  profusion  of  posthumous  anec- 
dotes and  memoirs  which  are  usually  circu- 
lated immediately  after  the  death  of  every 
rare  and  celebrated  personage : I had,  how- 
ever, conceived  no  intention  of  appropriating 
to  myself  the  privilege  of  criticising  Burns’s 
writings  and  character,  or  of  anticipating  on 
the  province  of  a biographer. 

“ Conscious,  indeed,  of  my  own  inability  to 
do  justice  to  such  a subject,  I should  have 
continued  wholly  silent,  had  misrepresenta- 
tion and  calumny  been  less  industrious ; but 
a regard  to  truth,  no  less  than  affection  for 
the  memory  of  a friend,  must  now  justify 
my  offering  to  the  public  a few  at  least  of 
those  observations  which  an  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  Burns,  and  the  frequent 
opportunities  I have  had  of  observing  equally 
his  happy  qualities  ana  nis  failings  for  several 
years  past,  have  enabled  me  to  communicate. 


"It  will  actually  be  an  injustice  done  t< 
Burns’s  character,  not  only  by  future  genera* 
tions  and  foreign  countries,  but  even  by  his 
native  Scotland,  and  perhaps  a number  of  his 
contemporaries,  that  he  is  generally  talked  of, 
and  considered,  with  reference  to  his  poetical 
talents  only ; for  the  fact  is,  even  allowing 
his  great  and  original  genius  its  due  tribute 
of  admiration,  that  poetry  (I  appeal  to  all 
who  have  had  the  advantage  of  being  per- 
sonally acquainted  with  him)  was  actually 
not  his  forte.  Many  others,  perhaps,  may 
have  ascended  to  prouder  heights  in  the 
region  of  Parnassus,  but  none  certainly  er 
outshone  Burns  in  the  charms,  the  sorcery, 
I would  almost  call  it,  of  fascinating  conver- 
sation, the  spontaneous  eloquence  of  social 
argument,  or  the  unstudied  poignancy  of 
brilliant  repartee ; nor  was  any  man,  I be- 
lieve, ever  gifted  with  a larger  portion  of  the 
‘ vivida  vis  animi?  His  personal  endowments 
were  perfectly  correspondent  to  the  qualifi- 
cations of  his  mind — his  form  was  manly— 
his  action,  energy  itself — devoid  in  a great 
measure  perhaps  of  those  graces,  of  that 
polish,  acquired  only  in  the  refinement  of 
societies  where  in  early  life  he  could  have  no 
opportunities  of  mixing ; but  where  such  was 
the  irresistible  power  of  attraction  that  en- 
circled him,  though  his  appearance  and 
manners  were  always  peculiar,  he  never  failed 
to  delight  and  to  excel.  His  figure  seemed 
to  bear  testimony  to  his  earlier  destination 
and  employments.  It  seemed  rather  moulded 
by  nature  for  the  rough  exercises  of  agricul- 
ture, than  the  gentler  cultivation  of  the  Belles 
Lettres.  His  features  were  stamped  with 
the  hardy  character  of  independence,  and  the 
firmness  of  conscious,  though  not  arrogant, 
pre-eminence;  the  animated  expressions  of 
countenance  were  almost  peculiar  to  himself ; 
the  rapid  lightnings  of  his  eye  were  always 
the  harbingers  of  some  flash  of  genius, 
whether  they  darted  the  fiery  glances  of 
insulted  and  indignant  superiority*  or  beamed 
with  the  impassioned  sentiment  of  fervent 
and  impetuous  affections.  His  voice  alone 
could  improve  upon  the  magic  of  his  eye : 
sonorous,  replete  with  the  finest  modulations, 
it  alternately  captivated  the  ear  with  the 
melody  of  poetic  numbers,  the  perspicuity  of 
nervous  reasoning,  or  the  ardent  sallies  of 
enthusiastic  patriotism.  The  keenness  or 
satire  was,  I am  almost  at  a loss  whether  to 
say, his  forte  or  his  foible  ; for  though  nature 
had  endowed  him  with  a portion  of  the  most 
pointed  excellence  in  that  dangerous  talent, 
he  suffered  it  too  often  to  be  the  vehicle  of 
personal,  and  sometimes  unfounded,  animo 
sities.  It  was  not  always  that  sp  artiveneija 


INADEQUACY  OF  NATIVE  CRITICISM. 


Df  humour,  that  * unwary  pleasantry,’  which 
Sterne  has  depicted  with  touches  so  conci- 
liatory, but  the  darts  of  ridicule  were 
frequently  directed  as  the  caprice  of  the 
instant  suggested,  or  as  the  altercations  of 
parties  and  of  persons  happened  to  kindle 
the  restlessness  of  his  spirit  into  interest  or 
aversion.  This,  however,  was  not  invariably 
the  case ; his  wit  (which  is  no  unusual  matter 
indeed)  had  always  the  start  of  his  judgment, 
and  would  lead  him  to  the  indulgence  of 
raillery  uniformly  acute,  but  often  accompa- 
nied with  the  least  desire  to  wound.  The- 
suppression  of  an  arch  and  full-pointed  bon- 
mot,  from  a dread  of  offending  its  object,  the 
sage  of  Zurich  very  properly  classes  as  a 
virtue  only  to  be  sought  for  in  the  calendar  of 
taints;  if  so.  Burns  must  not  be  too  severely 
dealt  with  for  being  rather  deficient  in  it. 
He  paid  for  his  mischievous  wit  as  dearly  as 
any  one  could  do.  * ’Twas  no  extravagant 
arithmetic,’  to  say  of  him,  as  was  said  of 
Yorick,  that  f for  every  ten  jokes  he  got  a 
hundred  enemies  ; ’ but  much  allowance  will 
be  made  by  a candid  mind  for  the  splenetic 
warmth  of  a spirit  whom  ' distress  had  spited 
with  the  world/  and  which,  unbounded  in  its 
intellectual  sallies  and  pursuits,  continually 
experienced  the  curbs  imposed  by  the  way- 
wardness of  his  fortune.  The  vivacity  of 
his  wishes  and  temper  was  indeed  checked  by 
almost  habitual  disappointments,  which  sat 
heavy  on  a heart  that  acknowledged  the 
ruling  passion  of  independence,  without 
having  ever  been  placed  beyond  the  grasp  of 
penury.  His  soul  was  never  languid  or  in- 
active, and  his  genius  was  extinguished  only 
with  the  last  spark  of  retreating  life.  His 
passions  rendered  him,  according  as  they 
disclosed  themselves  in  affection  or  antipathy, 
an  object  of  enthusiastic  attachment,  or  of 
decided  enmity;  for  he  possessed  none  of 
that  negative  insipidity  of  character,  whose 
love  might  be  regarded  with  indifference,  or 
whose  resentment  could  be  considered  with 
contempt.  In  this,  it  should  seem,  the 
temper  of  his  associates  took  the  tincture 
from  his  own;  for  he  ackuc-wledged  in  the 
universe  but  two  classes  of  objects,  those  of 
adoration  the  most  fervent,  or  of  aversion  the 
most  uncontrollable;  and  it  has  been  fre- 
quently a reproach  to  him,  that,  unsusceptible 
of  indifference,  often  hating  where  he  ought 
only  to  have  despised,  he  alternately  opened 
his  heart  and  poured  forth  the  treasures  of 
his  understanding  to  such  as  were  incapable 
of  appreciating  the  homage  ; and  elevated  to 
the  privileges  an  adversary  some  who 
were  unqualified  in  all  respects  for  the  honour 
if  a contest  at  distinguished. 


"It  is  said  that  the  celebrated  Dr.  Johnson 
professed  to  ' love  a good  hater  ’ — a tempera- 
ment that  would  have  singularly  adapted  him 
to  cherish  a prepossession  in  favour  of  our 
bard,  who  perhaps  fell  but  little  short  even 
of  the  surly  doctor  in  this  qualification,  as 
long  as  the  disposition  to  ill-will  continued  ; 
but  tl  e warmth  of  his  passions  was  fortu- 
nately corrected  by  their  versatility.  He  was 
seldom,  indeed  never,  implacable  in  his  re- 
sentments, and  sometimes,  it  has  been 
alleged,  not  inviolably  faithful  in  his  engage- 
ments of  friendship.  Much,  indeed,  has 
been  said  about  his  inconstancy  and  caprice ; 
but  I am  inclined  to  believe,  that  they  origi- 
nated less  in  a levity  of  sentiment,  than  from 
an  extreme  impetuosity  of  feeling,  which 
rendered  him  prompt  to  take  umbrage ; and 
his  sensations  of  pique,  where  he  fancied  he 
had  discovered  the  traces  of  neglect,  scorn, 
or  unkindness,  took  their  measure  of  asperity 
from  the  overflowings  of  the  opposite  senti- 
ment which  preceded  them,  and  which  seldom 
failed  to  regain  its  ascendancy  in  his  bosom 
on  the  return  of  calmer  reflection.  He  was 
carnlid  and  maul)  in  the  avowal  of  his  errors, 
and  his  avovml  was  a reparation.  His  native 
fierte  never  forsaking  him  for  a moment,  the 
value  of  a frank  acknowledgment  was  en- 
hanced tenfold  towards  a generous  mind, 
from  its  never  being  attended  with  servility. 
His  mind,  organised  only  for  the  stronger 
and  more  acute  operations  of  the  passions, 
was  impracticable  to  the  efforts  of  super- 
ciliousness that  would  have  depressed  it  into 
humility,  and  equally  superior  to  the  en- 
croachments of  venal  suggestions  that  might 
have  led  him  into  the  mazes  of  hypocrisy. 

"It  has  been  observed  that  he  was  far  from 
averse  to  the  incense  of  flattery,  and  could 
receive  it  tempered  with  less  delicacy  than 
might  have  been  expected,  as  he  seldom 
transgressed  extravagantly  in  that  way  him- 
self ; where  he  paid  a compliment,  it  might 
indeed  claim  the  power  of  intoxication,  as 
approbation  from  him  was  always  an  honest 
tribute  from  the  warmth  and  sincerity  >f  his 
heart.  It  has  been  sometimes  represented 
by  those  who,  it  should  seem,  had  a view  to 
depreciate,  though  they  could  not  hope 
wholly  to  obscure,  that  native  brilliancy 
which  the  powers  of  this  extraordinary  man 
had  invariably  bestowed  on  every  thing  that 
came  from  his  lips  or  pen,  that  the  history 
of  the  Ayrshire  ploughboy  was  an  ingenious 
fiction,  fabricated  for  the  purposes  of  obtain- 
ing the  interests  of  the  great,  and  enhancing 
the  merits  of  what  in  reality  required  no  foil. 
The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,  Tam  o’  Shan*? 
ter,  and  The  Mountain  Daisy,  besides  a 


70 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


Oumbtr  of  later  productims,  where  tie 
maturity  of  his  genius  will  be  readily  traced, 
and  which  will  be  given  to  the  public  as  soon 
as  his  friends  have  collected  and  arranged 
them,  speak  sufficiently  for  themselves ; and 
had  ctiey  fallen  from  a hand  more  dignified 
in  the  ranks  of  society  than  that  of  a peasant, 
they  had  perhaps  bestowed  as  unusual  a 
grace  there,  as  even  in  the  humbler  shade  of 
rustic  inspiration  from  whence  they  really 
Sprang, 

“ To  the  obscure  scene  of  Burns’s  educa- 
tion, and  to  the  laborious,  though  honourable 
station  of  rural  industry  in  which  his  parent- 
age enrolled  him,  almost  every  inhabitant  of 
the  south  of  Scotland  can  give  testimony. 
His  only  surviving  brother,  Gilbert  Burns, 
now  guides  the  ploughshare  of  his  forefathers 
in  Ayrshire,  at  a farm  near  Mauchline  ; and 
our  poet’s  eldest  son,  a lad  of  nine  years  of 
age,  whose  early  dispositions  already  prove 
him  to  be  in  some  measure  the  inheritor  of 
his  father’s  .talents  as  well  as  indigence,  has 
been  destined  by  his  family  to  the  humble 
employments  of  the  loom. 

“That  Burns  had  received  no  classical 
education,  and  was  acquainted  with  the 
Greek  and  Roman  authors  only  through  the 
medium  of  translations,  is  a fact  of  which  all 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  conversing  with  him 
might  readily  be  convinced.  I have,  indeed, 
seldom  observed  him  to  be  at  a loss  in  con- 
versation, unless  where  the  dead  languages 
and  their  writers  have  been  the  subjects  of 
discussion.  When  I have  pressed  him  to  tell 
me  why  he  never  applied  himself  to  acquire 
the  Latin,  in  particular,  a language  which 
his  happy  memory  would  have  so  soon  en- 
abled him  to  be  master  of,  he  used  only  to 
reply  with  a smile,  that  he  had  already 
learnt  all  the  Latin  he  desired  to  know,  and 
that  was  omnia  vincit  amor — a sentence,  that 
from  his  writings  and  most  favourite  pur- 
suits, it  should  undoubtedly  seem  that  he 
was  most  thoroughly  versed  in  ; but  I really 
helieve  his  classic  erudition  extended  little, 
if  any,  farther. 

“The  penchant  Bums  had  uniformly  ac- 
knowledged for  the  festive  pleasures  of  the 
table,  and  towards  the  fairer  and  softer 
objects  of  nature’s  creation,  has  been  the 
rallying  point  whence  the  attacks  of  his 
censors  have  been  uniformly  directed , and 
to  these,  it  must  be  confessed,  he  showed 
himself  no  stoic.  His  poetical  pieces  blend 
with  alternate  happiness  of  description,  the 
frolic  spirit  of  the  flowing  bowl,  or  melt  the 
heart  to  the  tender  and  impassioned  senti- 
ments in  which  beauty  always  taught  him  to 
aour  forth  bis  cwn.  But  who  would  wish  to 


reprove  the  feelings  he  has  consecrated  with 
such  lively  touches  of  nature  ? And  where 
is  the  rugged  moralist  who  will  persuade  ui 
so  far  to  ‘chill  the  genial  current  of  the 
soul,’  as  to  regret  that  Ovid  ever  celebrated 
his  Corinna,  or  that  Anacreon  sang  beneath 
his  vine  ? 

“I  will  not,  however,  undertake  to  be  the 
apologist  of  the  irregularities  even  of  a man 
of  genius,  though  I believe  it  is  as  certain 
that  genius  never  was  free  from  irregulari- 
ties, as  that  their  absolution  may,  in  great 
measure,  be  justly  claimed,  since  it  is  per- 
fectly evident  that  the  world  had  continued 
very  stationary  in  its  intellectual  acquire- 
ments, had  it  never  given  birth  to  any  but 
men  of  plain  sense.  Evenness  of  conduct, 
and  a due  regard  to  the  decorums  of  tha 
world,  have  been  so  rarely  seen  to  move 
hand  in  hand  with  genius,  that  some  have 
gone  as  far  as  to  say,  though  there  I cannot 
wholly  acquiesce,  that  they  are  even  in- 
compatible; besides,  the  frailties  that  cast 
their  shade  over  the  splendour  of  superior 
merit,  are  more  conspicuously  glaring  than 
where  they  are  the  attendants  of  mere  me- 
diocrity. It  is  only  on  the  gem  we  are  dis- 
turbed to  see  the  dust ; the  pebble  may  be 
soiled,  and  we  never  regard  it.  The  eccen- 
tric intuitions  of  genius  too  often  yield  the 
soul  to  the  wild  effervescence  of  desires, 
always  unbounded,  and  sometimes  equally 
dangerous  to  the  repose  of  others  as  fatal  to 
its  own.  No  wonder,  then,  if  virtue  her- 
self be  sometimes  lost  in  the  blaze  of 
kindling  animation,  or  that  the  calm  moni- 
tions of  reason  are  not  invariably  found 
sufficient  to  fetter  an  imagination,  which 
scorns  the  narrow  limits  and  restrictions 
that  would  chain  it  to  the  level  of  ordinary 
minds.  The  child  of  nature,  the  child  of 
sensibility,  unschooled  in  the  rigid  precepts 
of  philosophy,  too  often  unable  to  control 
the  passions  which  proved  a source  of 
frequent  errors  and  misfortunes  to  him. 
Burns  made  his  own  artless  apology  in 
language  more  impressive  than  all  the  argu- 
mentatory  vindications  in  the  world  could 
do,  in  one  of  his  own  poems,  where  he  de- 
lineates the  gradual  expansion  of  his  mmd 
to  the  lessons  of  the  ‘ tutelary  muse,’  who 
concludes  an  address  to  her  pupil,  almost 
unique  for  simplicity  and  beautiftC  poetry, 
with  these  lines 

« I saw  thy  pulse’s  madd’ning  play 

Wild  send  thee  pleasure’s  devious  way  ; 

Misled  by  Fancy’s  meteojyjay, 

By  passion  driven ; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray: 

Was  light  from  heaven * 


PECULIARITIES,  ETC.  n 


have  already  transgressed  beyond  the 
bounds  I had  proposed  to  myself  on  first 
committing  this  sketch  to  paper,  which  com- 
prehends what  at  least  I have  been  led  to 
deem  the  leading  features  of  Burns’s  mind 
and  character.  A literary  critique  I do  not 
aim  at — mine  is  wholly  fulfilled  if,  in  these 
pages,  I have  been  able  to  delineate  any  of 
those  strong  traits  that  distinguished  him, 
of  those  talents  which  raised  him  from  the 
plough,  where  he  passed  the  bleak  morning 
of  his  life,  weaving  his  rude  wreaths  of 
poesy  with  the  wild  field-flowers  that  sprang 
around  his  cottage,  to  that  enviable  eminence 
of  literary  fame,  where  Scotland  will  long 
cherish  his  memory  with  delight  and  grati- 
tude ; and  proudly  remember  that,  beneath 
her  cold  sky,  a genius  was  ripened,  without 
care  or  culture,  that  would  have  done  honour 
to  climes  more  favourable  to  those  luxuri- 
ances— that  warmth  of  colouring  and  fancy 
in  which  he  so  eminently  excelled. 

“ From  several  paragraphs  I have  noticed 
in  the  public  prints,  ever  since  the  idea  of 
sending  this  sketch  to  some  one  of  them 
was  formed,  I find  private  animosities  have 
not  yet  subsided,  and  that  envy  has  not  yet 
exhausted  all  her  shafts.  I still  trust,  how- 
ever, that  honest  fame  will  be  permanently 
affixed  to  Burns’s  character,  which  I think  it 
will  be  found  he  has  merited,  by  the  candid 
and  impartial  among  his  countrymen.  And 
where  a recollection  of  the  imprudences  that 
sullied  his  brighter  qualifications  interpose, 
let  the  imperfection  of  all  human  excellence 
be  remembered  at  the  same  time,  leaving 
those  inconsistencies,  which  alternately  ex- 
alted his  nature  into  the  seraph,  and  sank  it 
again  into  the  man,  to  the  tribunal  which 
alone  can  investigate  the  labyrinths  of  the 
human  heart — 

* Where  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repo$et 
—The  bosom  of  his  father  and  his  God.’ 

. Guay’s  Elegy. 

m Annandale,  August  7,  1796.” 

After  this  account  of  the  life  and  personal 
character  of  Burns,  it  may  be  expected  that 
some  inquiry  should  be  made  into  his 
literary  merits.  It  will  not,  however,  be 
necessary  to  enter  very  minutely  into  this 
investigation.  If  fiction  be,  as  some  sup- 
pose, the  soul  of  poetry,  no  one  had  ever 
less  pretensions  to  the  name  of  poet  than 
Burns.  Though  he  has  displayed  great 
powers  of  imagination,  yet  the  subjects  on 
which  he  has  written  are  seldom,  if  ever, 
imaginary  ; his  poems,  as  well  as  his  letters, 
may  be  considered  as  the  effusions  of  his 
sensibility,  and  the  transcript  of  A is  own 
plus  mgs  on  the  real  incidents  of  hi*  'nimble 


life.  If  we  add,  that  they  also  contain  most 
happy  delineations  of  the  characters,  man- 
ners, and  scenery,  that  presented  themselves 
to  his  observation,  we  shall  include  almost 
all  the  subjects  of  his  muse.  His  writings 
may,  therefore,  be  regarded  as  affording  a 
great  part  of  the  data  on  which  our  account 
of  his  personal  character  has  been  founded ; 
and  most  of  the  observations  we  have  ap- 
plied to  the  man,  are  applicable,  with  little 
variation,  to  the  poet. 

The  impression  of  his  birth,  and  of  hia 
original  station  in  life,  was  not  more  evident 
on  his  form  and  manners,  than  on  his 
poetical  productions.  The  incidents  which 
form  the  subjects  of  his  poems,  though  some 
of  them  highly  interesting,  and  susceptible 
of  poetical  imagery,  are  incidents  in  the  life 
of  a peasant  who  takes  no  pains  to  disguise 
the  lowliness  of  his  condition,  or  to  throw 
into  shade  the  circumstances  attending  it, 
which  more  feeble  or  more  artificial  min  da 
would  have  endeavoured  to  conceal.  The 
same  rudeness  and  inattention  appears  in 
the  formation  of  his  rhymes,  which  are 
frequently  incorrect,  while  the  measure  in 
which  many  of  the  poems  are  written  has 
little  of  the  pomp  or  harmony  of  modem 
versification,  and  is,  indeed,  to  an  English 
ear  strange  and  uncouth.  The  greater  part 
of  his  earlier  poems  are  written  in  the  dialect 
-of  his  country,  which  is  obscure,  if  not 
unintelligible,  to  Englishmen;  ard  which, 
though  it  still  adheres  more  or  less  to  the 
speech  of  almost  every  Scotsman,  all  tbs 
polite  and  the  ambitious  are  now  endeavour- 
ing to  banish  from  their  tongues  as  well  at 
their  writings.  The  use  of  it  in  composition 
naturally,  therefore,  calls  up  ideas  of  vul- 
garity in  the  mind.  These  singularities  are 
increased  by  the  character  of  the  poet,  who 
delights  to  express  himself  with  a simplicity 
that  approaches  to  nakedness*,  and  with  an 
unmeasured  energy  that  often  alarms  deli- 
cacy, and  sometimes  offends  taste.  Hence, 
in  approaching  him,  the  first  impression  is, 
perhaps,  repulsive  : there  is  an  air  of  coarse* 
ness  about  him,  which  is  difficultly  recon- 
ciled with  our  established  notions  of  poetical 
excellence. 

As  the  reader,  however,  becomes  better 
acquainted  with  the  poet,  the  effects  of  hia 
peculiarities  lessen.  He  perceives  in  hia 
poems,  even  on  the  lowest  subjects,  expres- 
sions of  sentiment,  and  delineations  of 
manners,  which  are  highly  interesting.  The 
scenery  he  describes  is  evidently  taken  from 
real  life ; the  characters  he  int  roduces,  and 
the. incidents  he  relates,  have  the  impression 
of  nature  and  truth.  His  humour,  though 


n 


LIIE  OF  BULOTL 


wild  and  unbridled,  is  irresistibly  amusing, 
and  is  sometimes  heightened  in  its  effects  by 
the  introduction  of  emotion?  of  tenderness, 
with  which  genuine  humour  so  happily 
unites.  Nor  is  this  the  extent  of  his  power. 
The  reader,  as  he  examines  farther,  discovers 
that  the  poet  is  not  confined  to  the  descrip- 
tive, the  humorous,  or  the  pathetic ; he  is 
found,  as  occasion  offers,  to  rise  with  ease 
into  the  terrible  and  the  sublime.  Every- 
where he  appears  devoid  of  artifice,  per- 
forming what  he  attempts  with  little  appa- 
rent effort,  and  impressing  on  the  offspring 
of  his  fancy  the  stamp  of  his  understanding. 
The  reader,  capable  of  forming  a just  esti- 
mate of  poetical  talents,  discovers  in  these 
circumstances  marks  of  uncommon  genius, 
and  is  willing  to  investigate  more  minutely 
its  nature  and  its  claims  to  originality.  This 
last  point  we  shall  examine  first. 

That  Burns  had  not  the  advantages  of  a 
classical  education,  or  of  any  degree  of  ac- 
quaintance with  the  Greek  or  Roman  writers 
in  their  original  dress,  has  appeared  in  the 
history  of  hi3  life.  He  acquired,  indeed, 
some  knowledge  of  the  French  language, 
but  it  does  not  appear  that  he  was  ever  much 
conversant  in  French  literature,  nor  is  there 
any  evidence  of  his  having  derived  any  of 
his  poetical  stores  from  that  source.  With 
the  English  classics  he  became  well  ac- 
quainted in  the  course  of  his  life,  and  the 
effect  of  this  acquaintance  are  observable  in 
his  later  productions ; but  the  character  and 
styie  of  his  poetry  were  formed  very  early, 
and  the  model  which  he  followed,  in  as  far 
as  he  can  be  said  to  have  had  one,  is  to  be 
sought  for  in  the  works  of  the  poets  who 
have  written  in  the  Scottish  dialect — in  the 
works  of  such  of  them  more  especially,  as 
are  familiar  to  the  peasantry  of  Scotland. 
Some  observations  on  these  may  form  a 
proper  introduction  to  a more  particular 
examination  of  the  poetry  of  Burns.  The 
studies  of  the  editor  in  this  direction  are 
indeed  very  recent  and  very  imperfect.  It 
would  have  been  imprudent  for  him  to  have 
entered  on  this  subject  at  all.  but  for  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre, 
whose  assistance  he  is  proud  to  acknowledge, 
and  to  whom  the  reader  must  ascribe 
whatever  is  of  any  value  in  the  following 
imperfect  sketch  of  literary  compositions  in 
the  Scottish  idiom. 

It  is  a circumstance  not  a little  curious, 
and  which  does  not  seem  to  be  satisfactorily 
explained,  that  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
the  language  of  the  two  British  nations,  if 
at  all  different,  differed  only  in  dialect,  the 
Gaelic  in  the  one,  like  the  Welsh  and  Ar- 


I moric  in  the  other,  being  confined  to  tlii 
i mountainous  districts.  The  English  under 
the  Edwards,  and  the  Scots  under  Wallace 
and  Bruce,  spoke  the  same  language.  We 
may  observe  also,  that  in  Scotland,  the  his- 
tory of  poetry  ascends  to  a period  nearly  as 
remote  as  in  England.  Barber,  and  Blind 
Harry,  James  the  First,  Dunbar,  Douglas, 
and  Lindsay,  who  lived  in  the  fourteenth, 
fifteenth,  and  sixteenth  centuries,  were  coeval 
with  the  fathers  of  poetry  in  England  ; and, 
in.  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Warton,  not  inferior 
to  them  in  genius  or  in  composition.  Though 
the  language  of  the  two  countries  gradually 
deviated  from  each  other  during  this  period, 
yet  the  difference  on  the  whole  was  not  con- 
siderable ; not  perhaps,  greater  than  between 
the  different  dialects  of  the  different  parts  cl 
England  in  our  own  time. 

At  the  death  of  James  V.  in  1542,  the 
language  of  Scotland  wa3  in  a flourishing 
condition,  wanting  only  writers  in  prose 
equal  to  those  in  verse.  Two  circumstances, 
propitious  on  the  whole,  operated  to  prevent 
this.  The  first  was  the  passion  of  the  Scots 
for  composition  in  Latin,  and  the  second, 
the  accession  of  James  VI.  to  the  English 
throne.  It  may  easily  be  imagined,  that  if 
Buchanan  had  devoted  his  admirable  talents, 
even  in  part,  to  the  cultivation  of  his  native 
tongue,  as  was  done  by  the  revivers  of  letters 
in  Italy,  he  would  have  left  compositions  in 
that  language  which  might  have  incited  othei 
men  of  genius  to  have  followed  his  ex- 
ample (121),  and  given  duration  to  the  lan- 
guage itself.  The  union  of  the  two  crowns 
in  the  person  of  James,  overthrew  all  rea- 
sonable expectation  of  this  kind.  That 
monarch,  seated  on  the  English  throne, 
would  no  longer  suffer  himself  to  be  ad- 
dressed in  the  rude  dialect  in  which  the 
Scottish  clergy  had  so  often  insulted  hi9 
dignity.  He  encouraged  Latin  or  English 
only,  both  of  which  he  prided  himself  on 
writing  with  purity,  though  he  himself  never 
could  acquire  the  English  pronunciation, 
but  spoke  with  a Scottish  idiom  and  intona- 
tion to  the  last.  Scotsmen  of  talents  de- 
clined writing  in  their  native  language,  which 
they  knew  was  not  acceptable  to  their 
learned  and  pedantic  monarch ; and  at  a 
time  when  national  prejudice  and  enmity 
prevailed  to  a great  degree,  they  disdained 
to  study  the  niceties  of  the  English  tongue, 
though  of  so  much  easier  acquisition  than 
a dead  language.  Lord  Stirling,  and  Drum* 
mond  of  Hawthorn  den,  the  only  Scotsmen 
who  wrote  poetry  in  those  times,  were  ex- 
ceptions. They  studied  the  language  oi 
England,  and  composed  in  it  with  precision 


LITERATURE  OF  SCOTLAND. 


7$ 


imd  elegance.  They  were,  however,  the  last 
of  their  countrymen  who  deserved  to  be 
considered  as  poets  in  that  century.  The 
muses  of  Scotland  sank  into  silence,  and  did 
not  again  raise  their  voices  for  a period  of 
eighty  years. 

To  what  causes  are  we  to  attribute  this 
extreme  depression  among  a people  compara- 
tively learned,  enterprising,  and  ingenious  ? 
Shall  we  impute  it  to  the  fanaticism  of  the 
Covenanters,  or  to  the  tyranny  of  the  house 
of  Stuart  after  their  restoration  to  the 
throne?  Doubtless  these  causes  operated, 
but  they  seem  unequal  to  account  for  the 
effect.  In  England,  similar  distractions  and 
oppression  took  place,  yet  poetry  flourished 
there  in  a remarkable  degree.  During  this 
period,  Cowley,  and  Waller,  and  Dry  den, 
sang,  and  Milton  raised  his  strain  of  unpa- 
ralleled grandeur.  To  the  causes  already 
mentioned,  another  must  be  added,  in 
accounting  for  the  torpor  of  Scottish  litera- 
ture— the  want  of  a proper  vehicle  for  men 
of  genius  to  employ.  The  civil  wars  had 
frightened  away  the  Latin  Muses,  and  no 
standard  had  been  established  of  the  Scottish 
tongue,  which  was  deviating  still  farther 
from  the  pure  English  idiom. 

The  revival  of  literature  in  Scotland  may 
be  dated  from  the  establishment  of  the 
Union,  or  rather  from  the  extinction  of  the 
rebellion  in  1715.  The  nations  being  finally 
incorporated,  it  was  clearly  seen  that  their 
tongues  must  be  in  the  end  incorporate  also ; 
or  rather,  indeed,  that  the  Scottish  language 
must  degenerate  into  a provincial  idiom,  to 
be  avoided  by  those  who  would  aim  at  dis- 
tinction in  letters,  or  rise  to  eminence  in  the 
united  legislature. 

Soon  after  this,  a band  of  men  of  genius 
appeared,  who  studied  the  English  classics, 
and  imitated  their  beauties,  in  the  same 
maimer  as  they  studied  the  classics  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  They  had  admirable  models  of 
composition  lately  presented  to  them  by  the 
writers  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne ; par- 
ticularly in  the  periodical  papers  published 
by  Steele,  Addison,  and  their  associated 
friends,  which  circulated  widely  through 
Scotland,  and  diffused  everywhere  a taste 
for  purity  of  style  and  sentiment,  and  for 
critical  disquisition.  At  length,  the  Scottish 
writers  succeeded  in  English  composition, 
and  an  union  was  formed  of  the  literary 
talents,  as  well  as  of  the  legislatures  of  the 
two  nations.  On  this  occasion  the  poets 
took  the  lead.  While  Henry  Home  (122), 
Dr.  Wallace,  and  their  learned  associates, 
were  only  laying  in  their  intellectual  stores, 
and  studying  to  clear  themselves  of  their 


Scottish  idioms,  Thomson,  Mallett,  a id 
Hamilton  of  Bangour,  had  made  their  ap- 
pearance before  the  public,  and  been  enrolled 
on  the  list  of  English  poets.  The  writers 
in  prose  followed — a numerous  and  powerful 
band — and  poured  their  ample  stores  into 
the  general  stream  of  British  literature. 
Scotland  possessed  her  four  universities  be- 
fore the  accession  of  James  to  the  English 
throne.  Immediately  before  the  Union,  she 
acquired  her  parochial  schools.  These  esta- 
blishments combining  happily  together,  made 
the  elements  of  knowledge  of  easy  acquisi- 
tion, and  presented  a direct  path  by  which 
the  ardent  student  might  be  carried  along 
into  the  recesses  of  science  or  learning.  As 
civil  broils  ceased,  and  faction  and  prejudice 
gradually  died  away,  a wider  field  was  opened 
to  literary  ambition,  and  the  influence  of  the 
Scottish  institutions  for  instruction,  on  the 
productions  of  the  press,  became  more  and 
more  apparent. 

It  seems,  indeed,  probable,  that  the  esta- 
blishment of  the  parochial  schools  produced 
effects  on  the  rural  muse  of  Scotland  also, 
which  have  not  hitherto  been  suspected,  and 
which,  though  less  splendid  in  their  nature, 
are  not,  however,  to  be  regarded  as  trivial, 
whether  we  consider  the  happiness  or  the 
morals  of  the  people. 

There  is  some  reason  to  believe,  that  the 
original  inhabitants  of  the  British  isles  pos- 
sessed a peculiar  and  an  interesting  species 
of  music,  which  being  banished  from  the 
plains  by  the  successive  invasions  of  the 
Saxong,  Danes,  and  Normans,  was  preserved 
with  the  native  race,  in  the  wilds  of  Ireland 
and  in  the  mountains  of  Scotland  and  Wales. 
The  Irish,  the  Scottish,  and  the  Welsh 
music,  differ  indeed  from  each  other,  but  the 
difference  may  be  considered  as  in  dialect 
only,  and  probably  produced  by  the  influence 
of  time,  and  like  the  different  dialects  of 
their  common  language.  If  this  conjecture 
be  true,  the  Scottish  music  must  be  more 
immediately  of  a Highland  origin,  and  the 
Lowland  tunes,  though  now  of  a character 
somewhat  distinct,  must  have  descended 
from  the  mountains  in  remote  ages.  What- 
ever credit  may  be  given  to  conjectures, 
evidently  involved  in  great  uncertainty,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Scottish  peasantry 
have  been  long  in  possession  of  a number  of 
song3  and  ballads  composed  in  their  native 
dialect,  and  sung  to  their  native  music. 
The  subjects  of  these  compositions  were 
such  as  most  interested  the  simple  inhabi- 
tants, and  in  the  succession  of  time  varied 
probably  as  the  condition  of  society  varied. 
During  the  separation  aid  the  hostility  of 


74 


LIFE  OP  BURNS. 


the  two  nations  these  songs  and  ballads,  as 
far  as  our  imperfect  documents  enable  us  to 
judge,  were  chiefly  warlike ; such  as  the 
Huntis  of  Cheviot,  and  the  Battle  of  Harlaw. 
After  the  union  of  thq  two  crowns,  when  a 
certain  degree  of  peace  and  of  tranquillity 
took  place,  the  rural  muse  of  Scotland 
breathed  in  softer  accents.  “In  the  want 
of  real  evidence  respecting  the  history  of 
our  songs,”  says  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre, 
u recourse  may  be  had  to  conjecture.  One 
would  be  disposed  to  think,  that  the  most 
t eautiful  of  the  Scottish  tunes  were  clothed 
with  new  words  after  the  union  of  the 
crowns.  The  inhabitants  of  the  borders, 
who  had  formerly  been  warriors  from  choice, 
and  husbandmen  from  necessity,  either 
quitted  the  country,  or  were  transformed 
into  real  shepherds,  easy  in  their  circum- 
stances, and  satisfied  with  their  lot.  Some 
sparks  of  that  spirit  of  chivalry  for  which 
they  are  celebrated  by  Froissart,  remained, 
sufficient  to  inspire  elevation  of  sentiment 
and  gallantry  towards  the  fair  sex.  The 
familiarity  and  kindness  which  had  long 
subsisted  between  the  gentry  and  the  pea- 
santry, could  not  all  at  once  be  obliterated, 
and  this  connexion  tended  to  sweeten  rural 
life.  In  this  state  of  innocence,  ease,  and 
tranquillity  of  mind,  the  love  of  poetry  and 
music  would  still  maintain  its  ground,  though 
it  would  naturally  assume  a form  congenial 
to  the  more  peaceful  state  of  society.  The 
minstrels,  whose  metrical  tales  used  once  to 
rouse  the  borderers  like  the  trumpet’s  sound, 
had  been,  by  an  order  of  the  legislature  (in 
1579),  classed  with  rogues  and  vagabonds, 
and  attempted  to  be  suppressed.  Knox  and 
his  disciples  influenced  the  Scottish  parlia- 
ment, but  contended  in  vain  with  her  rural 
muse.  Amidst  our  Arcadian  vales,  probably 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  or  some  of  its 
tributary  streams,  one  or  more  original 
geniuses  may  have  arisen,  who  were  destined 
to  give  a new  turn  to  the  taste  of  their 
countrymen.  They  would  see  that  the 
events  and  pursuits  which  chequer  private 
life  were  the  proper  subjects  for  popular 
poetry.  Love,  which  had  formerly  held  a 
divided  sway  with  glory  and  ambition,  be- 
came now  the  master  passion  of  the  soul. 
To  portray  in  lively  and  delicate  colours, 
though  with  a hasty  hand,  the  hopes  and 
fears  that  agitate  the  breast  of  the  love-sick 
swain,  or  forlorn  maiden,  affords  ample  scope 
to  the  rural  poet  Love-songs  of  which 
Tibullus  himself  would  .not  have  been 
asb -lined,  might  be  composed  by  an  unedu- 
cated rustic  with  a slight  tincture  of  letters; 
fur  if  m these  songs  the  character  of  the 


rustic  be  sometimes  assumed,  the  truth  o t 
character,  and  the  language  of  nature,  ara 
preserved.  With  unaffected  simplicity  and 
ten  derm  ss,  topics  are  urged  most  likely  to 
soften  the  heart  of  a cruel  and  coy  mistress, 
or  to  regain  a fickle  lover.  Even  in  such  as 
are  of  a melancholy  cast,  a ray  of  hope 
breaks  through,  and  dispels  the  deep  and 
settled  gloom  which  characterises  the  sweet- 
est of  the  Highland  luenigs,  or  vocal  airs. 
Nor  are  these  songs  all  plaintive ; many  of 
them  are  lively  and  humorous,  and  some 
appear  to  us  coarse  and  indelicate.  They 
seem,  however,  genuine  descriptions  of  the 
manners  of  an  energetic  and  sequestered 
people  in  their  hours  of  mirth  and  festivity, 
though  in  their  portraits  some  objects  are 
brought  into  open  view,  which  more  fasti- 
dious painters  would  have  thrown  into 
shade. 

As  those  rural  poets  sang  for  amusement, 
not  for  gain,  their  effusions  seldom  exceeded 
a love-song,  or  a ballad  of  satire  or  humour, 
which,  like  the  works  of  the  elder  minstrels, 
were  seldom  committed  to  writing,  but 
treasured  up  in  the  memory  of  their  friends 
and  neighbours.  Neither  known  to  the 
learned  nor  patronised  by  the  great,  these 
rustic  bards  lived  and  died  in  obscurity ; and 
by  a strange  fatality,  their  story,  and  even 
their  very  names,  have  been  forgotten.  (123) 
When  proper  models  for  pastoral  songs  were 
produced,  there  would  be  no  want  of  imita- 
tors. To  succeed  in  this  species  of  compo- 
sition, soundness  of  understanding,  and 
sensibility  of  heart,  were  more  requisite  than 
flights  of  imagination  or  pomp  of  numbers. 
Great  changes  have  certainly  taken  piace  in 
Scottish  song-writing,  though  we  cannot 
trace  the  steps  of  this  change ; and  few  of 
the  pieces  admired  in  Queen  Mary’s  time 
are  now  to  be  discovered  in  modern  collec- 
tions. It  is  possible,  though  not  probable, 
that  the  music  may  have  remained  nearly 
the  same,  though  the  words  to  the  tunes 
were  entirely  new-modelled.”  (124) 

These  conjectures  are  highly  ingenious. 
It  cannot,  however,  be  presumed,  that  the 
state  of  ease  and  tranquillity  described  by 
Mr.  Ramsay,  took  place  among  the  Scottish 
peasantry  immediately  on  the  union  of  the 
crowns,  or  indeed  during  the  greater  part  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  The  Scottish 
nation,  through  all  its  ranks,  was  deeply 
agitated  by  the  civil  wars,  and  the  religious 
persecutions  which  succeeded  each  other  in 
that  disastrous  period ; it  was  not  till  afcer 
the  revolution  in  1688,  and  the  subsequent 
establishment  of  their  beloved  form  of 
church  government,  that  the  peasantry  of 


COMPARISON  OF  SCOTTISH  POETS. 


fhc  Lowlands  enjoyed  comparative  repose ; 
and  it  is  since  that  period  that  a great 
number  of  the  most  admired  Scottish  songs 
have  been  produced,  though  the  tunes  to 
which  they  are  sung  are  in  general  of  much 
greater  antiquity.  It  fa  not  unreasonable  to 
suppose  that  the  peace  and  security  derived 
from  the  Revolution  and  the  Union,  pro- 
duced a favourable  change  on  the  rustic 
oetry  of  Scotland;  and  it  can  scarcely  be 
oubted,  that  the  institution  of  parish 
schools  in  1696,  by  which  a certain  degree 
of  instruction  was  diffused  universally  among 
the  peasantry,  contributed  to  this  happy 
effect. 

Soon  after  this  appeared  Allan  Ramsay, 
the  Scottish  Theocritus.  He  was  born  on 
the  high  mountains  that  divide  Clydesdale 
and  Annandale,  in  a small  hamlet  by  the 
banks  of  Glengonar,  a stream  which  descends 
into  the  Clyde.  The  ruins  of  this  hamlet 
are  still  shown  to  the  inquiring  traveller. 
He  was  the  son  of  a peasant,  and  probably 
received  such  instruction  as  his  parish-school 
bestowed,  and  the  poverty  of  his  parents  ad- 
mitted. (125)  Ramsay  made  his  appearance 
in  Edinburgh  in  the  beginning  of  the  present 
century,  in  the  humble  character  of  an  ap- 
prentice to  a barber,  or  peruke-maker ; he 
was  then  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  of  age. 
By  degrees  he  acquired  notice  for  his  social 
disposition,  and  his  talent  for  the  composi- 
tion of  verses  in  the  Scottish  idiom;  and, 
changing  his  profession  for  that  of  a book- 
seller, he  became  intimate  with  many  of  the 
literary,  as  well  as  the  gay  and  fashionable 
characters  of  his  time.  (126)  Having  pub- 
lished a volume  of  poems  of  his  own  in 
1721,  which  was  favourably  received,  he 
undertook  to  make  a collection  of  ancient 
Scottish  poems,  under  the  title  of  The  Ever- 
green, and  was  afterwards  encouraged  to 
present  to  the  world  a collection  of  Scottish 
songs.  “ From  what  sources  he  procured 
them,”  says  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre, 
“ whether  from  tradition  or  manuscript,  is 
uncertain.  As  in  the  Evergreen,  he  made 
some  rash  attempts  to  improve  on  the  origi- 
nals of  his  ancient  poems,  he  probably  used 
still  greater  freedom  with  the  songs  and 
ballads.  The  truth  cannot,  however,  be 
known  on  this  point,  till  manuscripts  of  the 
songs  printed  by  him  more  ancient  than  tike 
present  century,  shall  be  produced,  or  access 
be  obtained  to  his  own  papers,  if  they  are 
still  in  existence.  To  several  tunes  which 
either  wanted  words,  or  had  words  that 
were  improper  or  imperfect,  he,  or  his 
friends,  adapted  verses  worthy  of  the  melo- 
dies they  accompanied,  worthy  indeed  of  the 

8 


n 

golden  age.  These  verses  were  perfectly  in- 
telligible to  every  rustic,  yet  justly  admired 
by  persons  of  taste,  who  regarded  them  as 
the  genuine  offspring  of  the  pastoral  muse. 
In  some  respects,  Ramsay  had  advantage* 
not  possessed  by  poets  writing  in  the  Scot- 
tish dialect  in  our  days.  Songs  in  the  dialect 
of  Cumberland  or  Lancashire  could  never  be 
popular,  because  these  dialects  have  never 
been  spoken  by  persons  of  fashion.  But 
till  the  middle  of  the  present  century,  every 
Scotsman,  from  the  peer  to  the  peasant, 
spoke  a truly  Doric  language.  It  is  true, 
the  English  moralists  and  poets  were  by 
this  time  read  by  every  person  of  condition, 
and  considered  as  the  standards  for  polite 
composition.  But  as  national  prejudices 
were  still  strong,  the  busy,  the  learned,  the 
gay,  and  the  fair,  continued  to  speak  their 
native  dialect,  and  that  with  an  elegance 
and  poignancy,  of  which  Scotsmen  of  the 
present  day  can  have  no  just  notion.  I am 
old  enough  to  have  conversed  with  Mr. 
Spittal,  of  Leuchat,  a scholar  and  a man  of 
fashion,  who  survived  all  the  members  of 
the  Union  Parliament,  in  which  he  had  a 
seat.  His  pronunciation  and  phraseology 
differed  as  much  from  the  common  dialect, 
as  the  language  of  St.  James’s  from  that  of 
Thames  Street.  Had  we  retained  a court 
and  parliament  of  our  own,  the  tongues  of 
the  two  sister-kingdoms  would  indeed  have 
differed  like  the  Castilian  and  Portuguese ; 
but  each  would  have  had  its  own  classics, 
not  in  a single  branch,  but  in  the  whole 
circle  of  literature. 

“ Ramsay  associated  with  the  men  of  wit 
and  fashion  of  his  day,  and  several  of  them 
attempted  to  write  poetry  in  his  manner. 
Persons  too  idle  or  too  dissipated  to  think  of 
compositions  that  required  much  exertion, 
sncceeded  very  happily  in  making  tender 
sonnets  to  favourite  tunes  in  compliment  to 
their  mistresses,  and,  transformiug  them- 
selves into  impassioned  shepherds,  caught 
the  language  of  the  characters  they  assumed. 
Thus,  about  the  year  1731,  Robert  Crawford 
of  Auchinames  wrote  the  modern  song  of 
Tweed  Side  (127),  which  has  been  so  much 
admired.  In  1743,  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  the 
first  of  our  lawyers  who  both  spoke  and 
wrote  English  elegantly,  composed,  in  the 
character  of  a love-sick  swain,  a beautiful 
song,  beginning,  ‘ My  sheep  I neglected,  I 
lost  my  sheep-hook,’  on  the  marriage  of 
his  mistress,  Miss  Forbes,  with  Ronald 
Crawford.  And  about  twelve  years  after- 
wards, the  sister  of  Sir  Gilbert  wrote  the 
ancient  words  to  the  tune  of  the  Flowers  of 
the  Forest  (128),  and  supposed  to  allude  to 


76 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


the  battle  of  Flowden.  In  spite  of  the 
double  rhyme,  it  is  a sweet,  and,  though 
in  some  parts  allegorical,  a natural  expres- 
sion of  national  sorrow  The  more  modern 
words  to  the  same  tune,  beginning,  f I have 
seen  the  smiling  of  fortune,  beguiling/  were 
written  long  before  by  Mrs.  Cockburn,  a 
woman  of  great  wit,  who  outlived  all  the 
first  group  of  literati  of  the  present  century, 
all  of  whom  were  very  fond  of  her.  (129)  I 
was  delighted  with  her  company,  though, 
when  I saw  her,  she  was  very  old.  Much 
did  she  know  that  is  now  lost.” 

In  addition  to  these  instances  of  Scottish 
songs  produced  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
present  century,  may  be  mentioned  the 
ballad  of  Hardiknute,  by  Lady  Wardlaw; 
the  ballad  of  William  and  Margaret;  and 
the  song  entitled  the  Birks  of  Endermay, 
by  Mallett ; the  love-song,  beginning.  “ For 
ever  fortune,  wilt  thou  prove,”  produced  by 
the  youthful  muse  of  Thomson;  and  the 
exquisite  pathetic  ballad,  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow,  by  Hamilton  of  Bangour.  On  the 
revival  of  letters  in  Scotland,  subsequent  to 
the  Union,  a very  general  taste  seems  to 
have  prevailed  for  the  national  songs  and 
music.  “ For  many  years,”  says  Mr.  Ram- 
say, “the  singing  of  songs  was  the  great 
delight  of  the  higher  and  middle  order  of 
the  people,  as  well  as  of  the  peasantry ; 
and  though  a taste  for  Italian  music  has 
interfered  with  this  amusement,  it  is  still 
very  prevalent.  Between  forty  and  fifty 
years  ago,  the  common  people  were  not  only 
exceedingly  fond  of  songs  and  ballads,  but 
of  metrical  history.  Often  have  I,  in  my 
cheerful  morn  of  youth,  listened  to  them 
with  delight,  when  reading  or  reciting  the 
exploits  of  Wallace  and  Bruce  against  "die 
southrons.  Lord  Hailes  was  wont  to  call 
Blind  Harry  their  bible,  he  being  their  great 
favourite  next  to  the  Scriptures.  When, 
therefore,  one  in  the  vale  of  life  felt  the  first 
emotions  of  genius,  he  wanted  not  models 
iui  generis.  But  though  the  seeds  of 
poetry  were  scattered  with  a plentiful  hand 
among:  the  Scottish  peasantry,  the  product 
was  probably  like  that  of  pears  and  apples — 
of  a thousand  that  spring  up,  nine  hundred 
and  fifty  are  so  bad  as  to  set  the  teeth  on 
edge ; forty-five  or  more  are  passable  and 
useful ; and  the  rest  of  an  exquisite  flavour. 
Allan  Ilamsay  and  Burns  are  wildings  of 
this  last  description.  They  had  the  ex- 
ample of  the  elder  Scottish  poets;  they  were 
not  without  the  aid  of  the  best  English 
writers ; and,  what  was  still  of  more  im- 
portance, they  were  no  strangers  to  Hie 
ook  of  nature,  and  to  the  book  of  God.” 


“From  this  general  view,  it  is  apparent 
that  Allan  Ramsay  may  be  considered  as  in 
a great  measure  the  reviver  of  the  rural 
poetry  of  his  country.  His  collection  of 
ancient  Scottish  poems,  under  the  name  of 
The  Evergreen,  his  collection  of  Scottish 
songs,  and  his  own  poems,  the  principal  01 
which  is  the  Gentle  Shepherd,  have  been 
universally  read  among  the  peasantry  of  his 
country,  and  have  in  some  degree  superseded 
the  adventures  of  Bruce  and  Wallace,  as 
recorded  by  Barbour  and  Blind  Harry. 
Burns  was  well  acquainted  with  all  these. 
He  had  also  before  him  the  poems  of 
Fergusson  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  which 
have  been  produced  in  our  own  times,  and 
of  which  it  will  be  necessary  to  give  a short 
account. 

“ Fergusson  was  born  of  parents  who  had 
it  in  their  power  to  procure  him  a liberal 
education—a  circumstance,  however,  which 
in  Scotland  implies  no  very  high  rank  in 
society.  From  a well-written  and  appa- 
rently authentic  account  of  his  life  (130), 
we  learn  that  he  spent  six  years  at  the 
schools  of  Edinburgh  and  Dundee,  and 
several  years  at  the  universities  of  Edin- 
burgh and  St.  Andrews.  It  appears  that 
he  was  at  one  time  destined  for  the  Scottish 
church ; but,  as  he  advanced  towards  man- 
hood, he  renounced  that  intention,  and 
at  Edinburgh  entered  the  office  of  a writer 
to  the  signet — a title  which  designates  a 
separate  and  higher  order  of  Scottish  at- 
toinies.  Fergusson  had  sensibility  of  mind, 
a warm  and  generous  heart,  and  talenta 
for  society  of  the  most  attractive  kind. 
To  such  a man  no  situation  could  be 
more  dangerous  than  that  in  which  he  was 
placed.  The  excesses  into  which  he  was  led 
impaired  his  feeble  constitution,  and  he  sank 
under  them  in  the  month  of  October,  1774 
in  his  twenty-third  or  twenty-fourth  year. 
Burns  was  not  acquainted  with  the  poems 
of  this  youthful  genius  when  he  himself 
began  to  write  poetry ; and  when  he  first 
saw  them,  he  had  renounced  the  muses. 
But  while  he  resided  in  the  town  of  Irvine 
meeting  with  Fergusson’s  Scottish  Poems,  he 
informs  us  that  he  “strung  his  lyre  anew  with 
emulating  vigour.”  Touched  by  the  sympa- 
thy originating  in  kindred  genius,  and  in  the 
forebodings  of  similar  fortane,  Burns  re- 
garded Fergusson  with  a partial  and  an 
affectionate  admiration.  Over  his  grave  he 
erected  a monument,  as  has  already  been 
mentioned ; and  his  poems  he  has,  in  several 
instances,  made  the  subjects  of  his  imitation. 

From  this  account  of  the  Scottish  poems 
known  to  Burns,  those  who  .re  acquainted 


SCOTTISH  LITERATURE. 


with  them  w ill  see  that  they  are  chiefly 
humorous  or  pathetic,  and  under  one  or 
Other  of  these  descriptions  most  of  his  own 
oems  will  class.  Let  us  compare  him  with 
is  predecessors  under  each  of  these  points 
of  view,  and  close  our  examination  with  a 
few  general  observations. 

It  has  frequently  been  observed,  that 
Scotland  has  produced,  comparatively  speak- 
ing, few  writers  who  have  excelled  in  humour. 
But  this  observation  is  true  only  when  ap- 
plied to  those  who  have  continued  to  reside 
in  their  own  country,  and  have  confined 
themselves  to  composition  in  pure  English; 
and,  in  these  circumstances,  it  admits  of  an 
easy  explanation.  The  Scottish  poets  who 
have  written  in  the  dialect  of  Scotland,  have 
been  at  all  times  remarkable  for  dwelling  on 
subjects  of  humour,  in  which,  indeed,  many 
of  them  have  excelled.  It  would  be  e«,sy  to 
show,  that  the  dialect  of  Scotland  having 
become  provincial,  is  now  scarcely  suited  to 
the  more  elevated  kinds  of  poetry.  If  we 
may  believe  that  the  poem  of  Christis  Kirk 
of  the  Grene  was  written  by  James  I.  of 
Scotland  (131),  this  accomplished  monarch, 
who  had  received  an  English  education 
under  the  direction  of  Henry  IV.,  and  who 
bore  arms  under  his  gallant  successor,  gave 
the  model  on  which  the  greater  part  of  the 
humorous  productions  of  the  rustic  muse  of 
Scotland  has  been  formed.  Christis  Kirk 
of  the  Grene  was  reprinted  by  Ramsay 
somewhat  modernised  in  the  orthography, 
and  two  cantos  were  added  by  him,  in  which 
he  attempts  to  carry  on  the  design.  Hence 
the  poem  of  King  James  is  usually  printed 
in  Ramsay’s  works.  The  royal  bard  describes, 
in  the  first  canto,  a rustic  dance,  and  after- 
wards a contention  in  archery,  ending  in  an 
affray.  Ramsay  relates  the  restoration  of 
concord,  and  the  renewal  of  the  rural  sports, 
with  the  humours  of  a country  wedding. 
Though  each  of  the  poets  describes  the 
manners  of  his  respective  age,  yet  in  the 
whole  piece  there  is  a very  sufficient  unifor- 
mity— a striking  proof  of  the  identity  of 
character  in  the  Scottish  peasantry  at  the 
two  periods,  distant  from  each  other  three 
hundred  years.  It  is  an  honourable  dis- 
tinction to  this  body  of  men,  that  their  ' 
character  and  manners,  very  little  embel- 
lished, have  been  found  to  be  susceptible  of 
sn  amusing  and  interesting  species  of  poetry; 
and  it  must  appear  not  a little  curious,  that 
the  single  nation  of  modern  Europe  which 
assesses  an  original  rural  poetry,  should 
ave  received  the  model,  followed  by  their 
rustic  bards,  from  the  monarch  on  the 
throne* 


r ) , 

The  two  additional  cantos  to  Christis  Kirk 
of  the  Grene,  written  by  Ramsay,  though 
objectionable  in  point  of  delicacy,  are  among 
the  happiest  of  his  productions.  His  chief 
excellence,  indeed,  lay  in  the  description  of 
rural  characters,  incidents,  and  scenery ; for 
he  did  not  possess  any  very  high  powers 
either  of  imagination  or  of  understanding. 
He  was  well  acquainted  with  the  peasantry 
of  Scotland,  their  lives  and  opinions.  The 
subject  was  in  a great  measure  new ; his 
talents  were  equal  to  the  subject ; and  Re 
has  shown  that  it  may  be  happily  adapted  to 
pastoral  poetry.  In  his  Gentle  Shepherd, 
the  characters  are  delineations  from  nature, 
the  descriptive  parts  are  in  the  genuine  style 
of  beautiful  simplicity,  the  passions  and 
affections  of  rural  life  are  finely  pourtrayed, 
and  the  heart  is  pleasingly  interested  in  the 
happiness  that  is  bestowed  on  innocence  an£ 
virtue.  Throughout  the  whole  there  is  ai 
air  of  reality  which  the  most  careless  reade» 
cannot  but  perceive ; and,  in  fact,  no  poen 
ever  perhaps  acquired  so  high  a reputation, 
in  which  truth  received  so  little  embellish 
merit  from  the  imagination.  In  his  pastoral 
songs,  and  in  his  rural  tales,  Ramsay  appear r 
to  less  advantage  indeed,  but  still  with  cor  - 
siderable  attraction.  The  story  of  the  Mon/ 
and  the  Miller’s  Wife,  though  somevvhai 
licentious,  may  rank  with  the  happiest  pro- 
ductions of  Prior,  or  La  Fontaine.  But  when 
he  attempts  subjects  from  higher  life,  an i 
aims  at  pure  English  composition,  he  is 
feeble  and  uninteresting,  and  seldom  ever 
reaches  mediocrity.  Neither  are  his  familiar 
epistles  and  elegies  in  the  Scottish  dialect 
entitled  to  much  approbation.  Though 
Fergusson  had  higher  powers  of  imagination 
than  Ramsay,  his  genius  was  not  of  the 
highest  order ; nor  did  his  learning,  which 
was  considerable,  improve  his  genius.  His 
poems  written  in  pure  English,  in  which  he 
often  follows  classical  models,  though  supe- 
rior to  the  English  poems  of  Ramsay,  seldom 
rise  above  mediocrity;  but  in  those  com- 
posed in  the  Scottish  dialect  he  is  often  very 
successful.  He  was  in  general,  however, 
less  happy  than  Ramsay  in  the  subjects  of 
his  muse.  As  he  spent  the  greater  part  of 
his  life  in  Edinburgh,  and  wrote  for  hia 
amusement  in  the  intervals  of  business  or 
dissipation,  his  Scottish  poems  are  chiefly 
founded  on  the  incidents  of  a town  life, 
which,  though  they  are  susceptible  of  humour, 
do  not  admit  of  those  delineations  of  scenery 
and  manners,  which  vivify  the  rural  poetry 
of  Ramsay,  and  which  so  agreeably  amuse 
the  fancy  and  interest  the  heart.  The 
town-eclogues  of  Fergusson,  if  we  may  sq 


78 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


denominate  them,  are,  however,  faithful  to 
nature,  and  often  distinguished  by  a very 
happy  vein  of  humour.  His  poems  entitled 
The  Haft  Hays,  The  King’s  Birth-day  in 
Edinburgh,  Leith  Races,  and  the  Hallow 
Fair,  will  justify  this  character.  In  these, 
particularly  in  the  last,  he  imitated  Christis 
Kirk  of  the  Grene,  as  Ramsay  had  done 
before  him.  His  Address  to  the  Tron  Kirk 
Bell  is  an  exquisite  piece  of  humour,  which 
Burns  has  scarcely  excelled.  In  appreciating 
the  genius  of  Fergusson,  it  ought  to  be 
recollected,  that  his  poems  are  the  careless 
effusions  of  an  irregular  though  amiable 
young  man,  who  wrote  for  the  periodical 
papers  of  the  day,  and  who  died  in  early 
youth.  Had  his  life  been  prolonged  under 
happier  circumstances  of  fortune,  he  would 
probably  have  risen  to  much  higher  reputa- 
tion. He  might  have  excelled  in  rural  poetry; 
for  though  his  professed  pastorals,  on  the 
established  Sicilian  model,  are  stale  and 
uninteresting,  The  Farmer’s  Ingle  (132), 
which  may  be  considered  as  a Scottish  pas- 
toral, is  the  happiest  of  all  his  productions, 
and  certainly  was  the  prototype  of  the  Cot- 
ter’s Saturday  Night.  Fergusson,  and  more 
especially  Burns,  have  shown  that  the  cha- 
racter and  manners  of  the  peasantry  of 
Scotland  of  the  present  times,  are  as  well 
adapted  to  poetry  as  in  the  days  of  Ramsay, 
or  of  the  author  of  Christis  Kirk  of  the 
Grene. 

The  humour  of  Burns  is  of  a richer  vein 
than  that  of  Ramsay  or  Fergusson,  both  of 
whom,  as  he  himself  informs  us,  he  had 
u frequently  in  his  eye,  but  rather  witli  a 
view  to  kindle  at  their  flame,  than  to  servile 
imitation.”  His  descriptive  powers,  whether 
the  objects  on  which  they  are  employed  be 
comic  or  serious,  animate  or  inanimate,  are 
of  the  highest  order.  A superiority  of 
this  kind  is  essential  to  every  species  of 
poetical  excellence.  In  one  of  his  earlier 
poems,  his  plan  seems  to  be  to  inculcate 
& legion  of  contentment  on  the  lower 
classes  of  society,  by  showing  that  their 
superiors  are  neither  much  better  nor 
happier  than  themselves ; and  this  he 
chooses  to  execute  in  the  form  of  a dialogue 
between  two  dogs.  He  introduces  this 
dialogue  by  an  account  of  the  persons  and 
characters  of  the  speakers.  The  first,  whom 
he  has  named  Caesar,  is  a dog  of  con- 
dition:— 

44  His  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar, 

Show’d  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar.” 

Kigh-bred  though  he  is,  he  is,  however,  full 
of  condescension : — 


“ At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 

Nae  tawted  tyke,  tho’  e’er  so  duddie, 

But  he  wad  stan’t,  as  glad  to  see  him, 

And  stroan’t  on  stanes  and  hillocks  wi’ , him.* 

The  other,  Luath,  is  a “ ploughman’s  collie.** 
but  a cur  of  a good  heart  and  a sound  un- 
derstanding. 

“ His  honest,  sonsie,  bav  s’nt  face, 

Aye  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place 
His  breast  was  white,  his  towsie  back 
Weel  clad  wi’  coat  o’  glassy  black ; 

His  gaucie  tail , wi’  upward  curl , 

Hung  o’er  his  hurdles  wi’  a swirl.’* 

Never  were  twa  dogs  so  exquisitely  deli- 
neated. Their  gambols  before  they  sit  down 
to  moralise  are  described  with  an  equal  de- 
gree of  happiness;  and  through  the  whole 
dialogue,  the  character,  as  well  as  the  dif- 
ferent condition  of  the  two  speakers,,  is  kept 
in  view.  The  speech  of  Luath,  in  which  he 
enumerates  the  comforts  of  the  poor,  gives 
the  following  account  of  their  merriment  on 
the  first  day  of  the  year : — 

“ That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  win’s ; 

The  nappy  reeks  wi’  mantling  ream, 

And  sheds  a heart-inspiring  steam  ; 

The  luntin  pipe,  and  sneeshinmili. 

Are  handed  round  wi*  right  guid  will ; 

The  canty  auld  folks  crackin  crouse, 

The  young  anes  rantin  thro’  the  house — 

My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them. 
That  I for  joy  hae  barkit  wi’  them.” 

Of  all  the  animals  who  have  moralised  on 
human  affairs  since  the  days  of  Hi  sop,  the 
dog  seems  best  entitled  to  this  privilege,  as 
well  from  his  superior  sagacity  as  from  his 
being,  more  than  any  other,  the  friend  and 
associate  of  man.  The  dogs  of  Burns,  ex- 
cepting in  their  talent  for  moralising,  are 
downright  dogs ; and  not  like  the  horses  of 
Swift,  or  the  Hind  and  Panther  of  Bryden, 
men  in  the  shape  of  brutes.  It  is  this  cir- 
cumstance that  heightens  the  humour  of  the 
dialogue.  The  “ twa  dogs”  are  constantly 
kept  before  our  eyes,  and  the  contrast  be- 
tween their  form  and  character  as  dogs,  and 
the  sagacity  of  their  conversation,  heightens 
the  humour,  and  deepens  the  impression  of 
the  poet’s  satire.  Though  in  this  poem  the 
chief  excellence  may  be  considered  as  hu- 
mour, yet  great  talents  are  displayed  in  its 
composition;  the  happiest  powers  of  de- 
scription, and  the  deeptst  insight  into  the 
human  heart.  (133)  It  :s  seldom,  however, 
that  the  humour  of  Burns  appears  in  so 
simple  a form.  The  liveliness  of  his  sensi- 
bility frequently  impels  him  to  introduce 
into  subjects  of  humour  emotions  of  ten- 
derness or  of  pity;  and,  where  occasion- 
admits,  he  is  sometimes  carried  on  to  exert 


SCOTTISH  LITERATURE. 


79 


the  higher  powers  of  imagination.  In  such 

instances,  he  leaves  the  society  of  Ramsay 
and  of  Fergusson,  and  associates  himself 
with  the  masters  of  English  poetry,  whose 
language  he  frequently  assumes. 

Of  the  union  of  tenderness  and  humour, 
examples  may  be  found  in  The  Death  and 
Dying  Words  of  poor  Mailie,  in  The  Auld 
Farmer’s  New-Year’s  Morning  Salutation 
to  his  Mare  Maggie,  and  in  many  of  his 
other  poems.  The  praise  of  whisky  is  a 
favourite  subject  with  Burns.  To  this  he 
dedicates  his  poem  of  Scotch  Drink.  After 
mentioning  its  cheering  influence  in  a va- 
riety of  situations,  he  describes,  with  singular 
liveliness  and  power  of  fancy,  its  stimulating 
effects  on  the  blacksmith  working  at  his 
forge : — 

“ Nae  mercy,  then,  for  airn  and  steel ; 

The  brawnie,  bainie,  plougman  chiel, 

Brings  hard  ow re-hip,  wi’  sturdy  wheel, 
The  strong  fore-hammer, 

Till  block  and  studdie  ring  and  reel 
Wi’  dinsome  clamour.” 

On  another  occasion  (134),  choosing  to 
exalt  whisky  above  wine,  he  introduces  a 
comparison  between  the  natives  of  more 
genial  climes,  to  whom  the  vine  furnishes 
their  beverage,  and  his  own  countrymen  who 
drink  the  spirit  of  malt.  The  description  of 
the  Scotsman  is  humorous  : — 

“ But  bring  a Scotsman  frae  his  hill, 
Clap  in  his  cheek  a Highland  aill  (135), 
Say  such  is  royal  George’s  will, 

And  there’s  the  foe, 

He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 
Twa  at  a blow.” 

Here  the  notion  of  danger  rouses  the 
Imagination  of  the  poet.  He  goes  on 
thus  : — 

“Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  teaze 
him ; 

Death  comes— wi’  fearless  eye  he  sees  him, 
Wi’  bluidy  hand  a welcome  gies  him  ; 

And  when  he  fa’s. 

His  latest  draught  o’  breathing  lea’es  him 
In  faint  huzzas.” 

Again,  however,  he  sinks  into  humour, 
and  concludes  the  poem  with  the  following 
most  laughable  but  most  irreverent  apos- 
frephe 

“ Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  mither  ! 

Tho’  whyles  ye  moistify  your  leather, 

Till  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o’  heather, 

Ye  tine  your  dam  : 

Freedom  and  whiskey  gang  thegither — 

Tak  atf  your  dram  ! ” 

Of  this  union  of  humour  with  the  higher 
powers  of  imagination,  instances  may  be 
found  in  the  poem  entitled  Death  and  Dr. 
Hornbook,  and  in  almost  every  stanza  of 


the  Address  to  the  Deil,  one  of  the  happiest 
of  his  productions.  After  reproaching  this 
terrible  being  with  all  his  “doings”  and 
misdeeds,  in  the  course  of  which  he  passes 
through  a series  of  Scottish  superstition 
and  rises  at  times  into  a high  strain  of 
poetry,  he  concludes  this  address,  delivered 
in  a tone  of  great  familiarity,  not  altogether 
unmixed  with  apprehension,  in  the  following 
words  : — 

“But,  fare-ye  well,  auld  Nickie-benI 
Oh  wad  you  tak  a thought  and  men’  I 
Ye  aiblins  might— I dinna  ken — 

Sill  hae  a stake — 

I’m  wae  to  think  upon  yon  den 

E’en  for  your  sake ! * 

Humour  and  tenderness  are  here  so  happily 
intermixed,  that  it  is  impossible  to  say  which 
preponderates, 

Fergusson  wrote  a dialogue  between  the 
Causeway  and  the  Plainstones  (136)  of 
Edinburgh.  This  probably  suggested  to 
Burns  his  dialogue  between  the  Old  and 
the  New  Bridge  over  the  river  Ayr.  (137) 
The  nature  of  such  subjects  requires  that 
they  shall  be  treated  humorously,  and  Fer- 
gusson has  attempted  nothing  beyond  this. 
Though  the  Causeway  and  the  Plainstones 
talk  together,  no  attempt  is  made  to  per- 
sonify the  speakers.  A “cadie”  (138)  heard 
the  conversation,  and  reported  it  to  the 
poet. 

In  the  dialogues  between  the  Brigs  of 
Ayr,  Burns  himself  is  the  auditor,  and  the 
time  and  occasion  on  which  it  occurred  Is 
related  with  great  circumstantiality.  The 
poet,  “pressed  by  care,”  or  “inspired  by 
whim,”  had  left  his  bed  in  the  town  of  Ayr, 
and  wandered  out  alone  in  the  darkness  and 
solitude  of  a winter-night,  to  the  mouth  of 
the  river,  where  the  stillness  was  interrupted 
only  by  the  rushing  sound  of  the  influx  of 
the  tide.  It  was  after  midnight.  The  dun- 
geon-clock (139)  had  struck  two,  and  the 
sound  had  been  repeated  by  Wallace  Tower. 
(140)  All  else  was  hushed.  The  moon 
shone  brightly,  and 

“ The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam. 
Crept  gently  crusting,  o’er  the  glittering 
stream.” 

In  this  situation  the  listening  hard  hears  the 
“clanging  sugh”  of  wings  moving  through 
the  air,  and  speedily  he  perceives  two  beings 
reared,  the  one  on  the  Old,  the  other  on  the 
New  Bridge,  whose  form  and  attire  he  de- 
scribes, and  whose  conversation  with  each 
other  he  rehearses  These  genii  enter  into 
a comparison  of  the  respective  edinces  over 
which  they  preside,  and  afterwards,  as  is 
usual  between  the  old  and  young,  comport 


80 


Lira  OF  BURNS. 


modern  characters  and  manners  with  those 
of  past  times.  They  differ,  as  may  be  ex- 
pected, and  taunt  and  scold  each  other  in 
broad  Scotch.  This  conversation,  which  is 
certainly  humorous,  may  be  considered  as 
the  proper  business  of  the  poem.  As  the 
debate  runs  high,  and  threatens  serious  con- 
sequences, all  at  once  it  is  interrupted  by  a 
new  scene  of  wonders : — 

• “all  before  their  sight 

A fairy  train  appear’d  in  order  blight ; 

Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featlv 
danc’d ; [glanc’d ; 

Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses 
They  footed  o’er  the  wat’ry  glass  so  neat, 

The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet; 
While  arts  of  Minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 
And  soul-enobling  Bard's  heroic  ditties  sung.” 
* * * * 

“ The  Genius  of  the  Stream  in  front  appears — 
A venerable  chief,  advanc’d  in  years ; 

His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crown’d, 

His  manly  leg  with  garter-tangle  bound.” 

Next  follow  a number  of  other  allegorical 
beings,  among  whom  are  the  four  seasons. 
Rural  Joy,  Plenty,  Hospitality,  and  Cou- 
rage. 

“ Benevolence,  with  mild  benignant  air, 

A female  form,  came  from  the  tow’rs  of  Stair  ; 
Learning  and  wealth  in  equal  measures  trode, 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-iov’d  abode  ; 
Last,  white-rob’d  Peace,  crown’d  with  a hazel- 
wreath,  « 

To  rustic  Agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  Death ; 

At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their 
kind’ling  wrath.” 

This  poem,  irregular  and  imperfect  as  it 
is,  displays  various  and  powerful  talents,  and 
may  serve  to  illustrate  the  genius  of  Burns. 
In  particular,  it  affords  a striking  instance  of 
his  being  carried  beyond  his  original  purpose 
by  the  powers  of  imagination. 

In  Fergusson’s  poem,  the  Plainstones  and 
Causeway  contrast  the  characters  of  the 
different  persons  who  walked  upon  them. 
Burns  probably  conceived,  that  by  a dialogue 
between  the  Old  and  New  Bridge,  he  might 
form  a humorous  contrast  between  ancient 
and  modern  manners  in  the  town  of  Ayr. 
Such  a dialogue  could  only  be  supposed  ,to 
pass  in  the  stillness  of  night ; and  this  led 
our  poet  into  a description  of  a midnight 
scene,  which  excited  in  a high  degree  the 
powers  of  his  imagination.  During  the 
whole  dialogue  the  scenery  is  present  to  his 
fancy,  and  at  length  it  suggests  to  him  a 
fairy  dance  of  aerial  beings,  under  the  beams 
of  the  moon,  by  which  the  wrath  of  the 
Genii  of  the  Brigs  of  Ayr  is  appeased. 

Incongruous  as  the  different  parts  of  this 
poem  are,  it  is  not  an  incongruity  that  dis- 


pleases ; and  we  have  only  to  regret  that  tbl 
poet  did  not  bestow  a little  pains  in  making 
the  figures  more  correct,  and  in  smoothing 
the  versification. 

The  epistles  of  Burns,  in  which  may  ba 
included  his  Dedication  to  G.  H.,  Esq.,  dis- 
cover, like  his  other  writings,  the  powers  of 
a superior  understanding.  They  display 
deep  insight  into  human  nature,  a gay  and 
happy  strain  of  reflection,  great  independ- 
ence of  sentiment  and  generosity  of  heart. 
It  is  to  be  regretted,  that,  in  his  Holy  Fair, 
and  in  some  of  his  other  poems,  his  humour 
degenerates  into  personal  satire,  and  that  it 
is  not  sufficiently  guarded  in  other  respects. 
The  Halloween  of  Burns  is  free  from  every 
objection  of  this  sort.  It  is  interesting,  not 
merely  from  its  humorous  description  of 
manners,  but  as  it  records  the  spells  and 
charms  used  on  the  celebration  of  a festival, 
now  even  in  Scotland,  falling  into  neglect, 
but  which  was  once  observed  over  the  greater 
part  of  Britain  and  Ireland.  (141)  These 
charms  are  supposed  to  afford  an  insight 
into  futurity,  especially  on  the  subject  of 
marriage,  the  most  interesting  event  of  rural 
life.  In  the  Halloween,  a female,  in  per- 
forming one  of  the  spells,  has  occasion  to  go 
out  by  moonlight  to  dip  her  shift-sleeve  into 
a stream  running  towards  the  south.  It  was 
not  necessary  for  Burns  to  give  a description 
of  this  stream.  But  it  was  the  character  of 
his  ardent  mind  to  pour  forth  not  merely 
what  the  occasion  required,  but  what  is  ad- 
mitted ; and  the  temptation  to  describe  so 
beautiful  a natural  object  by  moonlight,  wai 
not  to  be  resisted — 

“ Whyles  owre  a linn  the  burnie  plays. 

As  through  the  glen  it  wimpl’t ; 

Whyles  round  a rocky  scaur  it  strays ; 
Whyles  in  a wiel  it  dim  pi’ t; 

Whyles  glitter’d  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi’  bickering,  dancing  dazzle ; 

Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes. 
Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

Unseen  that  night.” 

Those  who  understand  the  Scottish  dia- 
lect will  allow  this  to  be  one  of  the  finest 
instances  of  description  which  the  records  of 
poetry  afford.  (142)  Though  of  a very  different 
nature,  it  may  be  compared,  in  point  of  ex- 
cellence, with  Thomson’s  description  of  a 
river  s woollen  by  the  rains  of  winter,  burst- 
ing through  the  streiglits  that  confine  iti 
torrent,  “ boiling,  wheeling,  foaming,  and 
thundering  along.” 

In  pastoral,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly, 
in  rural  poetry  of  a serious  nature.  Burns 
excelled  equally  as  in  that  of  a humorous 
lurid ; and,  using  less  of  the  Scottish  dialecj 


SENSIBILITY  OF  BURNS. 


81 


In  Ilia  serious  poems,  he  becomes  more  ge- 
nerally intelligible.  It  is  difficult  to  decide 
whether  the  Address  to  a Mouse,  whose  nest 
was  turned  up  with  the  plough,  should  be 
considered  as  serious  or  comic.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  the  poem  is  one  of  the  happiest  and 
most  finished  of  bis  productions.  If  we 
smile  at  the  “ bickering  brattle”  of  this  little 
flying  animal,  it  is  a smile  of  tenderness 
and  pity.  The  descriptive  part  is  admirable ; 
the  moral  reflections  beautiful,  and  arising 
directly  out  of  the  occasion  ; and  in  the  con- 
clusion there  is  a deep  melancholy,  a sen- 
timent of  doubt  and  dread,  that  rises  to 
the  sublime.  The  address  to  a Mountain 
Daisy,  turned  down  with  the  plough,  is  a 
poem  of  the  same  nature,  though  somewhat 
inferior  in  point  of  originality,  as  well  as  in 
the  interest  produced.  To  extract  out  of 
incidents  so  common,  and  seemingly  so  tri- 
vial as  these,  so  fine  a train  of  sentiment 
and  imagery,  is  the  surest  proof,  as  well  as 
the  most  brilliant  triumph,  of  original  ge- 
nius. The  vision,  in  two  cantos,  from  which 
a beautiful  extract  is  taken  by  Mr.  Mackenzie, 
in  the  97th  number  of  The  Lounger,  is  a 
poem  of  great  and  various  excellence.  The 
opening,  in  which  the  poet  describes  his  own 
state  of  mind,  retiring  in  the  evening,  wea- 
ried from  the  labours  of  the  day,  to  moralise 
on  his  conduct  and  prospects,  is  truly 
interesting.  The  chamber,  if  we  may  so 
term  it,  in  which  he  sits  down  to  muse,  is 
an  exquisite  painting : 

44  There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle  cheek 

I sat  and  ey’d  the  spewing  reek, 

That  filled  wi’  hoast-provoking  sme«k 
The  auld  clay  biggin ; 

And  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 
About  the  riggin.” 

To  reconcile  to  our  imagination  the  en- 
trance of  an  aerial  being  into  a mansion  of  this 
kind,  required  the  powers  of  Burns — he 
However  succeeds.  Coila  enters,  and  her 
countenance,  attitude,  and  dress,  unlike 
those  of  other  spiritual  beings,  are  distinctly 
pourtrayed.  To  the  painting  on  her  mantle, 
on  which  is  depicted  the  most  striking 
scenery,  as  well  as  the  most  distinguished 
characters,  of  his  native  countrry,  some  ex- 
ceptions may  be  made.  The  mantle  of  Coila, 
like  the  cup  of  Thyrsis,  and  the  shield  of 
Achilles,  is  too  much  crowded  with  figures, 
•nd  some  of  the  objects  represented  upon 
it  are  scarcely  admissible,  according  to  the 
principles  of  design.  The  generous  tem- 
perament of  Burns  led  him  into  these 
exuberances.  In  his  second  edition  he  en- 
larged the  number  of  figures  originally 
introduced,  that  he  might  include  objects  to 
9 


which  he  was  attached  by  sentiments  of 
affection,  gratitude,  or  patriotism.  Th* 
second  duan,  or  canto,  of  this  poem,  in 
which  Coila  describes  her  own  nature  and 
occupations,  particularly  her  superinten- 
dence of  his  infant  genius,  and  in  which  she 
reconciles  him  to  the  character  of  a bard,  is 
an  elevated  and  solemn  strain  of  poetry, 
ranking  in  all  respects,  excepting  the  har- 
mony of  numbers,  with  the  higher  produc- 
tions of  the  English  muse.  The  concluding 
stanza,  compared  with  that  already  quoted; 
will  show  to  what  a height  Burns  rises  in 
this  poem;  from  the  point  at  which  he  set 
out: — 

“And  wear  thou  this—  she  solemn  said. 

And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head ; 

The  polished  leaves,  and  berries  red. 

Did  rustling  play  : 

And,  like  a passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away.”  * 

In  various  poems,  Burns  has  exhibited 
the  picture  of  a mind  under  the  deep  im- 
pressions of  real  sorrow.  The  Lament,  the 
Ode  to  Ruin,  Despondency,  and  Winter,  a 
Dirge,  are  of  this  character.  In  the  first  of 
these  poems,  the  8th  stanza,  which  describes 
a sleepless  night  from  anguish  of  mind,  is 
particularly  striking.  Burns  often  indulged 
in  those  melancholy  views  of  the  nature  and 
condition  of  man,  which  are  so  congenial 
to  the  temperament  of  sensibility.  The 
poem  entitled  Man  was  Made  to  Mourn, 
affords  an  instance  of  this  kind,  and  the 
Winter  Night  is  of  the  same  description. 
The  last  is  highly  characteristic,  both  of  the 
temper  of  mind,  and  of  the  condition  of 
Burns.  It  begins  with  a description  of  a 
dreadful  storm  on  a night  in  winter.  The 
poet  represents  himself  as  lying  in  bed,  and 
listening  to  its  howling.  In  this  situation 
he  naturally  turns  his  thoughts  to  the  owrie 
(143)  cattle , and  silly  (144)  sheep,  exposed 
to  all  the  violence  of  the  tempest.  Having 
lamented  their  fate,  he  proceeds  in  the  fol- 
lowing manner : — 

44  Ilk  happing  bird— wee,  helpless  thing! 
That,  in  the  merry  months  o’  spring, 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o’  thee  ? 

Whare  wilt  thou  cow’r  thy  chittering  wing. 
And  close  thy  ee ? ” 

Other  reflections  of  the  same  nature 
occur  to  his  mind;  and  as  the  midnight 
moon  “ muffled  with  clouds  ” casts  her 
dreary  light  on  his  window,  thoughts  of  a 
darker  and  more  melancholy  nature  crowd 
upon  him.  In  this  state  of  mind,  he  heart 
a voice  pouring  thro  ugh  the  gloom  a solemn 


82 


LIFE  OF  BUENS. 


and  plaintive  strain  of  reflection.  The 
mourner  compares  the  fury  of  the  elements 
with  that  of  man  to  his  brother  man,  and 
finds  the  former  light  in  the  balance. 
e*  See  stern  Oppression’s  iron  grip, 

Or  mad  Ambition’s  gory  hand, 

Sending,  like  bloodhounds  from  the  slip, 
Woe,  want,  and  murder,  o’er  the  land.” 
He  pursues  this  train  of  reflection 
through  a variety  of  particulars,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  introduces  the  following 
animated  apostrophe : — 

“Oh,  ye  ! who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 

Feel  not  a want  but  what  yourselves  create, 
Think,  for  a moment,  on  his  wretched  fate, 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  I 
111  -satisfied  keen  nature’s  clam’rous  call*, 
Stretch’d  on  his  straw  he  lays  him  down  to 
sleep, 

While  thro’  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky  wall, 
Chill  o’er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  heap.” 

The  strain  of  sentiment  which  runs 
through  this  poem  is  noble,  though  the  exe- 
cution is  unequal,  and  the  verification  is 
defective. 

Among  the  serious  poems  of  Bums,  The 
Cotter’s  Saturday  Night  is  perhaps  entitled 
to  the  first  rank.  The  Farmer’s  Ingle  of 
Fergusson  evidently  suggested  the  plan  of 
this  poem,  as  has  been  already  mentioned  ; 
but  after  the  plan  was  formed.  Burns  trusted 
entirely  to  his  own  powers  for  the  execution. 
Fergusson’s  poem  is  certainly  very  beautiful. 
It  has  all  the  charms  which  depend  on  rural 
characters  and  manners  happily  pourtrayed, 
and  exhibited  under  circumstances  highly 
grateful  to  the  imagination.  The  Farmer’s 
Ingle  begins  with  describing  the  return  of 
evening.  The  toils  of  the  day  are  over,  and 
the  farmer  retires  to  his  comfortable  fireside. 
The  reception  which  he  and  his  men-servants 
receive  from  the  careful  housewife,  is  pleas- 
ingly described.  After  their  supper  is  over, 
they  begin  to  talk  on  the  rural  events  of  the 
df-y. 

* ’Bout kirk  and  market  eke  their  tales'gaeon, 
How  Jock  woo’d  Jenny  here  to  be  his  bride  ; 
And  there  how  Marion  for  a bastard  son, 

Upo’  the  cutty-stool  was  forced  to  ride, 

The  waefu’  scauld  o’  our  Mess  John  to  bide.” 

The  “guidame”  is  next  introduced  as 
forming  a circle  round  the  fire,  in  the  midst 
of  her  grandchildren,  and  while  she  spins 
from  tlie  iuck,  and  the  spindle  plays  on  her 
" russet  lap,”  she  is  relating  to  the  young 
Ones  tales  of  witches  and  ghosts.  Thepcet 
exclaims, 

“Oil,  mock  na  this,  my  friends  I but  rather 
mourn, 

Ye  in  life’s  brawest  spring  wi’  reason  clear, 
Wi’  eild  our  idle  fancies  a’  return. 


And  dim  our  dolefu’  days  wi’  bairnly  fear; 
The  mind’s  aye  cradled  when  the  grave  ia 
near.” 

In  the  meantime,  the  farmer,  wearied  with 
the  fatigues  of  the  day,  stretches  himself  at 
length  on  the  settle,  a sort  of  rustic  couch 
which  extends  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  and 
the  cat  and  house-dog  leap  upon  it  to  re- 
ceive his  caresses.  Here  resting  at  his  ease, 
he  gives  his  directions  to  his  men-servants 
for  the  succeeding  day.  The  housewife 
follows  his  example,  and  gives  her  orders  to 
the  maidens.  By  degrees  the  oil  in  the 
cruise  begins  to  fail,  the  fire  runs  low,  sleep 
steals  on  this  rustic  group,  and  they  move 
off  to  enjoy  their  peaceful  slumbers.  The 
poet  concludes  by  bestowing  his  blessings 
on  the  “ husbandman  and  all  his  tribe.” 

This  is  an  original  and  truly  interesting 
pastoral.  It  possesses  every  thing  required 
in  this  species  of  composition.  We  might 
have  perhaps  said  every  thing  that  it  admits, 
had  not  Burns  written  his  Cotter’s  Saturday 
Night. 

The  cottager  returning  from  his  labours, 
has  no  servants  to  accompany  him,  to 
partake  of  his  fare,  or  to  receive  his  instruc- 
tions. The  circle  which  he  joins,  is  com- 
posed of  his  wife  and  children  only ; and  if 
it  admits  of  less  variety,  it  affords  an  oppor- 
tunity for  representing  scenes  that  more 
strongly  interest  the  affections.  The 
younger  children  running  to  meet  him,  and 
clambering  round  his  knee — the  elder,  re- 
turning from  their  weekly  labours  with  the 
neighbouring  farmers,  dutifully  depositing 
their  little  gains  with  their  parents,  and  re- 
ceiving their  father’s  blessing  and  instruc- 
tions— the  incidents  of  the  courtship  of 
Jenny,  their  eldest  daughter,  “woman 
grown” — are  circumstances  of  the  most  in- 
teresting kind,  which  are  most  happily  de- 
lineated ; and  after  their  frugal  supper,  the 
representation  of  these  humble  cottagers 
forming  a wider  circle  round  their  hearth, 
and  uniting  in  the  worship  of  God,  is  a 
picture  the  most  deeply  affecting  of  any 
which  the  rural  muse  has  ever  presented  to 
the  view.  Burns  was  admirably  adapted  to 
this  delineation.  Like  all  men  of  genius, 
he  was  of  the  temperament  of  devotion, 
and  the  powers  of  memory  co-operated  in 
this  instance  with  the  sensibility  of  his 
heart,  and  the  fervour  of  his  imagina- 
tion. (145)  The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night  is 
tender  and  moral,'  it  is  solemn  and  devo- 
tional, and  rises  at  length  into  a strain  of 
grandeur  and  sublimity,  which  modern 
poetry  has  not  surpassed.  The  noble  senti- 
ments of  patriotism  with  which  it  eon* 


BURNS’S  ORIGINALITY. 


88 


claries  correspond  with  the  rest  of  the 
poem  In  nc  age  or  country  have  the 
pastoral  muses  breathed  such  elevated 
accents  if  the  Messiah  of  Pope  be  excepted, 
which  is  indeed  a pastoral  in  form  only.  It 
is  to  btf  regretted  that  Burns  did  not  employ 
his  genius  on  other  subjects  of  the  same 
nature,  which  the  manners  and  customs  of 
the  Scottish  peasantry  would  have  amply 
supplied.  Such  poetry  is  not  to  be  esti- 
mated by  the  degree  of  pleasure  which  it 
bestows ; it  sinks  deeply  into  the  heart,  and 
is  calculated,  far  beyond  any  other  human 
means,  for  giving  permanence  to  the  scenes 
and  characters  it  so  exquisitely  describes. 

Before  we  conclude,  it  will  be  proper  to 
offer  a few  observations  on  the  lyric  produc- 
tions of  Burns.  His  compositions  of  this 
kind  are  chiefly  songs,  generally  in  the 
Scottish  dialect,  and  always  after  the  model 
of  the  Scottish  songs,  on  the  general  cha- 
racter and  moral  influence  of  which  some 
observations  have  already  been  offered.  We 
may  hazard  a few  more  particular  remarks. 

Of  the  historic  or  heroic  ballads  of  Scot- 
land, it  is  unnecessary  to  speak.  Burns  has 
nowhere  imitated  them,  a circumstance  to  be 
regretted,  since  in  this  species  of  composi- 
tion, from  its  admitting  the  more  terrible  as 
well  as  the  softer  graces  of  poetry,  he  was 
eminently  qualified  to  have  excelled  The 
Scottish  songs  which  served  as  a model  to 
Burns,  are,  almost  without  exception,  pas- 
toral, or  rather  rural.  Such  of  them  as  are 
Comic,  frequently  treat  of  a rustic  courtship 
or  a country  wedding  ; or  they  describe  the 
differences  of  opinion  which  arise  in  mar- 
ried life.  Burns  has  imitated  this  species, 
and  surpassed  his  models.  The  song,  be- 
ginning, “ Husband,  husband,  cease  your 
strife,’’  may  be  cited  in  support  of  this  ob- 
servation. (146)  His  other  comic  songs 
are  of  equal  merit.  In  the  rural  songs  of 
Scotland,  whether  humorous  or  tender,  the 
sentiments  are  given  to  particular  characters, 
and  very  generally,  the  incidents  are  re- 
ferred to  particular  scenery.  This  last 
circumstance  may  be  considered  as  the  dis- 
tinguishing feature  of  the  Scottish  songs, 
and  on  it  a considerable  part  of  their  attrac- 
tion depends.  On  all  occasions  the  senti- 
ments, of  whatever  nature,  are  delivered  in 
the  character  of  the  person  principally  in- 
terested. If  love  be  described,  it  is  not  as 
it  is  observed,  but  as  it  ia  felt ; and  the 
passion  is  delineated  under  a particular 
aspect.  Neither  is  it  the  fiercer  impulses  of 
desire  that  are  expressed,  as  in  the  celebrated 
ode  of  Sappho,  the  model  of  so  many 
modern  aonga.  but  those  gentler  emotions  of 


tenderness  and  affection,  which  do  not 
entirely  absorb  the  lover,  but  permit  him  to 
associate  his  emotions  with  the  charms  of 
external  nature,  and  breathe  the  accents  of 
purity  and  innocence,  as  well  as  of  love.  In 
these  respects,  the  love-songs  of  Scotland 
are  honorably  distinguished  from  the  most 
admired  classical  compositions  of  the  same 
kind ; and  by  such  associations,  a variety,  as 
well  as  liveliness,  is  given  to  the  representa- 
tion of  this  passion,  which  are  not  to  be 
found  in  the  poetry  of  Greece  or  Rome,  or 
perhaps  of  any  other  nation.  Many  of  the 
love-songs  of  Scotland  describe  scenes  of 
rural  courtship;  many  may  be  considered 
as  invocations  from  lovers  to  their  mis- 
tresses. On  such  occasions  a degree  of  in- 
terest and  reality  is  given  to  the  sentiments, 
by  the  spot  destined  to  these  happy  inter- 
views being  particularized.  The  lovers 
perhaps  meet  at  the  Bush  aboon  Traquair, 
or  on  the  banks  of  Ettrick;  the  nymphs 
are  invoked  to  wander  among  the  wilds  of 
Roslin,  or  the  woods  of  Invermay.  Nor  is 
the  spot  merely  pointed  out ; the  scenery  i3 
often  described  as  well  as  the  characters,  so 
as  to  present  a complete  picture  to  the 
fancy.  (147)  Thus  the  maxim  of  Horace  ut 
pictura  poesis,  is  faithfully  observed  by  these 
rustic  bards,  who  are  guided  by  the  same 
impulse  of  nature  and  sensibility  which  in- 
fluenced the  father  of  epic  poetry,  on  whose 
example  the  precept  of  the  Roman  poet  was 
perhaps  founded.  By  this  means  the  imagi- 
nation is  employed  to  interest  the  feelings. 
When  we  do  not  conceive  distinctly,  we  do 
not  sympathise  deeply  in  any  human  affec- 
tion ; and  we  conceive  nothing  in  the  ab- 
stract. Abstraction,  so  useful  in  morals, 
and  so  essential  in  science,  must  be  aban- 
doned when  the  heart  is  to  he  subdued  by 
the  powers  of  poetry  or  of  eluquence.  The 
bards  of  a ruder  condition  of  society  paint 
individual  objects ; and  hence,  among  other 
causes,  the  easy  access  they  obtain  to  che 
heart.  Generalization  is  the  vice  of  poets 
whose  learning  overpowers  their  genius ; of 
poets  of  a refined  and* scientific  age. 

The  dramatic  style  which  prevails  90 
much  in  the  Scottish  songs,  while  it  con- 
tributes greatly  to  the  interest  they  excite, 
also  shows  that  they  have  originated  among 
a people  in  the  earlier  stages  of  society 
Where  this  form  of  composition  appears  ii» 
songs  of  a modern  date,  it  indicates  that 
they  have  been  written  after  *he  ancient 
model.  (148)  ' 

The  Scottish  songs  are  of  very  unequal 
poetical  merit,  and  this  inequality  often 
extends  to  the  different  parts  of  the  same 


81 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


sons'  Those  that  are  humorous,  or  cha- 
racteristic of  manners,  have  in  general  the 
merit  of  copying  nature;  those  that  are 
serious,  are  tender,  and  often  sweetly 
interesting,  but  seldom  exhibit  high  powers 
of  imagination,  which  indeed  do  not  easily 
find  a place  in  this  species  of  composition. 
The  alliance  of  the  words  of  the  Scottish 
songs  with  the  music,  has  in  some  instance 
given  to  the  former  a popularity,  which 
otherwise  they  would  not  have  obtained. 

The  association  of  the  words  and  the 
music  of  these  songs,  with  the  more  beau- 
tiful parts  of  the  scenery  of  Scotland, 
contributes  to  the  same  effect.  It  has  given 
them  not  merely  popularity,  but  perma- 
nence ; it  has  imparted  to  the  works  of  man 
some  portion  of  the  durability  of  the  works 
of  nature.  If,  from  our  imperfect  ex- 
perience of  the  past,  we  may  judge  with 
any  confidence  respecting  the  future,  songs 
of  this  description  are  of  all  others  least 
likely  to  die.  In  the  changes  of  language 
they  may  no  doubt  suffer  change ; but  the 
associated  strain  of  sentiment  and  of  music 
will  perhaps  survive,  while  the  clear  stream 
sweeps  down  the  vale  of  Yarrow,  or  the 
yellow  broom  waves  on  Cowden-Knowes. 

The  first  attempts  of  Burns  in  song- 
tfriting  were  not  very  successful.  His 
habitual  inattention  to  the  exactness  of 
rhymes,  and  to  the  harmony  of  numbers, 
arising  probably  from  the  models  on  which 
his  versification  was  formed,  were  faults 
likely  to  appear  to  more  disadvantage  in 
•tfiis  species  of  composition  than  in  any 
other ; and  we  may  also  remark,  that  the 
strength  of  his  imagination,  and  the 
exuberance  of  his  sensibility,  were  with 
difficulty  restrained  within  the  limits  of 
gentleness,  delicacy,  and  tenderness,  which 
seemed  to  be  assigned  to  the  love-songs  of 
his  nation.  Burns  was  better  adapted  by 
nature  for  following,  in  such  compositions, 
the  model  of  the  Grecian  than  of  the 
Scottish  muse.  By  study  and  practice,  he 
however  surmounted  all  these  obstacles. 
In  his  earlier  songs,  there  is  some  rugged- 
ness, but  this  gradually  disappears  in  his 
successive  efforts;  and  some  of  his  later 
compositions  of  this  kind  may  be  compared, 
in  polished  delicacy,  with  the  finest  songs  in 
our  language,  while  in  the  eloquence  of 
sensibility  they  surpass  them  all. 

The  songs  of  Burns,  like  the  models  he 
followed  and  excelled,  are  often  dramatic, 
and  for  the  greater  part  amatory ; and  the 
beauties  of  rural  nature  are  everywhere 
associated  with  the  passions  and  emotions 
of  the  mind.  Disdaining  to  copy  the  works 


of  others,  he  has  not,  like  some  poets  of 
great  name,  admitted  into  his  descriptions 
exotic  imagery.  The  landscapes  he  has 
painted,  and  the  objects  witn  which  they  ara 
embellished,  are,  in  every  single  instance, 
such  as  are  to  be  found  in  his  own  country. 
In  a mountainous  region,  especially  when  it 
is  comparatively  rude  and  naked,  the  most 
beautiful  scenery  will  always  be  found  in  the 
vallies,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  wooded 
streams.  Such  scenery  is  peculiarly  inter- 
esting  at  the  close  of  a summer-day.  As  we 
advance  northwards,  the  number  of  the  days 
of  summer,  indeed  diminishes;  but  from 
this  cause,  as  well  as  from  the  mildness  of 
the  temperature,  the  attraction  of  the 
season  increases,  and  the  summer  night 
becomes  still  more  beautiful.  The  greater 
obliquity  of  the  sun’s  path  on  the  ecliptic, 
prolongs  the  grateful  season  of  twilight  to 
the  midnight  hours ; and  the  shades  of  the 
evening  seem  to  mingle  with  the  morning’s 
dawn.  The  rural  poets  of  Scotland,  as  may 
be  expected,  associate  in  their  songs  the 
expressions  of  passion  with  the  most 
beautiful  of  their  scenery,  in  the  fairest 
season  of  the  year,  and  generally  in  those 
hours  of  the  evening  when  the  beauties  oi 
nature  are  most  interesting.  (149.) 

To  all  these  adventitious  circumstance^ 
on  which  so  much  of  the  effect  of  poetry 
depends,  great  attention  is  paid  by  Burns. 
There  is  scarcely  a single  song  of  his,  in 
which  particular  scenery  is  not  described,  or 
allusions  made  to  natural  objects,  remarkable 
for  beauty  or  interest ; and  though  his 
descriptions  are  not  so  full  as  are  sometimes 
met  with  in  the  older  Scottish  songs,  they 
are  in  the  highest  degree  appropriate  and 
interesting.  Instances  in  proof  of  this 
might  be  quoted  from  the  Lea  Rig,  High- 
land Mary,  the  Soldier’s  Return,  Logan 
Water ; from  that  beautiful  pastoral, 
Bonnie  Jean,  and  a great  number  of  others. 
Occasionally  the  force  of  his  genius  carries 
him  beyond  the  usual  boundaries  of  Scottish 
song,  and  the  natural  objects  introduced 
have  more  of  the  character  of  sublimity.  An 
instance  of  this  kind  is  noticed  by  Mr. 
Syme,  and  many  others  might  be  adduced : 

“ Had  I a cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore. 
Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  wave’s  dashing 
roar  ; 

There  would  I weep  my  woes, 

There  seek  my  lost  repose, 

Till  grief  my  eyes  should  closer 
Ne’er  to  wake  more.” 

In  one  song,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in 
a winter  night,  the  “wan  moon”  is  des- 
cribed as  “ setting  behind  the  white  waves 


REMARKS  ON  THE  DIALECT. 


85 


In  another,  the  " storms”  are  apo  strophised, 
and  commanded  to  "rest  in  the  cave  of 
their  slumbers.”  On  several  occasions,  the 
genius  of  Burns  lost  sight  entirely  of  his 
archetypes,  and  rises  into  a strain  of  uniform 
sublimity.  Instances  of  this  kind  appear  in 
Libertie,  a Vision ; and  in  his  two  war- 
Bongs,  Bruce  to  his  Troops,  and  the  Song  of 
Death.  These  last  are  of  a description  of 
which  we  have  no  other  in  our  language. 
The  martial  songs  of  our  nation  are  not 
military,  but  naval.  If  we  were  to  seek  a 
comparison  of  these  songs  of  Burns  with 
others  of  a similar  nature,  we  must  have 
recourse  to  the  poetry  of  ancient  Greece,  or 
of  modern  Gaul. 

Burns  has  made  an  important  addition  to 
the  songs  of  Scotland.  In  his  compositions, 
the  poetry  equals  and  sometimes  surpasses 
the  music.  He  has  enlarged  the  poetical 
scenery  of  his  country,  Many  of  her  rivers 
and  mountains,  formerly  unknown  to  the 
muse,  are  now  consecrated  by  his  immortal 
Terse.  The  Doon,  the  Lugar,  the  Ayr,  the 
Kith,  and  the  Cluden,  will  in  future,  like 
the  Yarrow,  the  Tweed,  and  the  Tay,  be 
considered  as  classical  streams,  and  their 
borders  will  be  trodden  with  new  and 
superior  emotions. 

The  greater  part  of  the  songs  of  Burns 
were  written  after  he  removed  into  the 
county  of  Dumfries.  Influenced,  perhaps, 
by  habits  formed  iri  early  life,  he  usually 
composed  while  walking  in  the  open  air. 
When  engaged  in  writing  these  songs,  his 
favourite  walks  were  on  the  banks  of  the 
Nith,  or  of  the  Cluden,  particularly  near  the 
ruins  of  Lincluden  Abbey ; and  this  beauti- 
ful scenery  he  has  very  happily  described 
under  various  aspects,  as  it  appears  during 
the  softness  and  serenity  of  evening,  and 
daring  the  stillness  and  solemnity  of  the 
moonlight  night. 

There  is  no  species  of  poetry,  the  produc- 
tions of  the  drama  not  excepted,  so  much 
calculated  to  influence  the  morals,  as  well  as 
the  happiness  of  a people,  as  those  popular 
verses  which  are  associated  with  national 
airs : and  which  being  learnt  in  the  years  of 
infancy,  make  a deep  impression  on  the 
heart  before  the  evolution  of  the  powers  of 
the  understanding.  The  compositions  of 
Burns  of  this  kind,  now  presented  in  a col- 
lected form  to  the  world,  make  a most  im- 
portant addition  to  the  popular  songs  of  his 
nation.  Like  all  his  other  writings,  they 
exhibit  independence  of  sentiment ; they  are 
peculiarly  calculated  to  increase  those  ties 
which  bind  generous  hearts  to  their  native 
•oil,  and  to  the  domestic  circle  of  their  in- 


fancy; and  to  cherish  those  sensibilities 
which,  under  due  restriction,  form  the  purest 
happiness  of  our  nature.  If  in  his  unguarded 
moments  he  composed  some  songs  on  which 
this  praise  cannot  be  bestowTed,  let  us  hope 
that  they  will  speedily  be  forgotten.  In 
several  instances  where  Scottish  airs  were 
allied  to  words  objectionable  in  point  of 
delicacy.  Burns  has  substituted  others  of  a 
purer  character.  On  such  occasions,  without 
changing  the  subject,  he  has  changed  the 
sentiments.  A proof  of  this  may  be  seen  in 
the  air  of  John  Anderson  my  Joe,  wdiich  is 
now  united  to  words  that  breathe  a strain  of 
conjugal  tenderness,  that  is  as  highly  moral 
as  it  is  exquisitely  affecting. 

Few  circumstances  could  afford  a more 
striking  proof  of  the  strength  of  Burns’s 
genius,  than  the  general  circulation  of  his 
poems  in  England,  notwithstanding  the 
dialect  in  which  the  greater  part  are  written, 
and  which  might  be  supposed  to  render  them 
here  uncouth  or  obscure.  In  some  instances 
he  has  used  this  dialect  on  subjects  of  a 
sublime  nature ; but  in  general  he  confines 
it  to  sentiments  or  description  of  a tender 
or  humorous  kind ; and,  where  he  rises  into 
elevation  of  thought,  he  assumes  a purer 
English  style.  The  singular  faculty  he  pos- 
sessed of  mingling  in  the  same  poem  humo- 
rous sentiments  and  descriptions  with  imagery 
of  a sublime  and  terrific  nature,  enabled  him 
to  use  this  variety  of  dialect  on  some  occa- 
sions with  striking  effect.  His  poem  of  Tam 
o’  Shanter  affords  an  instance  of  this.  There 
he  passes  from  a scene  of  the  lowest  humour 
to  situations  of  the  most  awful  and  terrible 
kind.  He  is  a musician  that  runs  from  the 
lowest  to  the  highest  of  his  keys ; and  the 
use  of  the  Scottish  dialect  enables  him  to 
add  twro  additional  notes  to  the  bottom  of 
his  scale. 

Great  efforts  have  been  made  by  the  in- 
habitants of  Scotland,  of  the  superior  ranks, 
to  approximate  in  their  speech  to  the  pure 
English  standard.  Yet  an  Englishman  who 
understands  the  meaning  of  the  Scottish 
words,  is  not  offended,  nay,  on  certain  subjects, 
he  is,  perhaps,  pleased  with  the  rustic  dialect. 

But  a Scotchman  inhabiting  his  owm 
country,  if  a man  of  education,  and  more 
especially  if  a literary  character,  has  banished 
such  words  from  his  writings,  and  has  at- 
tempted to  banish  them  from  his  speech. . 
A dislike  of  this  kind  is,  however,  ac- 
cidental, not  natural.  It^b  of  the  species 
of  disgust  which  we  feel  at  seeing  a female 
of  high  birth  in  the  dress  of  a rustic; 
which,  if  she  be  really  young  and  beautiful, 
a little  habit  will  enable  us  to  overcome.  A 


86 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


lady  who  assumes  such  a dress  puts  her 
beauty,  indeed,  to  a severer  trial.  She  re- 
jects— she,  indeed,  opposes  the  influence  of 
fashion ; she,  possibly,  abandons  the  grace 
of  elegant  and  flowing  drapery;  but  her 
native  charms  remain,  the  more  striking, 
perhaps,  because  the  less  adorned,  and  to 
these  she  trusts  for  fixing  her  empire  on 
those  affections  over  which  fashion  has  no 
sway.  If  she  succeeds,  a new  association 
arises.  The  dress  of  the  beautiful  rustic  be- 
comes itself  beautiful,  and  establishes  a 
new  fashion  for  the  young  and  the  gay. 
And  when,  in  after  ages,  the  contemplative 
observer  shall  view  her  picture  in  the  gallery 
that  contains  the  portraits  of  the  beauties  of 
successive  centuries,  each  in  the  dress  of  her 
respective  day,  her  drapery  will  not  deviate, 
more  than  that  of  her  rivals,  from  the 
standard  of  his  taste,  and  he  will  give  the 
palm  to  her  who  excels  in  the  lineaments  of 
nature. 

Burns  wrote  professedly  for  the  peasantry 
of  his  country,  and  by  them  their  native 
dialect  is  universally  relished.  To  a nume- 
rous class  of  the  natives  of  Scotland  of  another 
description,  it  may  also  be  considered  as 
attractive  in  a different  point  of  view. 
Estranged  from  their  native  soil,  and  spread 
over  foreign  lands,  the  idiom  of  their  country 
unites  with  the  sentiments  and  the  descrip- 
tions on  which  it  is  employed,  to  recal  to 
their  minds  the  interesting  scenes  of  infancy 
and  youth — to  awaken  many  pleasing,  many 
tender  recollections.  Literary  men,  residing 
at  Edinburgh  or  Aberdeen,  cannot  judge  on 
this  point  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
of  their  expatriated  countrymen.  (150) 

To  the  use  of  the  Scottish  dialect  in  one 
species  of  poetry,  the  composition  of  songs, 
the  taste  of  the  public  has  been  for  some 
time  reconciled.  The  dialect  in  question 
excels,  as  has  already  been  observed,  in  the 
copiousness  and  exactness  of  its  terms  for 
natural  objects;  and  in  pastoral  or  rural 
songs,  it  gives  a Doric  simplicity  which  is 
very  generally  approved.  Neither  does  the 
regret  seem  well  founded  which  some  persons 
of  taste  have  expressed,  that  Burns  used  this 
dialect  in  so  many  other  of  his  compositions. 
His  declared  purpose  was  to  paint  the  man- 
ners of  rustic  life  among  his  “ humble  com- 
peers,” and  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive,  that 
this  could  have  been  done  with  equal  humour 
and  effect,  if  he  had  not  adopted  their  idiom. 
There  are  some,  in#ed,  who  will  think  the 
subject  too  low  for  poetry.  Persons  of  this 
sickly  taste  will  find  their  delicacies  consulted 


in  many  a polite  and  learned  author ; lei 
them  not  seek  for  gratification  in  the  rough 
and  vigorous  lines,  in  the  unbridled  humour, 
or  in  the  overpowering  sensibility  of  this 
bard  of  nature. 

To  determine  the  comparative  merit  of 
Burns  would  be  no  easy  task.  Many  per- 
sons, afterwards  distinguished  in  literature, 
have  been  bora  in  as  humble  a situation  of 
life;  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any 
other,  who,  while  earning  hi's  subsistence  by 
daily  labour,  has  written  verses  which  have 
attracted  and  retained  universal  attention, 
and  which  are  likely  to  give  the  author  ft 
permanent  and  distinguished  place  among 
'the  followers  of  the  muses.  If  he  is  deficient 
in  grace,  he  is  distinguished  for  ease  as  well 
as  energy;  and  these  are  indications  of  the 
higher  order  of  genius.  The  father  of  epic 
poetry  exhibits  one  of  hi's  heroes  as  excelling 
in  strength,  another  in  swiftness — to  form 
his  perfect  warrior,  these  attributes  are  com- 
bined. Every  species  of  intellectual  supe- 
riority admits,  perhaps,  of  a similar  arrange- 
ment. One  writer  excels  in  force — another 
in  ease;  he  is  superior  to  them  both,  in 
whom  both  these  qualities  are  united.  Of 
Homer  himself  it  may  be  said,  that,  like  his 
own  Achilles,  he  surpasses  his  competitors 
in  mobility  as  well  as  strength. 

The  force  of  Burns  lay  in  the  powers  of 
his  understanding  and  in  the  sensibility  of 
his  heart ; and  these  will  be  found  to  infuse 
the  living  principle  into  all  the  works  of 
genius  which  seem  destined  to  immortality. 
His  sensibility  had  an  uncommon  range. 
He  was  alive  to  every  species  ol  emotion. 
He  is  one  of  the  few  poets  that  can  be  men- 
tioned, who  have  at  once  excelled  in  humour, 
in  tenderness,  and  in  sublimity;  a praise 
unknown  to  the  ancients,  and  which  in 
modern  times  is  only  due  to  Ariosto,  to 
Shakspeare,  and  perhaps  to  Voltaire.  To 
compare  the  writings  of  the  Scottish  peasants 
with  the  works  of  these  giants  in  literature, 
might  appear  presumptuous  ; yet  it  may  be 
asserted  that  he  has  displayed  the  foot  of 
Hercules.  How  near  he  might  have  ap- 
proached them  by  proper  culture,  with 
lengthened  years,  and  under  happier  auspices, 
it  is  not  for  us  to  calculate.  But  while  we 
run  over  the  melancholy  story  of  his  life,  it 
is  impossible  not  to  heave  a sigh  at  the 
asperity  of  his  fortune ; and  as  we  survey 
the  records  of  his  mind,  it  is  easy  to  see, 
that  out  of  such  materials  have  been  reared 
the  fairest  and  the  most  durable  of  tha 
mouumeuts  of  geuius. 


LETTER  FROM  GILBERT  BURNS  TO  DR.  CURRIE, 


sr 


Srfiarts  ftnra  'jCittirs. 


FROM  GILBERT  BURNS  TO  DR.  CURRIE, 

RESPECTING  THE  COMPOSITION  OF  HIS 

brother’s  POEMS. 

“ Mossgiel,  2nd  April,  1798. 
w I cannot  pretend  to  be  very  accurate  in 
respect  to  the  dates  of  the  poems,  but  none 
of  them,  excepting  Winter,  a Dirge  (which 
was  a juvenile  production).  The  Death  and 
Dying  Words  of  poor  Mailie,  and  some  of 
the  songs,  were  composed  before  the  year 
1784.  The  circumstances  of  the  poor  sheep 
were  pretty  much  as  he  has  described  them. 

“Among  the  earliest  of  his  poems  was 
the  Epistle  to  Davie.  Robert  often  com- 
posed without  any  regular  plan.  When 
anything  made  a strong  impression  on  his 
mind,  so  as  to  rouse  it  to  poetic  exertion,  he 
would  give  way  to  the  impulse,  and  embody 
the  thought  in  rhyme.  If  he  hit  on  two  or 
three  stanzas  to  please  him,  he  would  then 
think  of  proper  introductory,  connecting, 
and  concluding  stanzas ; hence  the  middle  of 
a poem  was  often  first  produced.  It  was,  I 
think,  in  summer  1784,  when,  in  the  interval 
of  harder  labour,  he  and  I were  weeding  in 
the  garden  (kail -yard),  that  he  repeated  to 
me  the  principal  part  of  this  epistle.  I 
believe  the  first  idea  of  Robert’s  becoming 
an  author  was  started  on  this  occasion.  I 
was  much  pleased  with  the  epistle,  and  said 
to  him  I was  of  opinion  it  would  bear  being 
printed,  and  that  it  would  be  well  received 
by  people  of  taste;  that  I thought  it  at 
least  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  many  of 
Allan  Ramsay’s  epistles  ; and  that  the  merit 
of  these,  and  much  other  Scotch  poetry, 
seemed  to  consist  principally  in  the  knack 
of  the  expression,  but  here  there  was  a train 
of  interesting  sentiment,  and  the  Scotticism 
of  the  language  scarcely  seemed  affected, 
but  appeared  to  be  the  natural  language  of 
the  poet : that,  besides,  there  was  certainly 
some  novelty  in  a poet  pointing  out  the 
consolations  that  were  in  store  for  him  when 
he  should  go  a-begging.  Robert  seemed 
very  well  pleased  with  my  criticism,  and  we 
talked  of  sending  it  to  some  magazine ; but 
as  this  plan  afforded  no  opportunity  of 
knowing  how  it  would  take,  the  idea  was 
dropped. 

“ It  was,  I think,  in  the  winter  following, 
aa  we  were  going  together  with  carts  for 


coal  to  the  family  fire  (and  T could  ret  point 
out  the  particular  spot),  that  tie  author 
first  repeated  to  me  the  Address  to  the 
Deil.  The  curious  idea  of  such  an  address 
was  suggested  to  him  by  running  over  in 
his  mind  the  many  ludicrous  accounts  and 
representations  we  have  from  various  quar- 
ters of  this  august  personage.  Death  and 
Doctor  Hornbook,  though  not  published  in 
the  Kilmarnock  edition,  was  produced  early 
in  the  year  1785.  The  schoolmaster  of 
Tarbolton  parish,  to  eke  out  the  scanty  sub- 
sistence allowed  to  that  useful  class  of  men, 
had  set  up  a shop  of  grocery  goods.  Having 
accidentally  fallen  in  with  some  medical 
books,  and  become  most  hobby-horsicallw 
attached  to  the  study  of  medicine,  he  had 
added  the  sale  of  a few  medicines  to  his 
little  trade.  He  had  got  a shop-bill  printed, 
at  the  bottom  of  which,  overlooking  his  own 
incapacity,  he  had  advertised  that  ^.Advice 
would  be  given  in  common  disorders  at  the 
shop  gratis.’  Robert  was*  at  a mason  meet- 
ing in  Tarbolton,  when  the  dominie  unfor- 
tunately made  too  ostentatious  a display  of 
his  medical  skill.  As  he  parted  in  the 
evening  from  this  mixture  of  pedantry  and 
physic,  at  the  place  where  he  describes  his 
meeting  with  Death,  one  of  those  floating 
ideas  of  apparitions  he  mentions  in  his 
letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  crossed  his  mind ; this 
set  him  to  work  for  the  rest  of  the  way 
home.  These  circumstances  he  related  whe* 
he  repeated  the  verses  to  me  next  afternoon,, 
as  I was  holding  the  plough,  and  he  was 
letting  the  water  off  the  field  beside  me. 
The  Epistle  to  John  Lapraik  was  produced 
exactly  on  the  occasion  described  by  the 
author.  He  says  in  that  poem,  ‘ On  Fasten 
e’en  we  had  a rockin.’  I believe  he  has 
omitted  the  word  rocking  in  the  glossary. 
It  is  a term  derived  from  those  primitive 
times,  when  the  countrywomen  employed 
their  spare  hours  in  spinning  on  the  rock,  or 
distaff.  The  simple  implement  is  a very 
portable  one,  and  well  fitted  to  the  social 
inclination  of  meeting  in  a neighbour’s 
house ; hence  the  phrase  of  going  a-rocking, 
or  with  the  rock.  As  the  connection  the 
phrase  had  with  the  implement  was  forgot- 
ten, when  the  rock  gave  place  to  the  spin- 
ning-wheel, the  phrase  came  fo  be  used  by 
both  sexes  on  social  occasions,  and  men  talk 
of  going  with  their  rocks  as  well  as  women. 

“ It  was  at  one  of  these  rankings  at  our 


E9 


LIFE  OF  BURSTS. 


v>.  - i 


house,  when  we  had  twelve  or  fifteen  young 
eople  with  their  rocks , that  Lapraik’s  song, 
eginning— -'When  I upon  thy  bosom  lean/ 
was  sung,  and  we  were  informed  who  was 
the  author.  Upon  this,  Robert  wrote  his 
first  epistle  to  Laipraik,  and  his  second  in 
reply  to  his  answer.  The  verses  to  the 
Mouse  and  Mountain  Daisy  were  composed 
on  the  occasions  mentioned,  and  while  the 
author  was  holding  the  plough ; I could 
point  out  the  particular  spot  where  each  was 
composed.  Holding  the  plough  was  a 
favourite  situation  with  Robert  for  poetic 
composition,  and  some  of  his  best  verses 
were  produced  while  he  was  at  that  exercise. 
Several  of  the  poems  were  produced  for  the 
purpose  of  bringing  forward  some  favourite 
sentiment  of  the  author.  Robert  had  fre- 
quently remarked  to  me  -that  he  thought 
tiHere  was  something  peculiarly  venerable  in 
the  phrase,  ' Let  us  worship  God/  used  by  a 
decent,  sober  head  of  a family,  introducing 
family  worship.  To  this  sentiment  of  the 
author  the  world  is  indebted  for  the  Cotter’s 
Saturday  Night.  When  my  brother  had 
some  pleasure  in  view,  in  which  I was 
thought  fit  to  participate,  we  used  frequently 
to  walk  together,  when  the  weather  was 
favourable,  on  the  Sunday  afternoons  (those 
precious  breathing  times  to  the  labouring  part 
of  the  community),  and  enjoyed  such  Sundays 
rs  would  make  one  regret  to  see  their  number 
abridged.  It  was  in  one  of  these  walks  that 
l first  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the 
author  repeat  the  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night. 
I do  not  recollect  to  have  read  or  heard  any- 
thing by  which  I was  more  highly  electrified. 
The  fifth  and.  sixth  stanzas,  and  the  eight- 
eenth, thrilled  with  peculiar  ecstacy  through 
my  soul.  I mention  this  to  you,  that  you 
may  see  what  hit  the  taste  of  unlettered 
criticism.  I should  be  glad  to  know,  if  the 
enlightened  mind  and  refined  taste  of  Mr. 
Roscoe,  who  has  borne  such  honourable 
testimony  to  this  poem/ agrees  with  me  in 
the  selection.  Fergusson,  in  his  Hallow 
Fair  of  Edinburgh,  I believe,  likewise  fur- 
nished a hint  of  the  title  and  plan  of  the 
Holy  Fair.  The  farcical  scene  the  poet 
there  describes  was  often  a favourite  field  of 
his  observation,  and  the  most  of  the  incidents 
he  mentions  had  actually  passed  before  his 
eyes.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  mention, 
that  The  Lament  was  composed  on  that 
unfortunate  passage  in  his  matrimonial  his- 
tory which  I have  mentioned  in  my  letter  to 
Mrs.  Dunlop,  after  the  .first  distraction  of 
his  feelings  had  a little  subsided.  The  Twa 
Dogs  was  composed  after  the  resolution  of 
publishing  was  nearly  taken.  Robert  had 


had  a dog,  which  he  called  Luath,  that  wai 
a great  favourite.  The  dog  had  been  killed 
by  the  wanton  cruelty  of  some  person  the 
night  before  my  father’s  death.  Robert  said 
to  me,  that  he  should  like  to  confer  such 
immortality  as  he  could  bestow  upon  his  old 
friend  Luath,  and  that  he  had  a great  mind 
to  introduce  something  into  the  book,  under 
the  title  of  Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  a 
Quadruped  Friend  ; but  this  plan  was  given 
up  for  the  tale  as  it  now  stands.  Caesar  was 
merely  the  creature  of  the  poet’s  imagina- 
tion, created  for  the  purpose  of  holding  chat 
with  his  favourite  Luath.  The  first  time 
Robert  heard  the  spinnet  played  upon,  was 
at  the  house  of  Dr.  Lawrie,  then  minister  of 
the  parish  of  Loudon,  now  in  Glasgow, 
having  given  up  the  parish  in  favour  of  his 
son.  Dr.  Lawrie  has  several  daughters; 
one  of  them  played ; the  father  and  mother 
led  down  the  dance ; the  rest  of  the  sisters, 
the  brother,  the  poet,  and  the  other  guests, 
mixed  in  it.  It  was  a delightful  family 
scene  for  our  poet,  then  lately  introduced  to 
the  world.  His  mind  was  roused  to  a poetic 
enthusiasm,  and  the  stanzas  [which  he 
wrote  on  the  occasion]  were  left  in  the  room 
where  he  slept.  It  was  to  Dr.  Lawrie  tha* 
Dr.  Blacklock’s  letter  was  addressed,  which 
my  brother,  in  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore, 
mentions  as  the  reason  of  his  going  to 
Edinburgh.  * • ** 


LETTER  OF  GILBERT  BURNS. 

( First  inserted  in  the  Second  Edition.) 

The  editor  [Dr.  Currie]  has  particular 
pleasure  in  presenting  to  the  public  the 
following  letter,  to  the  due  understanding  of 
which  a few  previous  observations  are 
necessary. 

The  biographer  of  Burns  was  naturally 
desirous  of  hearing  the  opinion  of  the  friend 
and  brother  of  the  poet,  on  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  executed  his  task,  before  a 
second  edition  should  be  committed  to  the 
press.  He  had  the  satisfaction  of  receiving 
this  opinion,  in  a letter  dated  the  24th  of 
August,  approving  of  tne  Life  in  very 
obliging  terms,  and  offering  one  or  two 
trivial  corrections  as  to  names  and  dates 
chiefly,  which  are  made  in  this  edition.  One 
or  two  observations  were  offered  of  a differ- 
ent kind.  In  the  319th  page  [correspond- 
ing to  the  66th  page  of  the  present  reprint 
of  Dr.  Currie’s  memoir],  a quotation  is  made 
from  the  pasitoral  song,  Ettrick  Banks,  ana 
an  explanation  given  of  the  phrase  “mony 
feck,”  which  occurs  in  this  quotation.  Sup« 
posing  tlie  sense  to  be  complete  aftei 


ADDENDA, 


•mony,”  the  editor  had  considered  "feck”  a 
rustic  oath  which  confirmed  the  assertion. 
The  words  were,  therefore,  separated  by  a 
comma.  Mr.  Burns  considered  this  an 
error.  "Feck,”  he  presumes,  is  the  Scot- 
tish word  for  quantity,  and  “ mony  feck” 
to  mean  simply,  very  many.  The  editor,  in 
yielding  to  this  authority,  expressed  some 
hesitation,  and  hinted  that  the  phrase 
"mony  feck”  was,  in  Mr.  Burns’s  sense, 
a pleonasm,  or  barbarism,  which  deformed 
this  beautiful  song.  His  reply.to  this  obser- 
vation makes  the  first  clause  of  the  following 
letter. 

In  the  same  communication  he  informed 
me,  that  the  Mirror  and  the  Lounger  were 
proposed  by  him  to  the  Conversation  Club 
of  Mauchline,  and  that  he  had  thoughts  of 
giving  me  his  sentiments  on  the  remarks  I 
had  made  respecting  the  fitness  of  such 
works  for  such  societies.  The  observations 
of  such  a man  on  such  a subject,  the  editor 
conceived,  would  be  received  with  particular 
interest  by  the  public,  and,  having  pressed 
earnestly  for  them,  they  will  be  found  in  the 
following  letter.  Of  the  value  of  this  com- 
munication, delicacy  towards  his  very  re- 
spectable correspondent  prevents  him  from 
expressing  his  opinion.  The  original  letter 
is  in  the  hands  of  Messrs.  Cadell  and 
Davies. 

" Dinning,  Dumfriesshire,  24fA  Oct.,  1800. 

"Dear  Sir.- — Yours  of  the  17tli  instant 
came  to  my  hand  yesterday,  and  I sit  down 
this  afternoon  to  write,  you  in  return ; but 
when  I shall  be  able  to  finish  all  I wish  to 
say  to  you,  I cannot  tell.  I am  sorry  your 
conviction  is  not  complete  respecting  feck. 
There  is  no  doubt,  that  if  you  take  two 
English  words  which  appear  synonymous  to 
mony  feck,  and  judge  by  the  rules  of  English 
construction,  it  will  appear  a barbarism.  I 
believe,  if  you  take  this  mode  of  translating 
from  any  language,  the  effect  will  frequently 
be  the  same.  But  if  you  take  the  expression 
mony  feck  to  have,  as  I have  stated  it,  the 
same  meaning  with  the  English  expression  j 
tiery  many  (and  such  licence  every  translator 
must  be  allowed,  especially  when  he  trans- 
lates from  a simple  dialect  which  has  never 
been  subjected  to  rule,  and  where  the  precise 
meaning  of  words  is,  of  consequence,  not 
minutely  attended  to),  it  will  be  well  enough. 
One  thing  I am  certain  of,  that  ours  is  the 
sense  universally  understood  in  this  country; 
and  I believe  no  Scotsman  who  has  lived 
contented  at  home,  pleased  with  the  simple 
manners,  the  simple  melodies,  and  the  sim- 
ple dialect  of  his  native  country,  un vitiated  I 


83 

J>y  foreign  intercourse,  'whose  sonl-proud 
science  never  taught  to  stray,’  ever  dis- 
covered barbarism  in  the  song  of  Ettiick 
Banks. 

“ The  story  you  have  heard  of  the  gablr 
of  my  father’s  house  falling  down,  is  simply 
as  follows  (151) : — AVhen  my  father  built  his 
* clay  biggin,’  he  put  in  two  stone-jambs,  aa 
they  are  called,  and  a lintel,  carrying  up  a 
chimney  in  his  clay-gable.  The  consequence 
was,  that  as  the  gable  subsided,  the  jambs, 
remaining  firm,  threw  it  off  its  centre ; and 
one  very  stormy  morning,  when  my  brother 
was  nine  or  ten  days  old,  a little  before  day- 
light, a part  of  the  gable  fell  out,  and  the 
rest  appeared  so  shattered,  that  my  mother, 
with  the  young  poet,  had  to  be  carried 
through  the  storm  to  a neighbour’s  houses 
where  they  remained  a week  till  their  own 
dwelling  was  adjusted.  That  you  may  not 
think  too  meanly  of  this  house,  or  of  my 
father’s  taste  in  building,  by  supposing  the 
poet’s  description  in  the  Vision  (which  if 
entirely  a fancy  picture)  applicable  to  it, 
allow  me  to  take  notice  to  you,  that  the 
house  consisted  of  a kitchen  in  one  end,  and 
a room  in  the  other,  with  a fire-place  and 
chimney ; that  my  father  had  constructed  a 
concealed  bed  in  the  kitchen,  with  a small 
closet  at  the  end,  of  the  same  materials  with 
the  house ; and  when  altogether  cast  over, 
outside  and  in,  with  lime,  it  had  a neat, 
comfortable  appearance,  such  as  no  family  of 
the  same  rank,  in  the  present  improved  style 
of  living,  would  think  themselves  ill-lodged 
in.  I wish  likewise  to  take  notice  in  passing, 
that  although  the  ‘ Cotter  ’ in  the  Saturday 
Night,  is  an  exact  copy  of  my  father  in  hi? 
manners,  his  family-devotion,  and  exhorta- 
tions, yet  the  other  parts  of  the  descrip- 
tion do  not  apply  to  our  family.  None  of 
us  were  ever  ' at  service  out  amang  the  nei- 
bors  roun’.’  Instead  of  our  depositing  oui 
‘ sair-won  penny  fee  ’ with  our  parents,  my 
father  laboured  hard,  and  lived  with  the 
most  rigid  economy,  that  he  might  be  able 
to  keep  his  children  at  home,  thereby  having 
an  opportunity  of  watching  the  progress  of 
our  young  minds,  and  forming  in  them 
early  habits  of  piety  and  virtue  ; and  from 
this  motive  alone  did  he  engage  in  farming — 
the  source  of  all  his  difiiculties  and  dis- 
tresses. 

“ When  I threatened  you  in  my  last  with 
a long  letter  on  the  subject  of  the  books  I 
recommended  to  the  Mauchline  Club,  and 
the  effects  of  refinement  of  taste  on  the 
labouring  classes  of  men,  I meant  merely 
to  write  you  on  that  subject,  with  the  view 
that,  in  some  future  communication  to  tha 


90 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


public,  you  might  take  up  the  subject  more 
at  large;  that  by  means  of  your  happy 
manner  of  writing,  the  attention  of  people 
of  power  and  influence  might  be  fixed  on  it. 

I had  little  expectation,  however,  that  I 
should  overcome  my  indolence,  and  the  diffi- 
culty of  arranging  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to 
put  my  threat  in  execution  ; till  some  time 
ago,  before  I had  finished  my  harvest, 
having  a call  from  Mr.  Ewart  (152),  with  a 
message  from  you,  pressing  me  to  the  per- 
formance of  this  task,  I thought  myself  no 
longer  at  liberty  to  decline  it,  and  resolved 
to  set  about  it  with  my  first  leisure.  I will 
now,  therefore,  endeavour  to  lay  before  you 
what  has  occurred  to  my  mind,  on  a subject 
where  people  capable  of  observation,  and  of 
placing  their  remarks  in  a proper  point  of 
view,  have  seldom  an  opportunity  of  making 
their  remarks  on  real  life.  In  doing  this,  I 
may  perhaps  be  led  sometimes  to  write  more 
%i  the  manner  of  a person  communicating 
information  to  you  which  you  did  not  know 
before,  and  at  other  times  more  in  the  style 
of  egotism,  than  I would  choose  to  do  to 
any  person,  in  whose  candour,  and  even  per- 
sonal good  will,  I had  less  confidence. 

“ There  are  two  several  lines  of  study  that 
open  to  every  man  as  he  enters  life : the  one, 
the  general  science  of  life,  of  duty,  and  of  ! 
happiness  ; the  other,  the  particular  arts  of 
his  employment  or  situation  in  society,  and 
the  several  branches  of  knowledge  therewith 
connected.  This  last  is  certainly  indispen- 
sable, as  nothing  can  be  more  disgraceful 
than  ignorance  in  the  way  of  one’s  own  pro- 
fession ; and  whatever  a man’s  speculative 
knowledge  may  be,  if  he  is  ill-informed  there, 
he  can  neither  be  a useful  nor  a respectable 
member  of  society.  It  is,  nevertheless,  true, 
that  ‘ the  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man 
to  consider  what  duties  are  incumbent  on 
him  as  a rational  creature,  and  a member  of 
society ; how  he  may  increase  or  secure  his 
happiness  ; and  how  he  may  prevent  or  soften 
the  many  miseries  incident  to  human  life. 

1 think  the  pursuit  of  happiness  is  too  fre- 
quently confined  to  the  endeavour  after  the 
acquisition  of  wealth.  I do  not  wish  to  be 
considered  as  an  idle  declaimer  against  riches, 
which,  after  all  that  can  be  said  against  them, 
will  still  be  considered  by  men  of  common 
sense  as  objects  of  importance,  and  poverty 
will  be  felt  as  a sore  evil,  after  all  the  fine 
things  that  can  be  said  of  its  advantages; 
©n  the  nontrar),  I am  of  opinion,  that  a 
great  proportion  of  the  miseries  of  life  arise 
from  the  want  of  economy,  and  a prudent 
attention  to  money,  or  the  ill-directed  or 
intemperate  pursuit  of  it.  But  however 


valuable  riches  may  be  as  the  means  of  com- 
fort, independence,  and  the  pleasure  of  doing 
good  to  others,  yet  I am  of  opinion  that  they 
may  be,  and  frequently  are,  purchased  at  too 
great  a cost,  and  that  sacrifices  areAnade  in 
the  pursuit,  which  the  acquisition  cannot 
compensate.  I remember  hearing  my  worthy 
teacher,  Mr.  Murdoch,  relate  an  anecdt  te  to 
my  father,  which  I think  sets  this  matter  in 
a strong  light,  and  perhaps  was  the  origin, 
or  at  least  tended  to  promote  this  way  of 
thinking  in  me.  When  Mr.  Murdoch  left 
Alio  way,  he  went  to  teach  and  reside  in  the 
family  of  an  opulent  farmer  who  had  a num- 
ber of  sons.  A neighbour  coming  on  a 
visit,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  asked 
the  father  how  he  meant  to  dispose  of  his 
sons.  The  father  replied  that  he  had  not 
determined.  The  visitor  said  that,  were  he 
in  his  place,  he  would  give  them  all  good 
education  and  send  them  abroad,  without, 
perhaps,  having  a precise  idea  where.  The 
father  objected,  that  many  young  men  lost 
their  health  in  foreign  countries,  and  many 
their  lives.  True,  replied  the  visitor,  but  as 
you  have  a number  of  sons,  it  will  be  strange 
if  some  one  of  them  does  not  live  and  make 
a fortune. 

“ Let  any  person  who  has  the  feelings  of 
a father,  comment  on  this  story ; but  though 
few  will  avow,  even  to  themselves,  that  such 
views  govern  their  conduct,  yet  do  we  not 
daily  see  people  shipping  off  their  sons  (and 
who  would  do  so  by  their  daughters  also,  if 
there  were  any  demand  for  them),  that  they 
may  be  rich  or  perish? 

“The  education  of  the  lower  classes  is 
seldom  considered  in  any  other  point  of 
view  than  as  the  means  of  raising  them  from 
that  station  to  which  they  were  born,  and  of 
making  a fortune.  I am  ignorant  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  art  of  acquiring  a fortune 
without  any  thing  to  begin  with,  and  cannot 
calculate,  with  any  degree  of  exactness,  the 
difficulties  to  be  surmounted,  the  mortifica- 
tions to  be  suffered,  and  the  degradation  of 
character  to  be  submitted  to,  in  lending 
one’s  self  to  be  the  minister  of  other  people’s 
vices,  or  in  the  practice  of  rapine,  fraud,  op- 
pression, or  dissimulation,  in  the  progress ; 
but  even  when  the  wished-for  end  is  attained, 
it  may  be  questioned  whether  happiness  be 
much  increased  by  the  change.  When  I have 
seen  a fortunate  adventurer  of  the  lower 
ranks  of  life  returned  from  the  East  or  West 
Indies,  with  all  the  hauteur  ol’  a vulgar 
mind  accustomed  to  be  served  by  slaves,  as- 
suming a character,  which,  from  early  habita 
of  life,  he  is  ill  fitted  to  support — displaying 
magnificence  which  raises  the  envy  cf  some; 


ADDENDA. 


Mid  the  contempt  of  others — claiming  an 
equality  with  the  great,  which  they  are  un- 
willing to  allow-— inly  pining  at  the  prece- 
dence of  the  hereditary  gentry — maddened 
by  the  polished  insolence  of  some  of  the 
unworthy  part  of  them — seeking  pleasure  in 
the  society  of  men  who  can  condescend  to 
flatter  him,  and  listen  to  his  absurdity  for 
the  sake  of  a good  dinner  and  good  wine — 

I cannot  avoid  concluding,  that  his  brother, 
or  companion,  who,  by  a diligent  application 
to  the  labours  of  agriculture,  or  some  useful 
mechanic  employment,  and  the  careful  hus- 
banding of  his  gains,  has  acquired  a com- 
petence in  his  station,  is  a much  happier, 
and,  in  the  eye  of  a person  who  can  take  an 
enlarged  view  of  mankind,  a much  more 
respectable  man. 

“ But  the  votaries  of  wealth  may  be  con- 
sidered as  a great  number  of  candidates 
striving  for  a few  prizes  : and  whatever  ad- 
dition the  successful  may  make  to  their  plea- 
sure or  happiness,  the  disappointed  will  always 
have  more  to  sutfer,  I am  afraid,  than  those 
who  abide  contented  in  the  station  to  which 
they  were  born.  I wish,  therefore,  the  edu- 
cation of  the  lower  classes  to  be  promoted 
and  directed  to  their  improvement  as  men, 
as  the  means  of  increasing  their  virtue,  and 
opening  to  them  new  and  dignified  sources 
of  pleasure  and  happiness.  I have  heard 
some  people  object  to  the  education  of  the 
lower  classes  of  men,  as  rendering  them  less 
useful,  by  abstracting  them  from  their  pro- 
per business;  others,  as  tending  to  make 
them  saucy  to  their  superiors,  impatient  of 
their  condition,  and  turbulent  subjects ; 
while  you,  with  more  humanity,  have  your 
fears  alarmed,  lest  the  delicacy  of  mind, 
induced  by  that  sort  of  education  and  read- 
ing I recommended,  should  render  the  evils 
of  their  situation  insupportable  to  them.  I 
wish  to  examine  the  validity  of  each  of  these 
objections,  beginning  with  the  one  you  have 
mentioned. 

“ I do  not  mean  to  controvert  your  criti- 
cism of  my  favourite  books,  the  Mirror  and 
Lounger,  although  I understand  there  are 
people  who  think  themselves  judges,  who  do  [ 
not  agree  with  you.  The  acquisition  of 
knowledge,  except  what  is  connected  with 
human  life  and  conduct,  or  the  particular 
business  of  his  employment,  does  not  ap- 
pear to  me  to  be  the  fittest  pursuit  for  a 
peasant.  1 would  say  with  the  poet, 

* How  empty  learning,  and  how  vain  is  art, 
Save  where  it  guides  the  life,  or  mends  the 

heart !’ 

“ There  seems  to  be  a considerable  latitude 
m the  use  of  the  word  taste.  I understand 


91 

it  to  be  the  perception  and  relish  of  beauty* 
order,  or  any  other  thing,  the  contemplation 
of  which  gives  pleasure  aud  delight  to  the 
mind.  I suppose  it  is  in  this  sense  you  wish 
it  to  be  understood.  If  I am  right,  the 
taste  which  these  books  are  calculated  to 
cultivate  (besides  the  taste  for  tine  writing, 
which  many  of  the  papers  tend  to  improve 
and  to  gratify),  is  what  is  proper,  consistent, 
and  becoming  in  human  character  and  con- 
duct, as  almost  every  paper  relates  to  these 
subjects. 

“ I am  sorry  I have  not  these  books  by 
me,  that  I might  point  out  some  instances. 
I remember  two ; one,  tbe  beautiful  story  of 
La  Roche,  where,  besides  the  pleasure  one 
derives  from  a beautiful  simple  story,  told  in 
M'Kenzie’s  happiest  manner,  the  mind  is  led 
to  taste,  with  heartfelt  rapture,  the  consola- 
tion to  be  derived  in  deep  affliction,  from 
habitual  devotion  and  trust  in  Almighty 
God.  The  other,  the  story  of  General 

W , where  the  reader  is  led  to  have  a 

high  relish  for  that  firmness  of  mind  which 
disregards  appearances,  the  common  forms 
and  vanities  of  life,  for  the  sake  of  doing 
justice  in  a case  which  was  out  of  the  reach 
of  human  laws. 

“ Allow  me  then  to  remark,’  that  if  the 
morality  of  these  books  is  subordinate  to 
the  cultivation  of  taste;  that  taste,  that  re- 
finement of  mind  and  delicacy  of  sentiment 
which  they  are  intended  to  give,  are  the 
strongest  guard  and  surest  foundation  of 
morality  and  virtue.  Other  moralists  guard, 
as  it  wrere,  the  overt  act ; these  papers,  by 
exalting  duty  into  sentiment,  are  calculated 
to  make  every  deviation  from  rectitude  and 
propriety  of  conduct,  painful  to  the  mind 

‘ Whose  temper’d  powers, 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien.* 

“ I readily  grant  you,  that  the  refinement 
of  mind  which  I contend  for  increases  our 
sensibility  to  the  evils  of  life ; but  what  sta- 
tion of  life  is  without  its  evils?  There 
seems  to  be  no  such  thing  as  perfect  hap- 
| piness  in  this  world,  and  we  must  balance 
the  pleasure  and  the  pain  which  we  derive 
from  taste,  before  we  can  properly  appre- 
ciate it  in  the  case  before  us.  1 apprehend, 
that  on  a minute  examination  it  will  appear, 
that  the  evils  peculiar  to  the  lower  ranks  of 
life  derive  their  power  to  wound  us,  more 
from  the  suggestions  of  false  pride,  and 
the  ‘contagion  of  luxury,  weak  and  vile,* 
than  the  refinement  of  our  taste.  It  was  a 
favourite  remark  of  my  brother’s,  that  there 
was  no  part  of  tlie  constitution  of  our  na» 


92 


LIFE  OF  BURSTS. 


tu re  to  which  we  were  more  indebted,  than 
tit  it  by  which  ‘ custom  makes  things  familiar 
and  easy  ’ (a  copy  Mr.  Murdoch  used  to  set 
us  to  write) ; and  there  is  little  labour 
which  custom  will  not  make  easy  to  a man 
in  health,  if  he  is  not  ashamed  of  his  em- 
ployment, or  does  not  begin  to  compare  his 
situation  with  those  he  may  see  going  about 
at  their  ease. 

“ But  the  man  of  enlarged  mind  feels  the 
respect  due  to  him  as  a man ; he  has  learned 
that  no  employment  is  dishonourable  in 
itself;  that  while  he  performs  aright  the 
duties  of  that  station  in  which  God  has 
placed  him,  he  is  as  great  as  a king  in  the 
eyes  of  Him  whom  he  is  principally  desirous 
to  please  ; for  the  man  of  taste,  who  is  con- 
stantly obliged  to  labour,  must  of  necessity 
be  religious.  If  you  teach  him  only  to 
reason,  you  may  make  him  an  atheist,  a de- 
magogue, or  any  vile  thing ; but  if  you 
teach  him  to  feel,  his  feelings  can  only  find 
their  proper  and  natural  relief  in  devotion 
and  religious  resignation.  He  knows  that 
those  people  who  are  to  appearance  at  ease, 
are  not  without  their  share  of  evils,  and 
that  even  toil  itself  is  not  destitute  of  ad- 
vantages. He  listens  to  the  words  of  his 
favourite  poet : 

6 Oh,  mortal  man,  that  livest  here  by  toil, 

Cease  to  repine  and  grudge  thy  hard  estate ! 
Tli  at  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil, 

Is  a sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date  ; 

And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great ; 
Although  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and 
wail,  [late ; 

And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge,  and 
Withouten  that  would  come  an  heavier  bale, 
Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  palel  ’ 

“And  while  he  repeats  the  words,  the 
grateful  recollection  comes  across  his  mind, 
how  often  he  has  derivtxi  ineffable  pleasure 
from  the  sweet  song  of  ' nature’s  darling 
child.’  I can  say,  from  my  own  experience, 
that  there  is  no  sort  of  farm-labour  incon- 
sistent with  the  most  refined  and  pleasurable 
state  of  the  mind  that  I am  acquainted  with, 
thrashing  alone  excepted.  That,  indeed,  I 
have  always  considered  as  insupportable 
drudgery,  and  think  the  ingenious  mechanic 
who  invented  the  thrashing-machine,  ought 
to  have  a statue  among  the  benefactors  of 
his  country,  and  should  be  placed  in  the 
niche  next  to  the  person  who  introduced  the 
culture  of  potatoes  into  this  island. 

“ Perhaps  the  thing  of  most  importance  in 
the  education  of  the  common  people  is,  to 
prevent  the  intrusion  of  artificial  wants.  I 
bless  the  memory  of  my  worthy  father  for 
almost  every  thing  in  the.  dispositions  of  my 
mind,  and  my  habits  of  life,  wuich  I can 


approve  of;  and  for  nona  more  than  the 
pains  he  took  to  impress,  rny  mind  with  the 
sentiment,  that  nothing  was  more  unworthy 
the  character  of  a man,  that  that  his  happi- 
ness should  in  the  least  depend  on  what  lie 
should  eat  or  drink.  So  early  did  he  im- 
press my  mind  with  this,  that  although  I 
was  as  fond  of  sweetmeats  as  children  gene- 
rally are,  yet  I seldom  laid  out  any  of  the 
half-pence  which  relations  or  neighbours 
gave  me  at  fairs,  in  the  purchase  of  them ; 
and  if  I did,  every  mouthful  I swallowed 
was  accompanied  with  shame  and  remorse ; 
and  to  this  hour  I never  indulge  in  the  u«e 
of  any  delicacy,  but  I feel  a considerable 
degree  of  self-reproach  and  alarm  for  the 
degradation  of  the  human  character.  Such 
a habit  of  thinking  I consider  as  of  great 
consequence,  both  to  the  virtue  and  happi- 
ness of  men  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life.  And 
thus.  Sir,  I am  of  opinion,  that  if  their 
minds  are  early  and  deeply  impressed  with 
a sense  of  the  dignity  of  man,  as  such ; with 
the  love  of  independence  and  of  industry, 
economy  and  temperance,  as  the  most  ob- 
vious means  of  making  themselves  inde- 
pendent, and  the  virtues  most  becoming 
their  situation,  and  necessary  to  their  happi- 
ness ; men  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life  may 
partake  of  the  pleasures  to  be  derived  from 
the  perusal  of  books  calculated  to  improve 
the  mind  and  refine  the  taste,  without  any 
danger  of  becoming  more  unhappy  in  thei/ 
situation,  or  discontented  with  it.  Nor  do 
I think  there  is  any  danger  of  their  be- 
coming less  useful.  There  are  some  hours 
every  day  that  the  most  constant  labourer  is 
neither  at  work  nor  asleep.  These  hours 
are  either  appropriated  to  amusement  or  t (? 
sloth.  If  a taste  for  employing  these 
hours  in  reading  were  cultivated,  I do  not 
suppose  that  the  return  to  labour  would  be 
more  difficult.  Every  one  will  allow,  that 
the  attachment  to  idle  amusements,  or  even 
to  sloth,  has  as  powerful  a tendency  to  ab- 
stract men  from  their  proper  business,  as  the 
attachment  to  books ; while  the  one  dissi- 
pates the  mind,  and  the  other  tends  to  in- 
crease its  powers  of  self-government.  To 
those  who  are  afraid  that  the  improvement 
of  the  minds  of  the  common  people  might 
be  dangerous  to  the  state,  or  the  established 
order  of  society,  I would  remark,  that  tur- 
bulence and  commotion  are  certainly  very 
inimical  to  the  feelings  of  a refined  mind. 
Let  the  matter  be  brought  to  the  test  of  ex- 
perience and  observation.  Of  what  descrip- 
tion of  people  are  mobs  and  insurrections 
composed?  Are  they  not  universally  owing 
to  the  want  of  enlargement  and  improve 


ADDENDA. 


went  of  mind  among  the  common  people  ? 
Nay,  let  any  one  recollect  the  characters  of 
those  who  formed  the  calmer  and  more  de- 
liberate associations,  which  lately  gave  so 
much  alarm  to  the  government  of  this 
country.  I suppose  few  of  the  common 
people  who  were  to  be  found  in  such  socie- 
ties, had  the  education  and  turn  of  mind  I 
have  been  endeavouring  to  recommend. 
Allow  me  to  suggest  one  reason  for  en- 
deavouring to  enlighten  the  minds  of  the 
common  people.  Their  morals  have  hitherto 
been  guarded  bv  a sort  of  dim  religious  awe, 
which,  from  a variety  of  causes,  seems  wear- 
ing off.  I think  the  alteration  in  this  re- 
spect considerable,  in  the  short  period  of  my 
observation.  I have  already  given  my 
opinion  of  the  effects  of  refinement  of  mind 
on  morals  and  virtue.  Whenever  vulgar 
minds  begin  to  shake  off  the  dogmas  of  the 
religion  in  which  they  have  been  educated, 
the  progress  is  quick  and  immediate  to 
downright  infidelity ; and  nothing  but 
refinement  of  mind  can  enable  them  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  pure  essence  of  reli- 
gion, and  the  gross  systems  which  men  have 
been  perpetually  connecting  it  with.  In 
addition  to  what  has  already  been  done  for 
the  education  of  the  common  people  of  this 
country,  in  the  establishment  of  parish 
schools,  I wish  to  see  the  salaries  augmented 
in  some  proportion  to  the  present  expense 
of  living,  and  the  earnings  of  people  of 
similar  rank,  endowments,  and  usefulness,  in 
society;  and  I hope  that  the  liberality  of 
the  present  age  will  be  no  longer  disgraced 
by  refusing,  to  so  useful  a class  of  men, 
such  encouragement  as  may  make  parish 
schools  worth  the  attention  of  men  fitted  for 
the  important  duties  of  that  office.  In  fill- 
ing up  the  vacancies,  I would  have  more 
attention  paid  to  the  candidate’s  capacity  of 
reading  the  English  language  with  grace 
and  propriety — to  his  understanding  tho- 
roughly, and  having  a high  relish  for,  the 
beauties  of  English  authors,  both  in  poetry 
and  prose — to  that  good  sense  and  know- 
ledge of  human  nature  which  would  enable 
him  to  acquire  some  influence  on  the  minds 
and  affections  of  his  scholars — to  the  general 
worth  of  his  character,  and  the  love  of  his 
king  and  his  country — than  to  his  proficiency 
in  the  knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek.  I 
would  then  have  a sort  of  high  English 
class  established,  not  only  for  the  purpose  of 
teaching  the  pupils  to  read  in  that  graceful 
and  agreeable  manner  that  might  make  them 
fond  of  reading,  but  to  make  them  under- 
stand what  they  read,  and  discover  the 
beauties  of  the  author,  in  composition  and 


$3 

sentiment.  I would  have  established  ia 
every  parish  a small  circulating  library,  con- 
sisting of  the  books  which  the  young 
people  had  read  extracts  from  in  the  collec- 
tions they  had  read  at  school,  and  any  othe? 
books  well  calculated  to  refine  the  mind,  im- 
prove the  moral  feelings,  recommend  the 
practice  of  virtue,  and  communicate  such 
knowledge  as  might  he  useful  and  suitable  to 
the  labouring  classes  of  men.  I would  have 
the  schoolmaster  act  as  librarian ; and  in 
recommending  books  to  his  young  friends, 
formerly  his  pupils,  and  letting  in  the  light 
of  them  upon  their  young  minds,  he  should 
have  the  assistance  of  the  minister.  If  once 
such  education  were  become  general,  the 
low  delights  of  the  public-house,  and  other 
scenes  of  riot  and  depravity,  would  be  con- 
temned and  neglected ; while  industry, 
order,  cleanliness,  and  every  virtue  which 
taste  and  independence  of  mind  could  re- 
commend, would  prevail  and  flourish.  Thus 
possessed  of  a virtuous  and  enlightened 
populace,  with  high  delight  I should  con- 
sider my  native  country  as  at  the  head  of  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth,  ancient  or  modem. 

* Thus,  Sir,  have  I executed  my  threat  1 * 
the  fullest  extent,  in  regard  to  the  length  of 
my  letter.  If  I had  not  presumed  on  doing 
it  more  to  my  liking,  I should  not  have  un- 
dertaken it ; but  I have  not  time  to  attempt 
it  anew ; nor,  if  I would,  am  I certain  that  I 
should  succeed  any  better.  I have  learned 
to  have  less  confidence  in  my  capacity  of 
writing  on  such  subjects. 

“I  am  much  obliged  by  your  kind  in- 
quiries about  my  situation  and  prospects.  I 
am  much  pleased  with  the  soil  of  this  farm, 
and  with  the  terms  on  which  I possess  it.  I 
receive  great  encouragement  likewise  in 
building,  enclosing,  and  other  conveniences, 
from  my  landlord,  Mr.  G.  S.  Monteith,  whose 
general  character  and  conduct,  as  a landlord 
and  country-gentleman,  I am  highly  pleased 
with.  But  the  land  is  in  such  a state  as  to 
require  a considerable  immediate  outlay  of 
money  in  the  purchase  of  manure,  the 
grubbing  of  brush-wood,  removing  of  stones, 
&c.,  which  twelve  years’  struggle  with  a 
farm  of  a cold  ungrateful  soil  has  but  ill- 
prepared  me  for.  If  I can  get  these  things 
done,  however,  to  my  mind,  I think  there  is 
next  to  a certainty  that  in  five  or  six  years 
I shall  be  in  a hopeful  way  of  attaining  a 
situation  which  I think  as  eligible  for  happi- 
ness  as  any  one  I know ; for  I have  always 
been  of  opinion,  that  if  a man  bred  to  tha 
habits  of  a farming  life;,  who  possesses  a 
farm  of  good  soil,  on  such  terms  as  enable! 
him  easily  to  pay  all  demands,  is  not  happy* 


94 


LIFE  OF  BUENS. 


he  ought  to  look  somewhere  else  than  to  his 
tituation  for  the  causes  of  his  uneasiness. 

“ I beg  you  will  present  my  most  respect- 
ful compliments  to  Mrs.  Currie,  and  remem- 
ber me  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Roscoe,  and  Mr 
Roscoe,  Junior,  the  worth  of  whose  kind 
attentions  to  me,  when  in  Liverpool,  I shall 
never  forget.  I am,  dear  sir,  your  most 
obedient,  and  much  obliged  humble  servant, 
“Gilbert  Burns. 

* To  James  Currie,  M.D.,  F.R.S. 

Liverpool .” 


®!n  3#itar,  fljilton,  unit  Srrfljtr  nf 
lurns. 

At  the  time  of  Burn’s  decease,  his  family 
consisted  of  his  wife  and  four  sons — Robert, 
born  at  Mauchline,  in  1786 ; Francis  Wal- 
lace, born  at  Ellisland,  April  9,  1791 ; 
William  Nicol,  born  at  Dumfries,  November 
21,  1792;  and  James  Glencairn.  On  the 
day  of  the  poet’s  funeral,  Mrs.  Burns  pro- 
duced a fifth  son,  who  received  the  name  of 
Maxwell,  but  did  not  long  survive.  Francis 
Wallace,  a child  of  uncommon  vivacity,  died 
at  the  age  of  fourteen.  The  three  other 
sons  yet  (1838)  survive.  Robert  received  a 
good  education  at  the  academy  of  Dumfries, 
was  two  sessions  at  the  university  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  one  at  the  university  of  Glas- 
gow ; and  in  1804  obtained  a situation  in 
the  Stamp  Office,  London,  where  he  con- 
tinued for  twenty-nine  years,  improving  a 
narrow  income  by  teaching  the  classics  and 
mathematics.  It  is  remarkable,  that  during 
that  long  time  he  and  his  mother,  though  on 
the  best  terms,  never  once  met.  In  1833, 
having  obtained  a superannuation  allowance, 
he  retired  to  Dumfries,  where  he  now  lives. 
He  has  the  dark  eyes,  large  head,  and 
swarthy  complexion  of  his  father,  and 
possesses  much  more  than  the  average  of 
mental  capacity.  He  has  written  many 
verses  far  above  mediocrity ; but  the  bent 
of  his  mind  is  towards  geometry — a study 
in  which  his  father  was  much  more  ac- 
complished than  his  biographers  seem  to 
have  been  aware  of.  William  and  James 
went  out  to  India  on  cadetships,  and  have 
each  risen  to  the  rank  of  major  in  the 
Company’s  service.  “ Wherever  these  men 
wander,  at  home  or  abroad,  they  are  re- 
garded as  the  scions  of  a noble  stock,  and 
receive  the  cordial  greetings  of  hundreds 
who  never  saw  their  faces  before,  but  who 
account  it  a happiness  to  grasp,  in  friendly 
ressure,  the  hand  in  which  circulates  the 
lood  of  Burns.” — M‘Diarmid’s  Picture  of 
pumfri *>* 


The  only  dependence  of  Mr9.  Bums,  after 
her  husband’s  death,  was  on  an  annuity  of 
ten  pounds,  arising  from  a benefit  society 
connected  with  the  Excise,  the  books  and 
other  moveable  property  left  to  her,  and  the 
generosity  of  the  public.  The  subscription, 
as  we  are  informed  by  Dr.  Currie,  produced 
seven  hundred  pounds ; and  the  works  of 
the  poet,  as  edited  with  singular  taste  and 
judgment  by  that  gentleman,  brought  nearly 
two  thousand  more.  One  half  of  the  latter 
sum  was  lent  on  a bond  to  a Galloway 
gentleman,  who  continued  to  pay  five  per 
cent,  for  it  till  a late  period.  Mrs.  Burns 
was  thus  enabled  to  support  and  educate 
her  family  in  a manner  creditable  to  tlio 
memory  of  her  husband.  She  continued  to 
reside  in  the  house  which  had  been  occu- 
pied by  her  husband  and  herself,  and 

“ never  changed,  nor  wished  to  change 

her  place.” 

For  many  years  after  her  sons  had  left  her 
to  pursue  their  fortunes  in  the  world,  slia 
lived  in  a decent  and  respectable  manner,  on 
an  income  which  never  amounted  to  moro 
than  £62  per  annum.  At  length,  in  1817, 
at  a festival  held  in  Edinburgh  to  celebrate 
the  birth-day  of  the  bard,  Mr.  Henry,  (now 
Lord)  Cockburn  acting  as  president,  it  was 
proposed  by  Mr.  Maule  of  Panmure  (now 
Lord  Panmure),  that  some  permanent  addi- 
tion should  be  made  to  the  income  of  the 
poet’s  widow.  The  idea  appeared  to  be 
favourably  received,  but  the  subscription  did 
not  fill  rapidly.  Mr.  Maule  then  said  that 
the  burden  of  the  provision  should  fall  upon 
himself,  and  immediately  executed  a bond, 
entitling  Mrs.  Burns  to  an  annuity  of  £50 
as  long  as  she  lived.  This  act,  together 
with  the  generosity  of  the  same  gentleman 
to  Nathaniel  Gow,  in  his  latter  and  evil 
days,  must  ever  endear  the  name  of  Lord 
Panmure  to  all  who  feel  warmly  on  the  sub- 
jects of  Scottish  poetry  and  Scottish  music. 

Mr.  Maule’s  pension  had  not  been  en- 
joyed by  the  widow  more  than  a year  and 
a half,  when  her  youngest  son  James  at- 
tained the  rank  of  Captain  with  a situation 
in  the  commissariat,  and  was  thus  enabled 
to  relieve  her  from  the  necessity  of  being 
beholden  to  a stranger’s  hand  for  any  share 
of  her  support.  She  accordingly  resigned 
the  pension.  Mr.  MDiarmid,  who  records 
these  circumstances,  adds  in  another  place, 
that,  during  her  subsequent  years,  Mrs. 
Burns  enjoyed  an  income  of  about  two 
hundred  a-year,  great  part  of  which,  as  not 
needed  by  her,  she  dispensed  in  charities. 
Her  whole  conduct  in  widowhood  wa°  such 
as  to  seqire  universal  esteem  in  the  tow& 


ADDENDA. 


95 


where  she  resided.  She  died,  March  26, 
1834,  in  the  68th  year  of  her  age,  and  was 
buried  beside  her  illustrious  husband,  in  the 
mausoleum  at  Dumfries.  (153) 

Mr.  Gilbert  Burns,  the  early  companion 
and  at  all  times  the  steadfast  friend  of 
the  poet,  continued  to  struggle  with  the 
miserable  glebe  of  Mossgiel  till  about  the 
year  1797,  when  he  removed  to  the  farm  of 
Dinning,  on  the  estate  of  Mr.  Monteith  of 
Closeburn,  in  Nithsdale.  The  poet  had  lent 
him  £200  out  of  the  profits  of  the  Edin- 
burgh edition  of  his  works,  in  order  that  he 
might  overcome  some  of  his  difficulties ; 
and  he,  some  years  after,  united  himself  to 
a Miss  Breckonridge,  by  whom  he  had  a 
family  of  six  sons  and  five  daughters.  In 
consideration  of  the  support  he  extended  to 
his  widowed  mother,  the  poet  seems  never 
to  have  thought  of  a reckoning  with  him 
for  the  above  sum.  He  was  a man  of 
sterling  sense  and  sagacity,  pious  without 
asceticism  or  bigotry,  and  entertaining 
liberal  and  enlightened  views,  without  being 
the  least  of  an  enthusiast.  His  letter  to 
Dr.  Currie,  dated  from  Dinning,  October  24, 
1800,  shows  no  mean  powers  of  composi- 
tion, and  embodies  nearly  all  the  philan- 
thropic views  of  human  improvement  which 
have  been  so  broadly  realised  in  our  own 
day.  We  are  scarcely  more  affected  by  the 
consideration  of  the  penury  under  which 
some  of  his  brother’s  noblest  compositions 
were  penned,  than  by  the  reflection  that  this 
beautiful  letter  was  the  effusion  of  a man 
who,  with  his  family,  daily  wrought  long 
and  laboriously  under  all  those  circum- 
stances of  parsimony  which  characterise 
Scottish  rural  life.  Some  years  after,  Mr. 
Gilbert  Burns  was  appointed  by  Lady 
Blantyre  to  be  land-steward  or  factor  upon 
her  estate  of  Lethington  in  East-Lothian, 
to  which  place  he  accordingly  removed. 
His  conduct  in  this  capacity,  during  near 
twenty-five  years,  was  marked  by  great 
fidelity  and  prudence,  and  gave  the  most 
perfect  satisfaction  to  his  titled  employer. 
It  was  not  till  1820,  that  he  was  enabled  to 
repay  the  money  borrowed  from  his  brother 
in  1788  Being  then  invited  by  Messrs. 
Cadell  and  Davies  to  superintend,  and 
improve  as  much  as  possible,  a new  edition 
of  the  poet’s  works,  he  received  as  much 
in  remuneration  of  his  labour,  as  enabled 
him  to  perform  this  act  of  duty. 

The  mother  of  Robert  and  Gilbert  Burns 
Uved  in  the  household  of  the  latter  at 
Grant’s  Braes,  near  Lethington,  till  1820, 
when  she  died  at  the  age  of  eighty-eight, 
find  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  Bolton. 


In  personal  aspect,  Robert  Burns  resembled 
his  mother ; Gilbert  had  the  more  aquiline 
features  of  his  father.  The  portrait  of 
Robert  Burns,  painted  by  a Mr.  Taylor, 
and  published  in  an  engraved  form  by 
Messrs.  Constable  and  Company  a few 
years  ago,  bore  a striking  resemblance  to 
Gilbert.  This  excellent  man  died  at 
Grant’s  Braes,  November  8,  1827,  aged 
about  sixty-seven  years.  His  sons,  having 
received  an  excellent  education,  occupy 
respectable  stations  in  society.  One  is 
factor  to  Lord  Blantyre,  and  another  is 
minister  of  the  parish  of  Monkton,  near 
Ayr. 

Two  sisters  of  Bums,  one  of  whom  is  by 
marriage  Mrs.  Begg,  yet  survive.  They 
reside  in  the  village  e*  Tranent,  East- 
Lothian. 


^ limtnlfigtral  Urntlnpritt  nf  ftints. 

At  the  opening  of  the  Mausoleum,  March 
1834,  for  the  interment  of  Mrs.  Burns,  it 
was  resolved  by  some  citizens  of  Dumfries, 
with  the  concurrence  of  the  nearest  relative 
of  the  widow,  to  raise  the  cranium  of  the 
poet  from  the  grave,  and  have  a cast 
moulded  from  it,  with  a view  to  gratifying 
the  interest  likely  to  be  felt  by  the  students 
of  phrenology  respecting  its  peculiar  de- 
velopment. This  purpose  was  carried  into 
effect  during  the  night  between  the  31st 
March  and  the  1st  April,  and  the  following 
is  the  description  of  the  cranium,  drawn  up 
at  the  time  by  Mr.  A.  Blacklock,  surgeon, 
one  of  the  individuals  present : — 

“ The  craniel  bones  were  perfect  in  every 
respect,  if  we  except  a little  erosion  of  tlieir 
external  table,  and  firmly  held  together  by 
their  sutures  ; even  the  delicate  bones  of 
the  orbits,  with  the  trifling  exception  of  the 
os  unguis  in  the  left,  were  sound,  and  un- 
injured by  death  and  the  grave.  The 
superior  maxillary  bones  still  retained  the 
four  most  posterior  teeth  on  each  side,  in- 
cluding the  dentes  sapientke,  and  all 
without  spot  or  blemish;  the  incisores, 
cuspidati,  &c.,  had,  in  all  probability,  recently 
dropped  from  the  jaw,  for  the  alveoli  were 
but  little  decayed.  The  bones  of  the  face 
and  palate  were  also  sound.  Some  small 
portions  of  black  hair,  with  a very  few  grey 
hairs  intermixed,  were  observed  while  de- 
taching some  extraneous  matter  from  the 
occiput.  Indeed,  nothing  could  exceed  the 
high  state  of  preservation  in  which  we  found 
the  bones  of  the  cranium,  or  offer  a fairer 
opportunity  of  supplying  what  has  so  long 
been  desiderated  by  phrenologists  — a 


B6 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


correct  model  of  our  immortal  poet’s  head : 
and  in  order  to  accomplish  this  in  the  most 
accurate  and  satisfactory  manner,  every 
particle  of  sand,  or  other  foreign  body,  was 
carefully  washed  off,  and  the  plaster  of  Paris 
applied  with  all  the  tact  and  accuracy  of  an 
experienced  artist.  The  cast  is  admirably 
taken,  and  cannot  fail  to  prove  highly  in- 
teresting to  phrenologists  and  others. 

“Ha^  mg  completed  our  intention,  the  skull, 
securely  enclosed  in  a leaden  case,  was  again 
committed  to  the  earth,  precisely  where  we 
found  it. 

Archd.  Blacklock.” 

A cast  from  the  skull  having  been  trans- 
mitted to  the  Phrenological  Society  of 
Edinburgh,  the  following  view  of  tbe  cere- 
bral development  of  Burns  was  drawn  up 
by  Mr.  George  Combe,  and  published  in 
connection  with  four  views  of  the  cranhim. 
*W.  and  A.  K.  Johnston,  Edinburgh) : — • 

“ I.  DIMENSIONS  OF  THE  SKULL. 


Inches. 


Greatest  circumference 

22\ 

From  Occipital  Spine  to  Individuality, 

over  the  top  of  the  head  . . 

14 

n 

Ear  to  Ear  vertically  over  the  top 

of  the  head 

13 

9* 

Pliiloprogenitiveness  to  Individu- 

ality, (greatest  length)  . . . 

8 

•9 

Concentrativeness  to  Comparison 

7^ 

W 

Ear  to  Philoprogenitiveness  . . 

41 

» 

„ Individuality  .... 

41 

St 

,,  Benevolence 

n 

„ Firmness 

tt 

Destructiveness  to  Destructive- 

ness   

5f 

tt 

Secretiveness  to  Secretiveness  . 

5| 

Cautiousness  to  Cautiousness 

* 

Ideality  to  Ideality 

4f 

» 

Constructiveness  to  Constructive- 

ness 

4a 

Mastoid  process  to  Mastoid  Pro- 

cess   

4| 

*11,  DEVELOPEMENT  OF  THE  ORGANS. 

Scale 

1. 

Amativeness,  rather  large  . . 

. 16 

2. 

Philoprogenitiveness,  very  large  . 

20 

3. 

Concentrativeness;  large  . . . 

. 18 

4. 

Adhesiveness,  very  large  . . . 

20 

5. 

Combativeness,  very  large  • . 

. 20 

6. 

Destructiveness,  large  . . . . 

18 

7. 

Secretiveness,  large  .... 

8. 

Acquisitiveness,  rather  large  . . 

16 

9. 

Constructiveness,  full  . . . 

. 15 

10.  Self-Esteem,  large 

18 

11.  Love  of  Approbation,  very  large 

. 20 

12. 

Cautiousness,  large  , . , . . 

19 

Pc'110. 

13.  Benevolence,  very  large  . ...  23 

14.  Veneration,  large  19 

15.  Firmness,  full  .15 

16.  Conscientiousness,  full  . • « . 15 

17.  Hope,  full  14 

18.  Wonder,  large  .......  18 

19.  Ideality,  large  .......  18 

20.  Wit,  or  Mirthfulness,  full  ...  15 

21.  Imitation,  large . 19 

22.  Individuality,  large 19 

23.  Form,  rather  large 16 

24.  Size,  rather  large  ......  17 

25.  Weight,  rather  large 16 

26.  Colouring,  rather  large  ....  16 

27.  Locality,  large  . . .....  18 

28.  Number,  rather  full 12 

29.  Order,  full  - 14 

30.  Eventuality,  large 18 

31.  Time,  rather  large 16 

32.  Tune,  full 1# 

33.  Language,  uncertain 

34.  Comparison,  rather  large  ...  1^ 

35.  Causality,  large 1$ 


“ The  scale  of  the  organs  indicates  their 
relative  'proportions  to  each  other;  2 i$ 
idiotcy — 10  moderate — 14  full — 18  large; 
and  20  very  large. 

“ The  cast  of  a skull  does  not  show  the 
temperament  of  the  individual,  but  the  por- 
traits of  Burns  indicate  the  bilious  and 
nervous  temperaments,  the  sources  of 
strength,  activity,  and  susceptibility;  and 
the  descriptions  given  by  his  contemporaries 
of  his  beaming  and  energetic  eye,  and  the 
rapidity  and  impetuosity  of  his  manifesta- 
tions, establish  the  inference  that  his  brain 
was  active  and  susceptible. 

“ Size  in  the  brain,  other  conditions  being 
equal,  is  the  measure  of  mental  power.  The 
skull  of  Burns  indicates  a large  brain.  The 
length  is  eight,  and  the  greatest  breadth 
nearly  six  inches.  The  circumference  is  22\ 
inches.  These  measurements  exceed  the 
average  of  Scotch  living  Leads,  including  the 
integuments,  for  which  four-eighths  of  an 
inch  may  be  allowed 

“ The  brain  of  Burns,  therefore,  possessed 
the  two  elements  of  power  and  activity. 

“ The  portions  of  the  brain  which  manifest 
the  animal  propensities,  are  uncommonly 
large,  indicating  strong  passions,  and  great 
energy  in  action  under  their  influence.  The 
group  of  organs  manifesting  the  domestic 
affections  (Amativeness,  Philoprogenitive- 
ness, and  Adhesiveness),  is  large ; Philopro- 
genitiveness uncommonly  so  for  a male 
head.  The  organs  of  Combativeness  and 
Destructiveness  are  large,  bespeaking  greaf 


ADDENDA. 


heat  of  temper,  impatience,  and  liability  to 
irritation. 

“ Secretiveness  and  Cautiousness  are  both 
large,  and  would  confer  considerable  power 
of  restraint,  where  he  felt  restraint  to  be 
necessary. 

“ Acquisitiveness,  Self-Esteem,  and  Love 
of  Approbation,  are  also  in  ample  endowment, 
although  the  first  is  less  than  the  other 
two ; these  feelings  give  the  love  of  pro- 
perty, a high  consideration  of  self,  and  desire 
of  the  esteem  of  others.  The  first  quality 
will  not  be  so  readily  conceded  to  Burns  as 
the  second  and  third,  which,  indeed,  were 
much  stronger ; but  the  phrenologist  records 
what  is  presented  by  nature,  in  full  confi- 
dence that  the  manifestations,  when  the 
character  is  correctly  understood,  will  be 
found  to  correspond  with  the  developement, 
and  he  states  that  the  brain  indicates  con- 
siderable love  of  property. 

“ The  organs  of  the  moral  sentiments  are 
also  largely  developed.  Ideality,  Wonder, 
Imitation,  and  Benevolence,  are  the  largest 
in  size.  Veneration  also  is  large.  Con- 
scientiousness, Eirmness,  and  Hope,  are  full. 

“ The  Knowing  organs,  or  those  of  percep- 
tive intellect,  are  large;  and  the  organs  of 
Reflection  are  also  considerable,  but  less 
than  the  former.  Causality  is  larger  than 
Comparison,  and  Wit  is  less  than  either. 

“ The  skull  indicates  the  combination  of 
strong  animal  passions  with  equally  powerful 
moral  emotions.  If  the  natural  morality 
had  been  less,  the  endowment  of  the  pro- 
pensities is  sufficient  to  have  constituted  a 
character  of  the  most  desperate  description. 
The  combination  ts  it  exists,  bespeaks  a 
mind  extremely  subject  to  contending  emo- 
tions— capable  of  great  good,  or  great  evil — 
and  encompassed  with  vast  difficulties  in 
preserving  a Steady,  even,  onward  course  of 
practical  morality. 

“ In  the  combination  of  very  large  Philo- 
progenitivefiess  and  Adhesiveness,  with  very 
large  Benevolence  and  large  Ideality,  we  find 
the  elements  of  that  exquisite  tenderness 
and  refinement,  which  Burns  so  frequently 
manifested,  even  when  at  the  worst  stage  of 
liis  career.  In  the  combination  of  great 
Combativeness,  Destructiveness,  and  Self- 
Esteem,  we  find  the  fundamental  qualities 
which  inspired  "Scots  wha  has  wi’  Wallace 
bled,’  and  similar  productions. 

“ The  combination  of  large  Secretiveness, 
Imitation,  and  the  perceptive  organs,  gives 
the  elements  of  his  dramatic  talent  and 
humour.  The  skull  indicates  a decided 
talent  for  Humour,  but  less  for  Wit.  The 
public  are  apt  to  confound  the  talents  for  I 
a 


ST 

Wit  and  Humour.  The  metaphysician^ 
however,  have  distinguished  them,  and  in 
the  phrenological  works  their  different  ele- 
ments are  pointed  out.  Burns  possessed 
the  talent  for  satire ; Destructiveness,  added 
to  the  combination  which  gives  Humour, 
produces  it. 

“An  unskilful  observer  looking  at  the  fore- 
head, might  suppose  it  to  be  moderate  in 
size ; but  when  the  dimensions  of  the  ante- 
rior lobe,  in  both  length  and  breadth,  are 
attended  to,  the  Intellectual  organs  will  be 
recognised  to  have  been  large.  The  anterior 
lobe  projects  so  much,  that  it  gives  an  ap- 
pearance of  narrowness  to  the  forehead 
which  is  not  real.  This  is  the  cause,  also, 
why  Benevolence  appears  to  lie  farther  back 
than  usual.  An  anterior  lobe  of  this  magni- 
tude indicates  great  Intellectual  power.  The 
combination  of  large  Perceptive  and  Re- 
flecting organs  (Causality  predominant),  with 
large  Concentrativeness  and  large  organs  of 
the  feelings,  gives  that  sagacity  and  vigorous 
common  sense,  for  which  Burns  was  distin- 
guished. 

“ The  skull  rises  high  above  Causality,  and 
spreads  wide  in  the  region  of  Ideality ; the 
strength  of  his  moral  feelings  lay  in  that 
region. 

“ The  combination  of  large  organs  of  the 
Animal  Propensities,  with  large  Cautious- 
ness, and  only  full  Hope,  together  with  the 
unfavourable  circumstances  in  which  he  was 
placed,  accounts  for  the  melancholy  and 
internal  unhappiness  with  which  Burns  was 
so  frequently  afflicted.  This  melancholy  waa 
rendered  still  deeper  by  bad  health. 

“The  combination  of  Acquisitiveness,  Cau- 
tiousness, Love  of  Approbation,  and  Con- 
scientiousness, is  the  source  of  his  keen 
feelings  in  regard  tc  pecuniary  independence. 
The  great  power  of  his  Animal  Propensities 
would  give  him  strong  temptations  to  waste ; 
but  the  combination  just  mentioned  wrould 
impose  a powerful  restraint.  The  head  in- 
dicates the  elements  of  an  economical  cha- 
racter, and  it  is  known  that  he  died  free 
from  debt,  notwithstanding  the  smallness  of 
his  salary. 

“ No  phrenologist  can  look  upon  this  head, 
and  consider  the  circumstances  in  which 
Burns  was  placed,  without  vivid  feelings  of 
regret.  Burns  must  have  walked  the  earth 
with  a consciousness  of  great  superiority 
over  his  associates  in  the  station  in  which 
he  was  placed — of  powers  calculated  for  a 
far  higher  sphere  than  that  which  he  was 
able  to  reach,  and  of  passions  which  ha 
could  with  difficulty  restrain,  and  which  it 
I was  fatal  to  indulge,  if  he  had  been  placed 


98 


tIFE  OF  BURNS. 


from  infancy  in  the  higher  ranks  of  life, 
liberally  educated,  and  employed  in  pursuits 
corresponding  to  his  powers,  the  inferior 
portion  of  his  nature  would  have  lost  part 
of  its  energy,  while  his  better  qualities 
would  have  assumed  a decided  and  per- 
manent superiority.” 

A more  elaborate  paper  on  the  skull  of 
Burns  appeared  in  the  Phrenological  Journal, 
No.  XII.,  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Robert  Cox. 
This  gentleman  endeavours  to  show  that  the 
character  of  Burns  was  in  conformity  with 
the  full  development  of  Acquisitiveness. 
‘"According  to  his  own  description,”  says 
Mr.  Cox,  “he  was  a man  who  ‘had  little 
art  in  making  money,  and  still  less  in  keep- 
ing it/  That  his  art  in  making  money  was 
sufficiently  moderate,  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
for  he  was  engaged  in  occupations  which  his 
soul  loathed,  and  thought  it  below  his 
dignity  to  accept  of  pecuniary  remuneration 
for  some  of  his  most  laborious  literary  per- 
formances. lie  was,  however,  by  no  means 
insensible  to  the  value  of  money,  and  never 
threw  it  away.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
remarkably  frugal,  except  when  feelings 
stronger  than  Acquisitiveness  came  into  play 
—such  as  Benevolence,  Adhesiveness,  and 
Love  of  Approbation;  the  organs  of  all 
which  ire  very  large,  while  Acquiaitiveaeaa 


is  only  rather  large.  During  his  resident* 

at  Mossgiel,  where  his  revenue  was  not 
more  than  £7,  his  expenses,  as  Gilbert  men- 
tions, ‘ never  in  any  one  year  exceeded  his 
slender  income/  It  is  also  well  known  that 
he  did  not  leave  behind  him  a shilling  of 
debt ; and  I have  learned  from  good  autli  o- 
rity  that  his  household  was  much  mere 
frugally  managed  at  Dumfries  than  at  Ellis- 
land — as  in  the  former  place,  but  not  in  the 
latter,  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  exercise  a 
personal  control  over  the  expenditure.  I 
have  been  told  also,  that,  after  his  death,  the 
domestic  expenses  were  greater  than  when 
he  was  alive.  These  facts  are  all  consistent 
with  a considerable  development  of  Acquisi- 
tiveness,  for,  when  that  organ  is  small,  there 
is  habitual  inattention  to  pecuniary  con- 
cerns, even  although  the  love  of  indepen- 
dence and  dislike  to  ask  a favour  be  strong. 
The  indifference  with  respect  to  money, 
which  Burns  occasionally  ascribes  to  him- 
self, appears  therefore,  to  savour  of  affecta- 
tion— a failing  into  whhi  he  was  not 
unfrequently  led  by  Love  of  Approbation  and 
Secretiveness.  Indeed,  in  one  of  his  letters 
to  Miss  Chalmers,  he  expressly  intimates  a 
wish  to  be  rich.”  The  whole  of  this  essay 
l L highly  worthy  of  perusal  by  all  who  take  an 
j interest  in  the  character  of  the  Ayrshire  bard. 


^ortiul  Stoks  nf  JUkit  loins. 


Sttras's  |kM  BMu 


©lj?  Sratlj  aril  Suing  Kurils  nf 
Ifim  ffiailie. 

THE  AUTHOR’S  ONLY  PET  YOWB. 

AN  UNCO  aJOURNTU*  TALE.  (1) 

As  Mailie,  and  her  lambs  tliegither. 

Were  ae  day  nibbling  on  the  tether. 

Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a hitch. 

And  owre  she  warsled  in  the  ditch : 

There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  lie. 

When  Hughoc  he  cam  doytin  by. 

Wi’  glowering  een  and  lifted  han’s. 

Poor  Hughoc  like  a statue  stands  ; 

He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended. 
But,  waes  my  heart ! he  could  na  mend  it 
He  gaped  wide  but  naething  spak — 

At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak. 

“ Oh  thou,  whose  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu’  case  I 
My  dying  words  attentive  hear, 

And  bear  them  to  my  master  dear. 

“ Tell  him,  if  e’er  again  he  keep 
As  mnckle  gear  as  buy  a sheep. 

Oh  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi’  wicked  strings  o’  hemp  or  hair ! 

But  ca’  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 

And  let  them  wander  at  their  will ; 

So  may  his  flock  increase,  and  grow 
To  scores  o’  lambs,  and  packs  o’  woo’  I 
“ Tell  him  he  was  a master  kin’. 

And  aye  was  guid  to  me  and  mine ; 

And  now  my  dying  charge  I gie  him— 
Aiy  helpless  lambs  1 trust  them  wi’  him. 


“ Oh  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives 
Frae  dogs,  and  tods,  and  butchers’  knives! 
But  gie  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill. 

Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  themsel; 

And  tent  them  duly,  e’en  and  morn, 

Wi’  teats  o’  hay,  and  ripps  o’  corn. 

“ And  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 
Of  other  vile  wanrestfu’  pets  ; 

To  slink  through  slaps,  and  reave  and  stea? 
At  stacks  o’  peas,  or  stocks  o’  kail. 

So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbears, 

For  many  a year  come  through  the  shears  ■> 
So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o’  bread. 

And  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they’re  dead. 

“ My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  and  heir. 
Oh,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi’  care ; 

And  if  he  live  to  be  a beast. 

To  pit  ,ome  havins  in  his  breast ! 

“And  warn  him,  what  I winna  name^ 

To  stay  content  wi’  yoifes  at  hame ; 

And  nc  to  rin  and  wear  his  cloots, 

Like  itlier  menseless,  graceless  brutes. 

“ And  neist  my  yowie,  silly  thing, 

Gude  keep  thee  frae  a tether  string ; 

Oh,  may  thou  ne’er  forgather  up 
Wi’  ony  blastit,  moorland  toop. 

But  aye  keep  mind  to  moop  andmell 
Wi’  sheep  o’  credit  like  tkysel. 

“ And  now,  my  bairns,  wi’  my  last  breatJl 
I lea’e  my  blessin’  wi’  you  baith : 

And  when  you  think  upo’  your  mithep. 
Mind  10  be  kin’  to  ane  anitker. 


102 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail 
To  tell  ray  master  a’  ray  tale ; 

And  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether. 

And,  for  thy  pains,  thou’s  get  my  blether.0 
This  said,  poor  Mailie  turn’d  her  head. 

And  clos’d  her  een  amang  the  dead. 


^3aar  Mmlii's  flip. 

Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 

Wi’  saut  tears  trickling  down  your  nose ; 
Our  bardie’s  fate  is  at  a close. 

Past  a’  remead ; 

The  last  sad  cape-stane  of  his  woes— 
Poor  Mailie’s  dead  1 
It’s  no  the  loss  o’  warl’s  gear. 

That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear. 

Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 
The  mourning  weed : 

He’s  lost  a friend  and  neibor  dear. 

In  Mailie  dead. 

Thro’  a’  the  toun  she  trotted  by  him ; 

A lang  half-mile. she  could  descry  him ; 
Wi’  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him. 
She  ran  wi’  speed : 

A friend  mair  faithfu’  ne’er  cam  nigh  him 
Than  Mailie  dead. 

I wat  she  was  a sheep  o’  sense. 

And  could  behave  hersel’  wi’  mensc : 

I’ll  say’t  she  never  brak  a fence. 

Thro’  thievish  greed. 

Our  bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spence 
Sin’  Mailie’s  dead. 

Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howe. 

Her  living  image  in  her  yowe. 

Comes  bleating  to  him,  owre  the  know©, 
For  bits  o’  bread  ; 

And  down  the  briny  pearls  row® 

For  Mailie  dead. 

She  was  nae  get  o’  moorland  tips, 

Wi’  tawted  ket,  and  hairy  hips. 

For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships 
Frae  yont  the  Tweed : 

A bonnier  fleesh  pe’er  cross’d  the  clips 
Than  Mailie  dead. 

Wae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 
That  vile,  wanchancie  thing — a rape ! 

It  maks  guid  fellows  girn  and  gape, 

Wi’  chokin’  dread ; 

And  Robin’s  bonnet  wave  wi’  crape 
For  Mailie  dead. 

Oh,  a’  ye  bards  on  bonnie  Doom ! 

And  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune! 
Come,  join,  the  melancholious  croon 
O’  Robin’s  reed ! 

Hia  heart  will  never  get  aboon— 

His  Mailie’s  dead  1 


Epistle  fa  Daniil 

A BROTHER  TOET.  (2) 

January,  1784. 
While  winds  frae  aff  Ben  Lomond  blav% 
And  bar  the  doors  with  driving  snaw. 
And  hing  us  owre  the  ingle, 

I set  me  down  to  pass  the  time. 

And  spin  a verse  or  twa  o’  rhyme. 

In  hamely  westlin  jingle. 

While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drifts 
Ben  to  the  chimla  lug, 

^grudge  a wee  the  great  folk’s  gifi^ 

That  live  sa  bien  and  snug : 

I tent  less,  and  want  less 
Their  roomy  fire-side ; 

But  hanker  and  canker 
To  see  their  cursed  pride, 

It’9  hardly  in  a body’s  power 
To  keep,  at  times,  frae  being  soup. 

To  see  how  things  are  shar’d ; 

How  best  o’  chiels  are  whiles  in  want. 
While  coofs  on  countless  thousands  r&nt» 
And  ken  na  how  to  wair’t ; 

But  Davie,  lad,  ne’er  fash  your  head, 

Tho’  we  hae  little  gear. 

We’re  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread. 

As  Ian’s  we’re  hale  and  fier : 

"Mair  spier  na,  no  fear  na”  (3), 

Auld  age  ne’er  mind  a feg. 

The  last  o’t,  the  warst  o’t. 

Is  only  but  to  beg.  (4) 

To  lie  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e’en 
When  banes  are  craz’d,  and  bluid  is  thin. 
Is,  doubtless,  great  distress ! 

Yet  then  content  could  make  us  blest ; 
Ev’n  then,  sometimes  we’d  snatch  a taste 
Of  truest  happiness. 

The  honest  heart  that’s  free  frae  a’ 
Intended  fraud  or  guile. 

However  fortune  kick  the  ba’. 

Has  aye  some  cause  to  smile : 

And  mind  still,  you’ll  find  still, 

A comfort  this  nae  sma’ ; 

Na  mair  then,  we’ll  care  then, 

Nae  farther  we  can  fa’. 

What  though,  like  commoners  of  air. 

We  wander  out  we  know  not  where. 

But  either -house  or  hal’? 

Yet  nature’s  charms,  the  hills  and  woodsy 
The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods, 
Are  free  alike  to  all. 

In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground. 
And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 

With  honest  joy  our  hearts  wik  bound 
To  see  the  coming  year : 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 


103 


On  braes  when  we  please,  then. 

We’ll  sit  and  sowtli  a tune ; 

Syne  rhyme  till’t,  we’ll  time  till’t. 

And  sing’t  when  we  liae  dune. 

It’s  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank  ; 

It’s  no  in  wealth  like  Lon’on  bank. 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 

It’s  no  in  makin’  muckle  mair ; 

It’s  no  in  books ; it’s  no  in  lear. 

To  mak  us  truly  blest ; 

If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 
And  centre  in  the  breast. 

We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great. 

But  never  can  be  blest : 

Nae  treasures  nor  pleasures 
Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 

The  heart  aye’s  the  part  aye 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

Think  ye,  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wha  drudge  and  drive  through  wet  and  dry, 
Wi’  never-ceasing  toil ; 

Think  ye,  are  we  less  blest  than  they, 

Wha  scarcely  tent  us  in  their  way. 

As  hardly  worth  their  while  ? 

Alas ! how  aft,  in  haughty  mood, 

God’s  creatures  they  oppress ! 

Or  else  neglecting  a’  that’s  guid. 

They  riot  in  excess ! 

Baith  careless  and  fearless 
Of  either  heaven  or  hell ! 

Esteeming  and  deeming 
It’s  a’  an  idle  tale ! 

Then  let  us  cheerfu’  acquiesce ; 

Nor  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less. 

By  pining  at  our  state ; 

And,  even  should  misfortunes  come, 

I,  here  wha  sit,  hae  met  wi’  some, 

An’s  thankfu’  for  them  yet. 

They  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth ; 

They  let  us  ken  oursel ; 

They  make  us  see  the  naked  truth. 

The  real  guid  and  ill. 

Though  losses  and  crosses 
Be  lessons  right  severe. 

There’s  wit  there,  ye’ll  get  there. 

Ye’ll  find  nae  other  where. 

But  tent  me,  Davie,  ace  o’  hearts ! 

(To  say  aught  less  w ad  wrang  the  cartes, 
And  flatt’ry  I detest) 

This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I ; 

And  joys  that  riches  ne’er  could  buy : 

And  joys  the  very  best. 

There's  a’  the  pleasures  o’  the  heart. 

The  lover  and  the  frien’ ; 

Ye  hae  your  Meg  (5),  your  dearest  part, 
And  I ray  darling  Jean  ! 

It  warms  me.  it  charms  me. 

To  mention  but  her  name : 

It  heats  me,  it  beets  me. 

And  sets  me  a’  on  llame  1 


Oh,  all  ye  pow’rs  who  rule  above ! 

Oh,  Thou,  whose  very  self  art  love ! 

Thou  know’st  my  words  sincere ! 

The  life-blood  streaming  thro’  my  heart* 
Or  my  more  dear  immortal  part. 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear  ! 

When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 
Deprive  my  soul  of  rest. 

Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 

Thou  Being,  all-seeing. 

Oh  hear  my  fervent  pray’r  1 
Still  take  her,  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care ! 

All  hail,  ye  tender  feelings  dear ! 

The  smile  of  love,  the  friendly  tear. 

The  sympathetic  glow ! 

Long  since,  this  world’s  thorny  wrayt 
Had  number’d  out  my  weary  days. 

Had  it  not  been  for  you ! 

Fate  still  has  blest  me  with  a friend. 

In  every  care  and  ill ; 

And  oft  a more  endearing  band, 

A tie  more  tender  still. 

It  lightens,  it  brightens 
The  tenebrific  scene. 

To  meet  with,  and  greet  with 
My  Davie  or  my  Jean  1 
Oh,  how  that  name  inspires  my  style 1 
The  words  come  skelpin’,  rank  and  fik^ 
Amaist  before  I ken ! 

The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine 
As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nine 
Were  glowrin’  owre  my  pen. 

My  spaviet  Pegasus  will  limp. 

Till  ance  he’s  fairly  het ; 

And  then  he’ll  hilch,  and  stilt,  and  jimpfc 
And  rin  an  unco  fit : 

But  lest  then,  the  beast  then 
Should  rue  this  hasty  ride. 

I’ll  light  now,  and  dight  now. 

His  sweaty,  wizen’d  hide. 


Stoss  in  ill t Util.  (6) 

Oh  Prince ! Oh  chief  of  many  throned  pow*r% 
That  led  th’  embattled  seraphim  to  war.— 
Milxok. 

Oh  thou  ! whatever  title  suit  thee, 

Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie^ 

Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  and  sootie. 

Closed  under  hatches, 

Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie. 

To  scaud  poor  wretches  t 
Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a wee. 

And  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 

I’m  sure  sma’  pleasure  it  can  gie. 

E’en  to  a deil. 

To  skelp  and  scaud  poor  dogs  like  ue. 

And  hear  us  squeel  l 


104 


BURK'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Great  is  thy  pow’r,  and  great  thy  fame ; 

Far  ken’d  and  noted  is  thy  name  ; 

And  tho’  yon  lowin’  heugh’s  thy  hame. 
Thou  travels  far ; 

And,  faith ! thou’s  neither  lag  nor  lame. 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  ranging  like  a roaring  lion, 

For  prey  a’  holes  and  corners  tryin’ ; 

Whyles  on  the  strong-wing’d  tempest  flyin’, 
TirliiT  the  kirks ; 

Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin7. 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I’ve  heard  my  reverend  granny  say. 

In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray ; 

Or  where  auld  ruin’d  castles,  gray. 

Nod  to  the  moon, 

Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand’rer’s  way 
Wi’  eldritch  croon. 

When  twilight  did  my  granny  summon. 

To  say  her  prayers,  douce  honest  woman  ! 
Aft  yont  the  dyke  she’s  heard  you  bummin,, 
Wi’  eerie  drone  ; 

Or,  rustlin’,  thro’  the  boortries  cornin’, 

Wi’  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night. 

The  stars  shot  down  wi’  sklentin’  light, 

Wi’  you,  mysel,  I gat  a fright 
Ayont  the  lough ; 

Ye,  like  a rash-bush,  stood  in  sight 
Wi’  waving  sough. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake. 

Each  bristl’d  hair  stood  like  a stake, 

W'hen  wi’  an  eldritch,  stoor  quaick — quaick — 
Amang  the  springs, 

Awa  ye  squatter’d,  like  a drake. 

On  whistling  wings. 

Let  warlocks  grim,  and  wither’d  hags. 

Tell  how  wi’  you,  on  ragweed  nags. 

They  skim  the  muirs  and  dizzy  crags, 

Wi  wicked  speed ; 

And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  league* 

Owre  howkit  dead. 

Thence  countra  wives,  wi’  toil  and  pain. 
May  plunge  and  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain; 
For,  oh ! the  yellow  treasure’s  taen 
By  witching  skill ; 

And  dawtit,  twal-pint  hawkie’s  gaen 
As  yell’s  the  bill. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hooord. 
And  float  the  jinglin’  icy  boord, 

Then  water  kelpies  haunt  the  foord. 

By  your  direction ; 

And  ’nighted  travelers  are  allur’d 
To  their  destruction. 

And  aft  your  moss-traversing  spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  and  drunk  is : 


The  bleezin’,  curst,  mischievous  monkiet 
Delude  his  eyes. 

Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is. 

Ne’er  mair  to  rise. 

When  masons’  mystic  word  and  grip 
In  storms  and  tempests  raise  you  up. 

Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop 
Or,  strange  to  tell ! 

The  youngest  brother  ye  wad  whip 
Alf  straught  to  hell  1 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden’s  bonny  yard, 

When  youtlifu’  lovers  first  were  pair’d 
And  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar’d. 

The  raptur’d  hour. 

Sweet  on  the  fragrant  flow’ry  sward. 

In  shady  bow’r  (7) : 

Then  you,  ye  auld  snec-drawing  dog! 

Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog. 

And  played  on  man  a cursed  brogue^ 
(Black  be  your  fa !) 

And  gied  the  infant  warld  a shog, 

’Maist  ruin’d  a’. 

D’ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a biza, 

Wi’  reekit  duds,  and  reestit  gizz. 

Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phi* 

’Mang  better  folk. 

And  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uza 
Your  spitefu’  joke  ? 

And  how  ne  gat  him  i’  your  thrall. 

And  brak  him  out  o’  house  and  hall, 
While  scabs  and  botches  did  him  g&I^ 

Wi’  bitter  claw. 

And  lows’d  his  ill-tongued,  wicked  sc€  ^ 
Was  warst  ava? 

But  a’  your  doings  to  rehearse. 

Your  wily  snares  and  fetchin’  fierce. 

Sin’  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce, 
Down  to  this  time, 

Wad  ding  a Lallan  tongue,  or  Earse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

And  now,  auld  Cloots,  I ken  ye’re  thinkin* 
A certain  bardie’s  rantin’,  drinkin’. 

Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin’ 
To  your  black  pit ; 

But,  faith ! he’ll  turn  a corner  jinkin’. 

And  cheat  you  yet. 

But,  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben ! 

Oh  wad  ye  tak  a thought  and  men’ l 
Ye  aiblins  might— -I  dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a stake — 

I’m  wae  to  think  upo’  yon  den, 

Ev’n  for  your  aakc ! 


NEW -YEAR  MORNING  SALUTATION. 


101 


<£jn>  Sulfc  /Hrmrr’s  ffim-fm  Stoning 
f aluiatimi  ta  tjis  Sulil  BtoB  ffiuggin, 

ON  GIVING  HER  THE  ACCUSTOMED  RIPP  O? 

CORN  TO  HANSEL  IN  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

A guid  New-year  I wish  thee,  Maggie ! 
Hae,  there’s  a ripp  to  thy  auld  baggie ; 

Tho’  thou’s  howe-backit,  now,  and  knaggie, 
I’ve  seen  the  day 

Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  onie  staggie 
Out-owre  the  lay. 

Tho’  now  thou’s  dowie,  stiff,  and  crazy. 

And  thy  auld  hide’s  as  white’s  a daisy, 

I’ve  seen  thee  dappl’t,  sleek,  and  glaizie, 

A bonny  gray ; 

He  should  been  tight  that  daur’t  to  raise  thee 
Ance  in  a day. 

Thou  ance  was  i’  the  foremost  rank, 

A filiy,  buirdly,  steeve,  and  swank. 

And  set  weel  down  a shapely  shank 
As  e’er  tread  ~yird  ; 

And  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a stank. 

Like  ony  bird. 

It’s  now  some  nine-and-twenty  year. 

Sin’  thou  was  my  guid-father’s  mere ; 

He  gied  me  thee,  o’  tocher  clear 
And  fifty  mark ; 

Tho’  it  was  sma’,  ’twas  weel-won  gear. 

And  thou  was  stark. 

When  first  I gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 

Ye  then  was  trottiu’  wi’  your  minnies 
Tho’  ye  was  trickie,  slee,  and  funnie. 

Ye  ne’er  was  donsie ; 

But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  and  cannie. 

And  unco  sonsie. 

That  day  ye  pranc’d  wi’  muckle  pride, 

When  ye  bure  harne  my  bonny  bride : 

And  sweet  and  gracefu’  she  did  ride, 

Wri’  maiden  air ! 

Kyle  Stewart  I could  bragged  wide. 

For  sic  a pair. 

Tho’  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  and  hoble^ 

And  wintle  like  a saumont-coble, 

T hat  day  ye  was  a jinker  noble. 

For  heels  and  win’ ! 

And  ran  them  till  they  a’  did  wauble. 

Far,  far  behin’  I 

'When  thou  and  I were  young  and  skeigh. 
And  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigli. 

How  thou  wad  prance,  and  snore,  and  skreigk 
And  tak  the  road ! 

Town’s  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh. 

And  ca’t  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn’t,  and  I was  mellow, 

W e took  the  road  aye  like  a swallow ; 


At  brooses  thou  had  ne’er  a fellow 
For  pith  and  speed ; 

But  ev’ry  tail  thou  pay’t  them  hollow, 
Whare’er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma’  droop-rumpl’t,  hunter,  cattle. 
Might  aiblins  waur’t  thee  for  a brattle ; 

But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try’t  their  mettle 
And  gar’t  them  whaizle : 

Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a wattle 
O’  saugh  or  hazle. 

Thou  was  a noble  fittie-lan’. 

As  e’er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn ! 

Aft  thee  and  I,  in  aucht  hours’  gaun. 

In  guid  March  weather, 

Hae  turn’d  sax  rood  beside  our  han* 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  braindg’t,  and  fecli’t,  and  fhskik 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit. 
And  spread  abreed  thy  well-fill’d  brisket, 
Wi’  pith  and  pow’r. 

Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair’t  and  risket. 
And  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  and  snaws  were  deep 
And  threaten’d  labour  back  to  keep, 

I gied  thy  c g a wee-bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer ; 

I ken’d  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 
For  that,  or  simmer. 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit ; 

The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac’t  it ; 
Thou  never  lap,  and  sten’t , and  breastit. 
Then  stood  to  blaw ; 

But  just  thy  step  a wee  thing  hastit. 

Thou  snoov’t  awa. 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a* ; 

Four  gallant  brutes  as  e’er  did  draw  ; 
Forbye  sax  mae  I’ve  sell’t  awa. 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 

They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  and  twa. 

The  vera  warst. 

Monie  a sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought* 
And  wi’  the  weary  warl’  fought ! 

And  monie  an  anxious  day  I thought 
We  wad  be  beat ! 

Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we’re  brought, 

Wi’  something  yet. 

And  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan*. 

That  now  perhaps  thou’s  less  deservin'. 
And  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin’. 

For  my  last  fou, 

A heapit  stimpart,  I’ll  reserve  aue 
Laid  by  for  you. 

We’ve  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither; 

We’ll  toyte  about  wi’  ane  anither; 

Wi’  tentie  care  I’ll  flit  thy  tether, 

To  some  hain’d  rig, 

Whare  ye  may  i obly  rax  your  leather, 

Wi’  sma’  fatigue. 


103 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


lallttnrra.  (§) 

Upon  that  night,  when  fairies  light, 

On  Cassilis  Downans  (9)  dance. 

Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze. 

On  sprightly  coursiers  prance; 

Or  for  Coleon  the  route  is  ta’en. 

Beneath  the  moon’s  pale  beams ; 

There,  up  the  cove  (10),  to  stray  and  rove 
Amang  the  rocks  and  streams 
To  sport  that  night. 

Amang  the  bonny,  winding  banks. 

Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin’,  clear. 

Where  Bruce  (11)  ance  rul’d  the  martial 
ranks. 

And  shook  his  Carrick  spear, 

Some  merry,  friendly,  countra  folks, 
Together  did  convene. 

To  burn  their  nits,  and  pou  their  stocks. 
And  haud  their  Halloween 

Fu’  blythe  that  night. 

The  lasses  feat,  and  cleanly  neat, 

Mair  braw  than  when  they’re  fine ; 
heir  faces  blythe,  fu’  sweetly  kythe. 

Hearts  leal,  and  warm,  and  kin’ ; 

The  lads  sae  trig,  wi’  wooer-babs, 

Weel  knotted  on  their  garten. 

Some  unco  blate,  and  some  wi’  gabs. 

Gar  lasses’  hearts  gang  startin’ 

» Whiles  fast  at  night. 

Then,  first  and  foremost,  thro’  the  kail. 
Their  stocks  (12)  maun  a’  be  sought  ance; 
They  steek  their  een,  and  graip,  and  wale. 
For  muckle  anes  and  straught  anes. 

Poor  hav’rel  Will  fell  aff  th?  drift, 

And  wander’d  thro*  the  bow-kail. 

And  j:ou’t,  for  want  o’  better  shift, 

A runt  was  like  a sow-tail, 

Sae  bow’t  that  night. 

Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane. 
They  roar  and  cry  a’  throu’ther ; 

The  vera  wee-things,  todlin’,  rin 
Wi*  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther : 

And  gif  the  custoc’s  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi’  joctelegs  they  taste  them ; 

Byne  coziely,  aboon  the  door, 

Wi’  cannie  care,  they’ve  placed  them 
To  lie  that  night. 

The  lasses  straw  frae  ’mang  them  a’ 

To  pou  their  stalks  o’  corn  (13) ; 

But  Bab  slips  out,  and  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn  : 

He  grippet  Nelly  hard  and  fast ; 

Loud  skirl'd  a’  the  lasses ; 

But  bfT  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

When  kuittlin’  in  the  fause-house  (14) 
Wi’  him  that  night. 


The  auld  guidwife’s  weel-hoordet  nits  (15) 
Are  round  and  round  divided. 

And  mony  lads’  and  lasses’  fates 
Are  there  that  night  decided  : 

Some  kindle,  couthie,  side  by  side, 

And  burn  thegither  trimly ; 

Some  start  awa  wi’  saucy  pride. 

And  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 
Fu’  high  that  night. 

Jean  slips  in  twa  wi’  tentie  e’e ; 

Wha  ’twas,  she  wadna  tell ; 

But  this  is  Jock,  and  this  is  me. 

She  says  in  to  hersel’ : 

He  bleez’d  owre  her,  and  she  owre  him* 
As  they  waud  never  mair  part ; 

Till,  fuff ! he  started  up  the  lum. 

And  Jean  had  e’en  a sair  heart 
To  see’t  that  night. 

Poor  Willie,  wi’  his  bow-kail  runt. 

Was  brunt  wi’  primsie  Mallie ; 

And  Mary,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drun^ 

To  be  compared  to  Willie. 

Mall’s  nit  lap  out  wi’  pridefu’  fling; 

And  her  ain  fit  it  burnt  it ; 

While  Willie  lap,  and  swoor,  by  jing; 
’Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 
To  be  that  night. 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min/ 

She  pits  hersel  and  Rob  in ; 

In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join. 

Till  white  in  ase  they’re  sobbin*. 

Nell’s  heart  was  dancin’  at  the  view. 

She  whisper’d  Rob  to  leuk  for’t : 

Rob,  stowlins,  prie’d  her  bonny  mou* 

Fu’  cozie  in  the  neux  for’t. 

Unseen  that  night. 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs; 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 

She  lea’es  them  gashin’  at  their  crack% 
And  slips  out  by  hersel’ : 

She  through  the  yard  the  nearest  takf; 

And  to  the  kiln  she  goes  then. 

And  darklins  graipit  for  the  bauks. 

And  in  the  blue-clue  (16)  throws  them 
Right  fear’t  that  night. 

And  aye  she  win’t,  and  aye  she  swat; 

I wat  she  made  nae  jaukin’ ; 

Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 

Guid  L — d ! but  she  was  quakin'  S 
But  whether  ’twas  the  deil  himsel. 

Or  whether  ’twas  a bauk-en’. 

Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  did  na  wait  on  talkin’ 

To  spier  that  night. 

Wee  Jenny  to  her  granny  says, 

“ Will  ye  go  wi’  me,  granny  ? 

I’ll  eat  the  apple  (17)  at  the  glass; 

I gat  frae  uncle  Johnny 


HALLOWEEN. 


She  faff  t her  pipe  wi’  sic  a lunt. 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap’rin’, 
ghe  notic’t  na,  aizle  brunt 
Her  braw  new  worse!  apron 

Out  thro’  that  night. 
m Ye  little  skelpie-liramer’s  face ! 

I daur  you  try  sic  sportin’, 

As  seek  the  foul  thief  onie  place. 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  : 

Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a sight ! 

Great  cause  ye  hae  to  fear  it ; 

For  monie  a ane  has  gotten  a fright. 

And  lived  and  died  deleeret. 

On  sic  a night. 

Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherra-moor— 

I mind’t  as  well’s  yestreen, 
was  a gilpey,  then  I’m  sure 
I was  na  past  fyfteen  : 

The  simmer  had  been  cauld  and  wat^ 

And  stuff  was  unco’  green ; 

And  aye  a rantin’  kirn  we  gat. 

And  just  on  Halloween 

It  fell  that  night. 

Our  stibble  rig  was  Rab  M’Graen, 

A clever,  sturdy  fallow  : 

He’s  sin’  gat  Eppie  Sim  w’  wean. 

That  lived  in  Achmacalla  : 

He  gat  hemp-seed  (18),  I mind  it  weel. 
And  he  made  unco  light  o’t ; 

But  mony  a day  was  by  himsel’. 

He  was  sae  sairly  frighted 
That  very  night.” 

Then  up  gat  fechtin’  Jamie  Fleck, 

And  he  swoor  by  his  conscience. 

That  he  could  sow  hemp-seed  a peck; 

For  it  was  a’  but  nonsense. 

The  auld  guidman  raught  down  the  pock. 
And  out  a handfu’  gied  him ; 

Syne  bade  him  slip  frae  ’mang  the  folk. 
Sometime  when  nae  ane  see’d  him. 
And  try’d  that  night. 

He  marches  through  amang  the  stacks, 
Tho’  he  was  something  sturtin  : 

The  graip  he  for  a harrow  taks. 

And  hauls  at  his  curpin  ; 

And  every  now  and  then  he  says, 

“ Hemp -seed  I saw  thee, 

And  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass. 

Come  after  me,  and  draw  thee 
As  fast  this  night.” 

He  whistl’d  up  Lord  Leonox’  march. 

To  keep  his  courage  cheery ; 

Altho’  his  hair  began  to  arch. 

He  was  sae  fley’d  and  eerie  : 

Till  presently  he  hears  a squeak. 

An  \ then  a grane  and  gruntle ; 

He  bj  his  shouther  gae  a keek. 

And  tumbl’d  wi’  o wintle 

Out-owre  that  night. 


ior 

He  roar’d  a Lurid  murder-shout. 

In  dreadfu’  desperation ! 

And  young  and  auld  cam  rinnin’  out. 

And  hear  the  sad  narration  : 

He  swoor  ’twas  hilchin  Jean  M'Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphie, 

Till,  stop — she  trotted  through  them  a*—* 
And  wha  was  it  but  grump  hie 
Asteer  that  night ! 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  hae  gaen. 

To  win  three  wechts  o’  naething  (19)  ; 

But  for  to  meet  the  deil  her  lane, 

She  pat  cut  little  faith  in : 

She  gies  the  herd  a pickle  nits. 

And  twa  red-cheekit  apples. 

To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets. 

In  hopes  to  see  Tam  Kioplea 
That  vera  nighc. 

She  turns  the  key  wi’  cannie  thraw. 

And  owre  the  threshold  ventura; 

But  first  on  Sawny  gies  a ca’. 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters : 

A rat  ton  rattled  up  the  wa’. 

And  she  cried,  “L — d,  preserve  her  !® 
And  ran  thro’  midden  hole  and  a’. 

And  pray’d  with  zeal  and  fervour, 

Fu’  fast  that  night. 

They  hoy’t  out  Will,  wi’  sair  advice ; 

They  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane ; 

It  chanc’d  the  stack  he  faddom’t  thrice  (20X 
Was  timmer-propt  for  thrawin’; 

He  taks  a surly  auld  moss  oak 
For  some  black,  grousome  carlin ; 

And  loot  a winze,  and  drew  a stroke. 

Till  skin  in  blypes  cam  haurlin* 

Aff’s  nieves  that  night. 

A wanton  widow  Leezie  was. 

As  canty  as  a kittlin ; 

But,  och  ! that  night,  amang  the  shawl, 

She  got  a fearfu’  settlin’ ! 

She  thro’  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 

And  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin, 

Where  three  lairds’  lands  met  at  a burn  (21X 
To  dip  her  left  sark-sleeve  in. 

Was  bent  that  night. 

Whyles  owre  a linn  the  burnie  plays, 

As  through  the  glen  it  whimpl’t ; 

Whyles  round  a rocky  scaur  it  strays ; 

Whyles  in  a wiel  it  dimpl’t ; 

Whyles  glitter’d  to  the  nightly  rayf. 

Wi’  bickering,  dancing  dazzle ; 

Whyles  cooyit  underneath  the  braes^ 

Below  the  spreading  hazel, 
f Unseen  that  night. 

Amang  the  brackens,  on  the  bras^ 

Between  her  and  the  moon. 

The  deil,  or  else  an  outler  quey. 

Gat  up  %nd  gae  a croon : 


li 


103 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Poor  I .eezy’s  heart  raaist  lap  the  hool ; 

Near  lav’rock  height  she  jumpii. 

Bat  mist  a fit,  and  in  the  pool 
Out-owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi’  a plunge  that  night. 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane. 

The  luggies  three  (22)  are  ranged. 

And  every  time  great  care  is  ta’en. 

To  see  them  duly  changed  : 

Auld  uncle  John,  wha’  wedlock’s  joys 
Sin’  Mars’  year  did  desire, 

Because  he  gat  the  toom-dish  thrice^ 

He  heav’d  them  on  the  fire 

In  wrath  that  night. 

Wi’  merry  sangs,  and  friendly  cracks, 

I wat  they  did  nae  weary  : 

And  unco  tales,  and  funny  jokes, 

Their  sports  were  cheap  and  cheery ; 
Till  butter’d  so’ns  (23),  wi’  fragrant  lont. 
Set  a’  their  gabs  a-steerin’ ; 

Byne,  wi’  a social  glass  o’  strunt. 

They  parted  aff  careerin’ 

Fu’  blythe  that  night.  (24) 


1 «?intrr  gtg$t 

Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe’er  you  are, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  tile  pitiless  storm  ! 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads  and  unfed 
sides,  [defend  you 

Your  looped  and  windowed  raggedness, 
From  seasons  such  as  these?— Shakspeare. 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 
Sharp  shivers  thro’  the  leafless  bow’r ; 
When  Phoebus  gies  a short-lived  glow’r 
Far  south  the  lift. 

Dim-darkening  thro’  the  flaky  show’r. 
Or  whirling  drift : 

Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rocked. 
Poor  labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked. 
While  burns,  wi’  snawy  wreaths  up- 
choked. 

Wild  eddying  swirl. 

Or  thro’  the  mining  outlet  hocked, 
Down  headlong  hurl. 

listening,  the  doors  and  winnocks 
rattle, 

I thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 

Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O’  winter  war,  [sprattle. 
And  through  the  drift,  deep-lairing 
Beneath  a scaur. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing. 
That  in  the  merry  months  o’  spring, 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o’  thee ! 


Whare  wilt  thou  cow’r  thy  cluttering 
wing. 

And  close  thy  e’e  ? 

Ev’n  you  on  murd’ring  errands  toil’d. 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exil’d. 
The  blood-stain’d  roost  and  sheep-cot 
spoil’d 

My  heart  forgets. 

While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 
Sore  on  you  beats. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign. 
Dark  muflied,  view’d  the  dreary  plair  ; 
Still  crowding  thoughts,  a pensive  train, 
Rose  in  my  soul. 

When  on  my  ear  thrs  plaintive  strain 
Slow,  solemn,  stole : — 

" Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust  l 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter-biting  frost ! 
Descend  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows ! 

Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shows 
More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting. 
Vengeful  malice  unrepenting, 

Than  heaven-illummed  man  on  brother  man 
bestows ! 

See  stern  oppression’s  iron  grip. 

Or  mad  ambition’s  gory  hand. 

Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip 
Woe,  want,  and  murder  o’er  a land  l 
E’en  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale. 

Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale. 
How  pamper’d  Luxury,  Flattery  by  her  side. 
The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 

With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear. 
Looks  o’er  proud  property,  extended  wide; 
And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind. 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  glittering 
show, 

A creature  of  another  kind. 

Some  coarser  substance,  unrefined. 
Placed  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus 
vile  below. 

Where,  where  is  Love’s  fond,  tender  throe^ 
With  lordly  Honour’s  lofty  brow. 

The  powers  you  proudly  own  ? 

Is  there  beneath  Love’s  noble  nama^ 

Can  harbour  dark  the  selfish  aim. 

To  bless  himself  alone ! 

Mark  maiden  innocence  a prey 
To  lo^-pre  tending  snares, 

This  boasted  Honour  turns  away. 
Shunning  soft  Pity’s  rising  sway,  [ers  l 
Regardless.of  the  tears  and  unavailing  pray- 
Perhaps  this  hour  in  misery’s  squalid  nest. 
She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless 
breast,  [rocking  blast ! 

And  with  d mother’s  fears  shrinks  at  tha 
Oh  ye  ! who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down. 
Feel  not  a want  but  what  yourselves 
create. 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIK. 


10$ 


Think  for  a moment  on  his  wretched  fate. 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown! 
ni  satisfied  keen  nature’s  clamorous  call, 
Stretched  on  his  straw  he  lays  himself 
to  sleep,  [wall. 

While  through  the  ragged  roof  and  clunky 
Chill  o’er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drii'ty 
heap; 

Think  on  the  dungeon’s  grim  confine. 
Where  guilt  and  poor  misfortune  pine ! 
Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view  l 
But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  fortune’s  undeserved  blow  ? 
Affliction’s  sons  are  brothers  in  distress ; 
A brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the 
bliss ! ” 

I hear  nae  mair,  for  chanticleer 
Shook  olf  the  poutheray  snaw. 

And  hailed  the  morning  with  a chee — 
A cottage-rousing  craw. 

But  deep  this  truth  impressed  my 
mind — 

Through  all  his  works  abroad. 

The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 
The  most  resembles  God. 


f nistli  in  %.  Tapraiit. 

AN  OLD  SCOTTISH  BARD.  (25.) 

April  1, 1785. 

While  briers  and  woodbines  budding  green. 
And  paitricks  scraichin’  loud  at  e’en. 

And  morning  poussie  whiddin  seen. 

Inspire  my  muse. 

This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien* 

I pray  excuse. 

On  Fasten-e’en  we  had  a rockin’. 

To  ca’  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockin’ ; 
And  there  was  muckle  fun  and  jokin’,  . 

Ye  need  na’  doubt ; 

At  length  we  had  a hearty  yokin’ 

At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 

Aboon  them  a’  it  pleas’d  me  best. 

That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 
To  some  sweet  wife  : 

It  thirl’d  the  heart-strings  thro’  the  breast, 
A’  to  the  life. 

I’ve  scarce  heard  ought  described  sae  weel. 
What  gen’rous  manly  bosoms  feel ; 

Thought  I,  “ Can  this  be  Pope,  or  Steele, 

Or  Beattie’s  wark  ?” 

They  tauld  me  ’twas  an  odd  kind  chiel 
About  Muirkirk. 

It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear’t. 

And  sae  about  him  there  I spier’t, 


Then  a’  that  ken’t  him  round  declar’d 

He  had  ingine. 

That  nane  excell’d  it,  few  cam  near’fc, 

It  was  sae  fine. 

That,  set  him  to  a pint  of  ale. 

And  either  douce  or  merry  tale. 

Or  rhymes  and  sangs  he’d  made  himsel’. 
Or  witty  catches, 

’Tween  Inverness  and  Teviotdale, 

He  had  a few  matches. 

Then  up  I gat,  and  swoor  an  aith, 

Tho’  I should  pawn  my  pleugh  and  greith. 
Or  die  a cadger  pownie’s  death 
At  some  dyke  back 
A pint  and  gill  I’d  gie  them  baith 
To  hear  your  crack. 

But,  first  and  foremost,  I should  tell, 
Amaist  as  soon  as  I could  spell, 

I to  the  crambo-jingle  fell ; 

Tho’  rude  and  rough. 

Yet  crooning  to  a body’s  sell, 

Hoes  weel  eneugh. 

I am  nae  poet,  in  a sense. 

But  just  a rhymer,  like  by  chance. 

And  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence. 

Yet,  what  the  matter ! 
Whene’er  my  muse  does  on  me  glance^ 

I jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic  folk  may  cock  their  nose. 

And  say,  “ How  can  you  e’er  propose. 

You,  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose. 

To  mak  a sang  ? ” 

But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes. 

Ye’re  may  be  wrang. 

What’s  a’  your  jargon  o’  your  schools. 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  and  stools; 

If  honest  nature  made  you  fools. 

What  sairs  your  grammars  f 
Ye’d  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools. 

Or  knappin-hammers. 

A set  o’  dull,  conceited  hashes. 

Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes ! 
They  gang  in  stirks,  and  come  out  asses. 
Plain  truth  to  speak; 

And  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 
By  dint  o’  Greek ! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o’  nature’s  fire ! 

That’s  a’  the  learning  I desire ; 

Then  tho’  I drudge  thro’  dub  and  mire 
At  pleugh  or  cart. 

My  muse,  tho’  hamely  in  attire. 

May  touch  the  heart. 

Oh  for  a spunk  o’  Allan’s  glee. 

Or  Fergusson’s  the  bauld  and  slee. 

Or  bright  Lapraik’s,  my  friend  to  b^ 

If  I can  hit  it ! 

That  would  be  lear  eneugh  for  me, 

If  I could  get  it  I 


no 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now,  sir,  if  ye  hue  friends  enow, 

Tho’  real  friends  I believe  are  few. 

Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fou, 

Use  no  insist. 

But  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that’s  trus* 

I’m  on  your  list. 

I winna  blaw  about  mysel ; 

As  ill  I like  my  faults  to  tell ; 

But  friends  and  folk  that  wish  me  well. 
They  sometimes  roose  me ; 

Tho'  I maun  own,  as  monie  still 
As  far  abuse  me* 

But  Mauchline  race  (26),  or  Mauchline  fair, 
I should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there ; 

We’se  gic  ae  night’s  discharge  to  care. 

If  we  forgather, 

And  hae  a swap  o’  rhymin’- ware 
Wi’  ane  anither. 

The  four-gill  chap,  we’se  gar  him  clatter, 
And  kirsen  him  wi’  reekin’  water ; 

Syne  we’ll  sit  down  and  tak  our  whitter. 

To  cheer  our  heart ; 

And,  faith,  we’se  be  acquainted  better 
Before  we  part. 

Awa  ye  selfish  war’ly  race, 

Wha  think  that  havins,  sense,  and  grace, 
Ev’n  love  and  friendship,  should  give  place 
To  catch  the  plack ! 

I dinna  like  to  see  your  face. 

Nor  hear  your  crack. 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms. 

Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warm®, 
W Yo  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 

“ Each  aid  the  others.” 

Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms. 

My  friends,  my  brothers ! 

But,  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle, 

As  my  auld  pen’s  worn  to  the  grissle ; 

Twa  lines  true  you  wad  gar  me  lissle. 

Who  am,  most  fervent. 

While  I can  either  sing  or  whissle. 

Your  friend  and  servant. 


fa  ill?  £ana. 

April  21, 1785. 

While  new-ca’d  kye  rowte  at  the  stake. 
And  pownies  reek  in  plengh  or  braik. 

This  hour  on  e’enin’s  edge  1 take. 

To  own  I’m  debtor. 

To  honest-hearted,  auld  Lapraik, 

For  his  kind  letter. 

Forjesket  sair,  wi’  weary  legs, 

Rattlm’  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs, 

Qt  dealing  thro’  amang  the  mags 


Their  ten  hours  bite. 

My  awkwart  muse  sair  pleads  and  begs 
I would  na  write. 

The  tapetless  ramfeezPd  hizzie. 

She’s  saft  at  best,  and  something  lazy, 

Quo’  she,  “ Ye  ken,  we’ve  been  sae  busy. 
This  month  and  inair, 

That  trouth,  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzi% 
And  something  sair.” 

Ker  dowff  excuses  pat  me  mad : 

“ Conscience,”  says  I,  “ ye  thowless  jad  I 
I'll  write,  and  that  a hearty  blaud. 

This  vera  night ; 

So  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade. 

But  rhyme  it  right. 

Shall  bauld  Lapraik,  the  king  o’  hearts, 
Tho’  mankind  were  a pack  o’  cartes, 

Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts. 

In  terms  sae  friendly, 

Yet  ye’ll  neglect  to  shaw  your  parts. 

And  thank  him  kindly  ?w 
Sae  I gat  paper  in  a blink. 

And  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  inks 
Quoth  I,  “ before  I sleep  a wink, 

I vow  I’ll  close  it ; 

And  if  ye  winna  mak  it  clink, 

By  Jove  I’ll  prose  it  1 * 

Sae  I’ve  begun  to  scrawl,  hut  whet  he? 

In  rhyme,  or  prose,  or  baith  thegither. 

Or  some  hotch-potch  that’s  rightly  neither 
Let  time  mak  proof ; 

But  I shall  scribble  down  some  blether 
Just  clean  aff-loof. 

My  worthy  friend,  ne’er  grudge  and  carp, 
Tho’  fortune  use  you  hard  and  sharp; 
Come,  kittle  up  your  moorland-harp 
Wi’  gleesome  touch ; 

Ne’er  mind  how  fortune  waft  and  warp— 
She’s  but  a b-tch  ! 

She’s  gien  me  monie  a jirt  and  flcg. 

Sin’  I could  striddle  owre  a rig ; 

But,  by  the  L — d,  tho’  I should  beg 
Wi’  lyart  pow. 

I’ll  laugh,  and  sing,  and  shake  my  leg, 

As  lang’s  I dow ! 

Now  comes  the  sax  and  twentieth  simmer, 
I’ve  seen  the  bud  upo’  the  timmer. 

Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer 
Frae  year  to  year ; 

But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimmer, 

1,  Rob,  am  here. 

Do  ye  envy  the  city  gent, 

Behirit  a last  to  lie  and  sklent. 

Or  purse-proud,  big  wi’  cent,  per  cent, 

And  muckle  wame. 

In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 
A bailie’s  name  ? 


TO  WILLIAM  SpMPSONl 


11 


Or  is’t  the  paughty,  feudal  Thane, 

Wi’  ruffl’d  sark  and  glancing  cane, 

Wha  thinks  hirnsel  nae  sheep-shank  bane. 
But  lordly  stalks. 

While  caps  and  bonnets  aft  are  taen. 

As  by  he  walks  ? 

Oh  Thou  wha  gies  us  each  guid  gift ! 

Gie  me  o’  wit  and  sense  a lift. 

Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift. 

Thro’  Scotland  wide; 

Wi’  cits  nor  lairds  I wadna  shift. 

In  a’  their  pride ! 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 

“ On  pain’  o’  hell  be  rich  and  great,** 
Damnation  then  would  be  our  fate. 

Beyond  remead ; 

But,  thanks  to  Heav’n,  that’s  no  the  gate 
We  learn  our  creed. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran. 

When  first  the  human  race  began, 

“ The  social,  friendly,  honest  man, 

Whate’er  he  be, 

*Tis  he  fulfils  great  Nature’s  plan. 

And  hone  but  he ! ” 

Oh  mandate  glorious  and  divine! 

The  followers  o’  the  ragged  Nine, 

Poor  thoughtless  devils  yet  may  shine 
In  glorious  light. 

While  sordid  sons  o’  Mammon’s  line 
Are  dark  as  night. 

Tho*  here  they  scrape,  and  squeeze,  and  growl. 
Their  worthless  nievfu’  of  a soul 
May  in  some  future  carcase  howl. 

The  forest’s  fright ; 

Or  in  some  day-detesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise, 

To  reach  their  native  kindred  skies. 

And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  and  joys. 

In  some  mild  sphere. 

Still  closer  knit  in  friendship’s  ties 
Each  passing  year  1 


fa  William  Sfimpsint], 

OCHILTREE.  (27) 

May,  1785, 

Jl  gat  your  letter,  winsome  Willie ; 

Wi’  gratefu’  heart  I thank  you  brawlie ; 
Tho’  L maun  say’t,  I wad  be  silly. 

And  unco  vain. 

Should  I believe,  my  coaxin’  billie, 

Your  flatterin’  strain. 

But  I’se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it, 

I sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satire,  sidelins  sklented 


On  my  poor  Music; 

Tho’  in  sic  phraisin  terms  ye’ve  penn’d  it 
1 scarcely  excuse  ye. 

My  senses  wad  be  in  a creel. 

Should  I but  dare  a hope  to  speel, 

Wi’  Allan,  or  wi  Gdberttield, 

The  braes  o’  fame; 

Or  Fergusson,  the  writer  clwel, 

A deathless  name. 

(Oh  Fergusson ! thy  glorious  parts 
111  suited  law’s  dry  musty  arts ! 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstaue  heart% 
Ye  E’nbrugh  gentry; 

The  tythe  o’  what  ye  waste  at  cartes 
Wad  stow’d  his  pantry!) 

Yet  when  a tale  comes  i’  my  head. 

Or  lassies  gie  my  heart  a screed, 

As  whiles  they’re  like  to  be  my  dead, 

(Oh  sad  disease !) 

I kittle  up  my  rustic  reed ; 

It  gies  me  ease. 

Auld  Coila,  now,  may  fidge  fu’  fain. 

She’s  gotten  poets  o’  her  ain, 

Chiels  wha  their  chanters  winnahain, 

But  tune  their  lays. 

Till  echoes  a’  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise 
Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  whiles 
To  set  her  name  in  measur’d  style ; 

She  lay  like  some  unken’d-of-isle  1 
Beside  New  Holland, 

Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 
Besouth  Magellan. 

Bam  say  and  famous  Fergusson 
Gied  Forth  and  Tay  a lift  aboon 
Yarrow  and  Tweed,  to  monie  a tune, 
Owre  Scotland  rings. 

While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  and  Boon, 
Naetody  sings. 

Th’  Illissus.  Tiber,  Thames,  and  Seine, 
Glide  sweet  in  monie  a tunefu’  line; 

But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine. 

And  cock  your  crest, 

We’ll  gar  our  streams  and  burnies  shine 
Up  wi’  the  best ! 

We’ll  sing  auld  Coila’s  plains  and  fells. 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi’  heather  bells. 
Her  banks  and  braes,  her  dens  and  dell% 
Where  glorious  Wallace 
Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tell, 

Frae  southron  billies. 

At  Wallace’  name  what  See  fttish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  spring-tide  flood 1 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 
By  Wallace’  side, 

S;ill  pressing  onward,  red-wat  shod, 

Or  gloriou3  died  1 


11* 


112 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WQ&KS. 


Oh  sweet  are  Coila’s  haughs  and  woods. 
When  lintwhites  chant  amang  the  buds, 
And  jinkin’  hares,  in  amorous  wliids. 

Their  loves  enjoy. 

While  thro’  the  braes  the  crushat  croods 
With  wailfu’  cry ! 

Ev’n  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me 
When  winds  rave  thro’  the  naked  tree ; 

Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 
Are  hoary  gray : 

Or  blinding  drifts  wild  furious  flee, 
Dark’ning  the  day ! 

Oh  nature  ! a’  thy  shows  and  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms ! 
Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms, 

Wi’  life  and  light. 

Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms. 

The  lang,  dark  night ! 

The  muse,  nae  poet  ever  fend  her. 

Till  by  himsel  he  learn’d  to  wander, 

Adown  some  trotting  burn’s  meander. 

And  no  think  lang  ; 

Oh  sweet,  to  stray  and  pensive  ponder, 

A heart-felt  sang  1 

The  war’ly  race  may  drudge  and  drive, 
Hog-shouther,  jundie,  stretch  and  strive; 
Let  me  fair  nature’s  face  descrive. 

And  I,  wi’  pleasure, 

Bhall  let  the  busy  grumbling  hive 

Bum  owre  their  treasure. 

Fareweel,  “ my  rhyme-composing  brither  !” 
We’ve  been  owre  lang  unkenn’d  to  ither : 
Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither. 

In  love  fraternal ; 

May  envy  wallop  in  a tether. 

Black  fiend,  infernal ! 

While  highlandmen  hate  tolls  and  taxes : 
While  moorlan’  heads  like  guid  fat  braxies ; 
While  terra  firma  on  her  axis 
Diurnal  turns. 

Count  on  a friend,  in  faith  and  practice. 

In  Robert  Burns. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

My  memory’s  no  worth  a preen ; 

I ha  i amaist  forgotten  clean. 

Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean. 

By  this  New  Light, 

TJout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been 
Maist  like  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callans 
At  grammar,  logic,  and  sic  talents. 

They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to  balance, 
Or  rules  to  gie, 

B Ht  spak  their  thoughts  in  plain  braid  lallans. 
Like  you  or  me. 


In  thae  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moos* 
Just  like  a sark,  or  pair  o’  shoon. 

Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roon 

Gaed  past  their  viewing. 

And  shortly  after  she  was  done, 

> They  gat  a new  one. 

Tins  past  for  certain — undisputed ; 

It  ne’er  cam  i’  their  heads  to  doubt  i^, 

Till  chiels  gat  up  and  wad  confute  it* 

And  ca’d  it  wrang ; 

And  muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  and  lang. 

Some  herds,  well  learn’d  upo’  the  beuk, 
Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  think  misteuk; 
For  ’twas  the  auld  moon  turned  a neuk. 

And  out  o’  sight, 

And  backlins-comin’,  to  the  leuk 
She  grew  mair  bright. 

This  was  denied — it  was  affirmed ; 

The  herds  and  hirsels  were  alarmed : 

The  rev’rend  grey-beards  rav’d  and  storm'd 
That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  inform’d 
Than  their  auld  daddies. 

Frae  less  to  mair  it  gaed  to  sticks  ; 

Frae  words  and  aiths  to  clours  and  nick*} 
And  mony  a fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi*  hearty  crunt ; 

And  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  trick*, 
Were  hang’d  and  brunt. 

This  game  was  play’d  in  monie  lands. 

And  Auld  Light  caddies  bure  sic  hands. 
That,  faith,  the  youngsters  took  the  sandj 
Wi’  nimble  shanks, 

Till  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands. 

Sic  bluidy  pranks. 

But  New  Light  herds  gat  sic  a cowe, 

Folk  thought  them  ruin’d  stick-and-stowe^ 
Till  now  amaist  on  every  knowe. 

Ye’ll  find  ane  plac’d ; 

And  some  their  New-Light  fair  avow. 

Just  quite  barefac’d. 

Nae  doubt  the  Auld  Light  flocks  are  bleat  n*f 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vex’d  and  sweatin’} 
Mysel’  I’ve  even  seen  them  greetin’ 

Wi’  girnin’  spite. 

To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  lied  on 
By  word  and  write. 

But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  loons  ! 

Some  Auld  Light  herds  in  neebor  town* 

Are  mind’t  in  thinns  they  ca’  balloons. 

To  tak  a flight. 

And  stay  ae  month  among  the  moons 
And  see  them  right. 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 


113 


Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them ; 

Aud  when  the  auld  moon’s  gaun  to  lea’e 
them. 

The  hindmost  shair’d,  they’ll  fetch  it  wi’them. 
Just  i’  their  pouch. 

And  when  the  New  Light  billies  see  them, 

I think  they’ll  crouch  ! 

Sae,  ye  observe  that  a’  this  clatter 
Is  naething  but  a " moonshine  matter;* 

But  tlio’  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter 
In  logic  tulzie, 

I hope  we  bardies  ken  some  better 
Than  mmd  sic  brulzie. 


tteatl;  anil  St.  Jfnrnlinnlt. 

A TRUE  STORY.  (28) 

Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end. 

And  some  great  lies  were  never  penn’d  ; 
E’en  ministers  they  hae  been  kenn’d. 

In  holy  rapture, 

A rousing  whid  at  times  to  vend. 

And  nail’t  wi’  Scripture. 

But  this  that  I am  gaun  to  tell. 

Which  lately  on  a night  befell, 

Is  just  as  true’s  the  deil’s  in  hell 
Or  Dublin  city  : 

That  e’er  he  ne  nearer  comes  oursel 
’s  a muckle  pity. 

The  clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty— 

I was  na  fou,  but  just  had  plenty ; 

I stacher’d  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  aye 
To  free  the  ditches ; 

And  hillocks,  stanes,  and  bushes  kenned  aye 
Frae  ghaists  and  witches. 

The  rising  moon  began  to  glow’r 
The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre : 

To  count  her  horns,  wi’  a’  my  pow’r, 

I set  mysel; 

But  whether  sha  had  three  or  four, 

I could  na  tell. 

I was  come  round  about  the  hill, 

And  todlin’down  on  Willie’s  mill  (29) 
Setting  my  staff  wi’  all  my  skill. 

To  keep  me  sicker ; 

Tho’  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will, 

I took  a bicker. 

I there  wi’  something  did  forgather. 

That  put  me  in  an  eerie  switlier ; 

An  awfu’  scythe,  out-owre  ae  shouther, 
(dear-dangling,  hang ; 

A three-taed  leister  on  the  itlier 
Lay,  large  and  lang. 

Its  stature  seem’d  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 

The  queerest  shape  that  e’er  I saw, 

For  fient  a warne  it  had  ava ; 

I 


And  then,  it3  shanks. 

They  were  as  thin,  as  sharp  and  sraa', 

As  cheeks  o’  brauks. 

" Guid  e’en,”  quo’  I ; " Friend,  hae  ye  beea 
When  other  folk  are  busy  sawin’  ? ” [mawin*, 
It  seem  d to  mak  a kind  o’ stan’, 

But  naething  spak; 

At  length  says  I,  “ Friend,  whare  ye  gaun. 
Will  ye  go  back?” 

It  spake  right  howe — “ My  name  is  Death, 
But  be  na  fley'd.”  Quoth  I,  “ Guid  faith. 
Ye’re  maybe  come  to  stap  my  breath; 

But  tent  me,  billie — • 

I red  ye  weel,  tak  care  o’  skaith. 

See,  there’s  a gully  !” 

"Guidman,”  quo’ he,  “put  up  your  whittle^ 
I’m  no  designed  to  try  its  mettle; 

But  if  I did,  I wad  be  kittle 
To  be  mislear’d; 

I wad  na  mind  it,  no,  that  spittle 
Out-owre  my  beard.” 

"Weel,  weel!”  says  I,  "a  bargain  be’t; 
Come,  gies  your  hand,  and  sae  we’re  grie’t; 
We’ll  ease  our  shanks  and  tak  a seat— 
Come,  gies  your  news ; 

This  while  ye  hae  been  mony  a gate. 

At  mony  a house.” 

" Ay,  ay !”  quo’  he,  and  shook  his  head, 

" It’s  e en  a lang  time  indeed 
Sin’  I began  to  nick  the  thread. 

And  choke  the  breath  t 
Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread. 
And  sae  maun  Death. 

" Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand  fled 
Sin’  I was  to  the  hutching  bred, 

And  mony  a scheme  in  vain’s  been  laid^ 

To  stap  or  scaur  me  ; 

Till  ane  Hornbook’s  taen  up  the  trade. 

And  faith  he’ll  waur  me. 

"Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i*  the  clachan, 

Deil  mak  his  king’s-hood  in  a spleuchan ! 
He’s  grown  sae  well  acquaint  wi’  Buchan  (o()\ 
And  ither  chaps, 

The  weans  haud  out  their  fingers  laughin’. 
And  pouk  my  hips. 

"See, here’s  a scythe, and  there’s  a dart. 
They  hae  pierc'd  mony  a gallant  heart ; 

But  Doctor  Hornbook  wi’  his  art 
And  cursed  skill. 

Has  made  them  both  no  worth  a f — t ; 

Dgmn’d  haet  they’ll  kill. 

" ’Twas  but  yestreen,  nae  farther  gaen, 

I threw  a noble  throw  at  ane ; 

Wi’less,  I’m  sure,  I’ve  hundreds  slain; 

But  deil-ma-care. 

It  just  play’ d dirl  on  the  bane. 

But  did  nae  maur. 


114 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


u Hornbrook  was  by  wp  ready  art. 

And  had  sae  fortified  the  part, 

That  when  1 looked  to  my  dart, 

It  was  sae  blunt, 

Fieri!  haet  o’t  wad  hae  pierc’d  the  heart 
Of  a kail-runt. 

WI  drew  my  scythe  in  sic  a fury, 

I nearhand  cowpit  wi’  my  hurry, 

Hut  yet  the  bauld  apothecary 

Withstood  the  shock; 

I might  as  wcel  hae  tried  a quarry 
O’  hard  whin  rock. 

" And  then  a’  doctor’s  saws  and  whittles, 

Of  a’  dimensions,  shapes,  and  metals, 

A’  kinds  o’  boxes,  mugs,  and  bottles. 

He’s  sure  to  hae ; 

Their  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattle* 

As  A B C. 

•'Calces  o’ fossils,  earths,  and  trees; 

True  sal-marinum  o’  the  seas ; 

The  farina  of  beans  and  peas. 

He  has’t  in  plenty; 

Aqua-fontis,  what  you  please, 

He  can  content  ye. 

w Forbye  some  new,  uncommon  weapons, 
Urinus  spiritus  of  capons  ; 

Or  mite-liorn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings, 
Distill’d  \)er  se ; 

Sal-alkali  o’ midge-tail  clippings. 

And  rnony  mae.” 

u Waes  me  for  Johnny  Ged’s  Hole  (31)  now,” 
Quo’  I ; “ if  that  tliae  news  be  true. 

His  braw  calf-ward  w hare  go  wans  grew, 

Sae  white  and  bonny, 

Nae  doubt  they’ll  rive  it  wi’the  plew; 
They’ll  ruin  Johnny  1” 

The  creature  grain'd  an  eldritch  laugh. 
And  says,  “ Ye  need  na  yoke  the  pleugh, 
Kir ky aids  will  soon  be  till’d  eneugh, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear : 

They’ll  a’ be  trench’d  wi’ mony  a sheugh 
In  twa-three  year. 

* Whare  I kill’d  ane  a fair  strae  death. 

By  loss  o’  blood  or  want  o’  breath. 

This  night  I’m  free  to  tak  my  aith. 

That  Hornbook’s  skill 
Has  clad  a score  i’  their  last  claith. 

By  drap  and  pill. 

" An  honest  wabster  to  his  trade, 

Whase  wife’s twa  nieveswere  scarce  well-bred. 
Gat  tippence  worth  to  mend  her  head. 

When  it  was  sair;  v 

5th*  wife  slade  cannie  to  her  bed, 

But  ne’er  spak  mair. 


* A countra  laird  had  taen  the  batted 
Or  rome  curmurring  in  his  guts; 

His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets. 

And  pays  him  well — 

The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer-pets. 

Was  laird  himscl. 

“ That’s  just  a swatch  o’  llornbocV  va* 
Thus  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day. 

Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  and  slay* 

An’s  weel  paid  for’t; 

Yet  stops  me  o’  my  lawfu’  prey 
Wi’  his  curs’d  dirt : 

"But  hark ! I’ll  tell  you  of  a plot. 

Though  dinna  ye  he  speaking  o’fc* 

I’ll  nail  the  self- conceited  sot 

As  dead’s  a herrin’ : 

Neist  time  we  meet.  I’ll  wad  a groat* 

He  gets  his  fairin’ ! ” 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell. 

The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell 
Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal* 
Which  rais’d  us  baith; 

I took  the  way  that  pleas’d  mysel’. 

And  sae  did  Death. 


Ejr<  Salij  /air. 

A robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 
Hid  crafty  observation  ; 

And  secret  hung,  with  poison’d  crust 
The  dirk  of  Defamation  ; 

A mask  that  like  the  gorget  show’d, 
Dye-varying  on  the  pigeon ; 

And  for  a mantle  large  and  broad, 

He  wrapt  him  in  Religion. 

Hypocrisy  a-la-mgde.  (II,} 

Upon  a simmer  Sunday  morn. 

When  Nature’s  face  is  fair, 

I walked  forth  to  view  the  corn. 

And  snulf  the  cauler  air. 

The  rising  sun  owre  Galston  muir*, 

Wi’  glorious  light  was  glintin  ’ ; 

The  hares  were  hirplin’  down  the  fur% 
The  lav’rocks  they  were  chantin’ 

Fu’  sweet  that  day. 

As  lightsomely  I glowr’d  abroad. 

To  see  a scene  sae  gay, 

Three  hizzies,  early  at  the  road. 

Cam  skelpin’  up  the  way ; 

. Twa  had  manteeles  o’  dolefu’  black, 

Buf  ane  wi’  lyart  lining  y 
The  third,  that  gaed  a-wee  a-hack, 

Was  in  the  fashion  shining, 

Fu’  gay  that  day 


THE  HOLY  F.kHL 


Re  tw  a appear’d  like  «isters  twin, 

In  feature,  form,  and  claes ; 

Their  visage  wither’d,  lang,  and  thin. 

And  sour  as  ony  slaes  : 

The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-an’-lowp. 

As  light  as  ony  lambie. 

And  wi’  a curchie  low  did  stoop. 

As  soon  as  e’er  she  saw  me, 

IV  kind  that  day. 

Wi’  bonnet  aflf,  quoth  I,  “ Sweet  lass, 

I think  ye  seem  to  ken  me ; 

I’m  sure  I’ve  seen  that  bonny  face. 

But  yet  I eanna  name  ye.” 

Q,u o’  she,  and  laughin’  as  she  spak. 

And  tales  me  by  the  hands, 

* Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gien  the  feek. 

Of  a’  the  ten  commands 

A screed  some^day. 

•My  name  is  Fun — your  cronie  dear. 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae; 

And  this  is  Superstition  here. 

And  that’s  Hypocrisy. 

I’m  gaun  to  Mauchline  holy  fair, 

To  spend  an  hour  in  daffin’ : 

Gin  ye’ll  go  there,  yon  runkl’d  pair. 

We  will  get  famous  laughin' 

At  them  this  day.” 

Qucth  I “With  a’  my  heart.  I’ll  do’t; 

I ’ll  get  my  Sunday’s  sark  on. 

And  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot — 

Faith,  we’se  hae  fine  remarkin  ’ !** 

Then  I gaed  liame  at  crowdie-time. 

And  soon  I made  me  ready; 

For  roads  were  clad,  from  side  to  side, 

Wi’  monie  a wearie  body, 

In  droves  that  day. 

Here  farmers  gash,  in  ridin’  graith 
Gaed  hoddin  by  their  cottars ; 

There,  swan  kies  young,  in  braw  braid-claith. 
Are  springin’  o’er  the  gutters. 

The  lasses,  skelpin’  barefit,  thrang. 

In  silks  and  scarlets  glitter; 

Wi'  sweet-milk  cheese,  in  mony  a whang. 
And  farls  bak’d  wi’  butter, 

Fu’  crump  that  day. 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi’  ha’pence, 

A greedy  glow’r  black  bonnet  throws. 

And  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 

Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show ; 

On  ev’ry  side  they’re  gath’rin’. 

Some  carrying  dails,  some  chairs,  and  stools. 
And  some  are  busy  blethrin’ 

Right  loud  that  day. 

Here  stands  a shed  to  fend  the  show’rs, 

And  screen  our  country  gentry. 


115 

There,  racer,  Jess  (33),  and  ,twa-three  wk-reo. 
Are  blinkin’  at  the  entry. 

Here  sits  a raw  of  tittlin’  jauds, 

Wi’  heaving  breast  and  bare  neck. 

And  there  a batch  o’  wabster  lads. 
Blackguarding  frae  Kilmarnock 
For  fun  this  day. 

Here  sum  are  thinkin’  on  their  sins. 

And  some  upo’  their  claes ; 

Ane  curses  feet  that  fyi’d  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  and  prays  : 

On  this  hand  sits  a chosen  swatch, 

Wi’  screw’d-up  grace-proud  lacea ; 

On  that  a set  o’ chaps  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin’  on  the  lasses 
To  chairs  that  day. 

Oh  happy  is  that  man  and  blest ! 

(Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him!) 

Wha’s  ain  dear  lass  that  lie  likes  best^ 

Comes  clinkin’  down  beside  him! 

Wi’  arm  repos’d  on  the  chair  back. 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him ; 

Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neds 
An’s  loof  upon  her  bosom, 

Unkenn’d  that  day. 

Now  a’  the  congregation  o’er 
Is  silent  expectation : 

For  Moodie  speels  the  holy  door, 

Wi’  tidings  o’  d-mn-tion.  (34) 

Should  Hornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 

’Mang  sons  o’  God  present  him. 

The  vera  sight  o’  Moodie’ s face, 

To’s  ain  bet  hame  had  sent  him 
Wi’  fright  that  day. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o’  faith 
Wi  rattlin’  and  wi’  thumpin’ ! 

Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath. 

He’s  stampin’  and  lie’s  jumpin’ ! 

His  lengthened  chin,  his  turn’d-up  snout, 
His  eldritch  squeal  and  gestures. 

Oh,  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout. 

Like  cantharidian  plasters. 

On  sic  a day  ! 

But  hark  ! the  tent  has  chang’d  its  vole#  9 
There’s  peace  and  rest  nae  langer ; 

For  a’  the  real  judges  rise. 

They  canna  sit  for  anger. 

Smith  opens  out  his  caul.l  harangues 
On  practice  and  on  morals ; 

And  aff  the  godly  pour  in  thranga. 

To  gie  the  jars  and  barrels 
A lift  that  day. 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine, 

Of  moral  powr’s  and  reason  ? 

His  English  style  and  gesture  fin® 

Are  a’  clean  out  o’  season. 


116 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Like  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  a aid  pagan  heathen. 

The  moral  man  he  does  define. 

But  ne’er  a word  o’  faith  in 

That’s  right  that  day. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 
Against  sic  poison’d  nostrum  ; 

For  Peebles,  frae  the  water-fit  (36), 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum  : 

See,  up  lie’s  got  the  word  o’  God, 

And  meek  and  mim  has  view’d  it. 

While  Common  Sense  (37)  has  ta’en  the 
road, 

And  aff,  and  up  the  Cowgate  (38), 

Fast,  fast,  that  day. 

Wee  Miller  (39)  neisf  the  guard  relieves. 
And  orthodoxy  raibles, 

Tho’  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes. 

And  thinks  it  auld  wives’  fables; 

But,  faith ! the  birkie  wants  a manse. 

So,  cannily  he  hums  them ; 

Altho’  his  carnal  wit  and  sense 
Like  hafflins-ways  o’ercomes  him 
At  times  that  day. 

Now  butt  and  ben  the  change-house  fills, 
Wi’  yill-caup  commentators ; 

Here’s  crying  out  for  bakes  and  gills. 

And  there  the  pint-stoup  clatters  ; 

While  thick  and  thrang,  and  loud  and 

jang,. 

Wi’  logic  and  wi’  Scripture, 

They  raise  a din,  that,  in  the  end. 

Is  like  to  brt  ed  a rupture 

O’  wrath  that  day. 

Leese  me  on  drink ! it  gies  us  mair 
Than  either  school  or  college : 

It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair. 

It  pangs  us  fou  o^  knowledge. 

Be’t  whisky  gill,  or  penny  wlieep. 

Or  ony  stronger  potion. 

It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep. 

To  pittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day. 

The  lads  and  lasses,  blythely  bent 
To  mind  baith  saul  and  body. 

Sit  round  the  table  weel  content. 

And  steer  about  the  toddy. 

On  this  ane’s  dress,  and  that  ane’s  leuk. 
They’re  making  observations ; 

While  some  are  cozie  i’  the  neuk, 

And  formin’  assignations 

To  meet  some  day. 

But  now  the  L — d’s  am  trumpet  touts. 

Till  a’  the  hills  are  rairin’. 

And  echoes  back  return  the  shouts — 

Black  Russell  (40;  is  aa  sparin’ : 

His  piercing  words,  like  Highlan’  sword*, 
Divide  the  joints  and  marrow ; 


His  talk  o’  hell,  a h are  devils  dwell. 

Our  vera  sauls  does  harrow  (4 1) 

Wi’  fright  that  day. 

A vast,  unbottom’d,  boundless  pit. 

Fill’d  fou  o’  lowin’  brunstane, 

Wha’s  ragin’  flame,  and  seorchin’  heai* 
Wad  melt  the  hardest  whun-stanel 
The  half  asleep  start  up  wi'  fear. 

And  think  they  hear  it  Soarin’, 

When  presently  it  does  appear 
’Twas  but  some  neebor  snoria* 

Asleep  that  day. 

*Twad  be  owre  long  a tale,  to  tell 
How  monie  stories  past. 

And  how  they  crowded  to  the  yill 
When  they  were  a’  dismist : 

How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  and  caup% 
Amang  the  furms  and  benches  : 

And  cheese  and  bread,  frae  women’s  laps^ 
Was  dealt  about  in  lunches. 

And  dauds  that  day. 

In  comes  a gaucie,  gash  guidwife. 

And  sits  down  by  the  fire. 

Syne  draws  her  kebbuck  and  her  knife; 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer. 

The  auld  guidmen,  about  the  grace, 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother. 

Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays. 

And  gi’es  them’t  like  a tether. 

Fa’  lang  that  day. 

Waesuck ! for  him  that  gets  nae  lasa, 

Or  lasses  that  liae  nathing  ! 

Sma’  need  has  he  to  say  a grace. 

Or  melvie  his  braw  claithing  ! 

Oh  wives  be  mindfu’  ance  yoursel 
How  bonny  lads  ye  wanted, 

And  dinna,  for  a kebbuck-heel. 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a lay ! 

Now  Clinkumbell,  wi’  rattlin’  tow. 

Begins  to  jow  and  croon  ; 

Some  swagger  hame  the  best  they  dow9 
Some  wait  the  afternoon. 

At  slaps  the  billies  halt  a blink. 

Till  lassess  trip  their  sboon : 

Wi’  faith  and  hope,  and  love  and  drml^ 
They’re  a’  in  famous  tune 

For  crack  that  day. 

How  monie  hearts  this  day  converts 
O’  sinners  and  o’  lasses ! 

Their  hearts  o’  stane,  gin  night,  are 
A3  saft  as  ony  flesh  is. 

There’ s some  are  fou  o’  love  divine  ; 

There’s  some  are  fou’  o’  brandy; 

And  many  jobs  that  day  begin 
May  end  in  houghmagandy. 

Some  ither  day. 


THE  ORDINATION. 


lit 


f Ijb  dtrhnatrini. 

•*For  sense  they  little  owe  to  frugal  Heav’n — 
To  please  the  mob  they  hide  the  little  giv’n.” 
(42) 

Kilmarnock  wab  sters  fidge  and  claw. 

And  pour  your  creesiiie  nations ; 

And  ye  wha  leather  rax  and  draw. 

Of  a’  denominations,  (43) 

6 with  to  the  Laigh  Kirk,  ane  and  a*. 

And  there  tak  up  your  stations ; 

Then  aff  to  Begbie’s  (44)  in  a raw. 

And  pour  divine  libations. 

For  joy  this  day. 

Curst  Common  Sense,  that  imp  o’  hell. 

Cam  in  wi’  Maggie  Lauder  (45) ; 

But  Oliphant  aft  made  her  yell. 

And  Russell  sair  misca’d  her ; 

This  day  M taks  the  flail. 

And  lie’s  the  boy  will  blaud  her! 

He’ll  clap  a shangan  on  her  fail. 

And  set  the  bairns  to  daud  her. 

Wi’  dirt  this  day. 

Mak  haste  and  turn  king  David  owre. 

And  lilt  wi’  holy  clangor ; 

O’  double  verse  come  gie  us  four. 

And  skirl  up  the  Bangor  : 

This  day  the  Kirk  kicks  up  a stoure, 

Nae  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her. 

For  Heresy  is  in  her  pow’r. 

And  gloriously  she’ll  whang  her 
Wi’  pith  this  day. 

Come,  let  a proper  text  be  read. 

And  touch  it  aff  wi’  vigour. 

How  graceless  Ham  (46)  leugh  at  his  dad. 
Which  made  Canaan  a nigger; 

Or  Phineas  (47)  drove  the  murdering  blade, 
Wi’  wh-re-abhorring  rigour; 

Or  Zipporah  (48),  the  scauldin’  jad. 

Was  like  a bluidy  tiger 

I’  th’  inn  that  day. 

There,  try  his  mettle  on  the  creed. 

And  bind  him  down  wi’  caution. 

That  stipend  is  a carnal  weed 
He  taks  but  for  the  fashion ; 

And  gie  him  o’er  the  flock,  to  feed. 

And  punish  each  transgression ; 

Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin’. 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

How,  auld  Kilmarnock,  cock  thy  tail. 

And  toss  thy  horns  fu’  canty ; 

Nae  mair  thou’lt  rowte  out-owre  the  dale, 
Because  thy  pasture’s  scanty; 

For  lapfu’s  large  o’  gospel  kail 
Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty. 

And  runts  o’  grace  the  pick  and  waif 
No  g’en  by  way  o’  dainty. 

But  ilka  day. 


Nae  mair  by  Babel’s  streams  we’ll  weep. 
To  think  upon  our  Zion ; 

And  hing  our  nddles  up  to  sleep. 

Like  baby-clou^  a-dryin’ ; 

Come,  screw  the  pegs,  wi’  tunefu’  clieap 
And  o’er  the  thairms  be  tryin’ ; 

Oh,  rare  ! to  see  our  elbucks  wheep. 

And  a’  like  lamb-tails  flyin’ 

Fu’  fast  this  day ; 

Lang  Patronage,  wi’  rod  o’  aim. 

Has  shor’d  the  Kirk’s  undoing 
As  lately  Fenwick,  sair  forfairn, 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin  : 

Our  patron,  honest  man  ! Glencaira, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewin’ ; 

And  like  a godly  elect  bairn 
He’s  wal’d  us  out  a true  ane. 

And  sound  this  day. 

Now,  Robertson  (49),  harangue  nae  mair 
But  steek  your  gab  for  ever : 

Or  tiy  the  wicked  town  of  Ayr, 

For  there  they’ll  think  you  clever; 

Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lear. 

Ye  may  commence  a shaver ; 

Or  to  the  Netherton  (50)  repair. 

And  turn  a carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand  this  day. 

Mutrie  (51)  and  you  were  just  a match. 
We  never  had  sic  twa  drones  : 

Auld  Hornie  did  the  Laigh  Kirk  wratch* 
Just  like  a winkin’  baudrons  : 

And  aye  he  catched  the  tither  wretch. 

To  frv  them  in  his  caudrons : 

But  now  his  honour  maun  detach, 

Wi’  a’  his  brimstone  squadron*, 

Fast,  fast  this  day. 

See,  see  auld  Orthodoxy’s  faes 
She’s  swingein  through  the  city; 

Hark,  Ikw  the  nine-tail'd  cat  she  plays  i « 
I vow  it’ s unco  pretty  : 

There,  Learning,  with  his  Greekish  face^ 
Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty. 

And  Common  Sense  is  g£un,  she  says, 

To  mak  to  Jamie  Beattie  (52) 

Her  plant  this  day. 

But  there’s  Morality  himsel’. 

Embracing  all  opinions ; 

Hear,  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell, 

Between  his  twa  companions ; 

See,  how  she  peels  the  skin  and  fell. 

As  ane  were  peelin’  onions ! 

Now  there — they’re  packed  aff  to  hell. 
And  banish’d  our  dominions. 

Henceforth  this  day. 

Oh,  happy  day ! rejoice,  rejoice ! 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter ! 
Morality’s  demure  decoys 
^all  here  nae  mair  find  quarter ; 


113 


BURNS’S  Fulfil  CAL  WORKS. 


M ”,  lliiiBell,  are  the  boys. 

That  Heresy  can  torture : 

They  'll  gie  her  on  a rape  a hoyse. 

And  cowe  her  measure  shorter 

By  th’  head  some  day. 
Come,  bring  the  tither  mutchkin  in. 
And  here’s,  for  a conclusion. 

To  every  New  Light  (53)  mother’s  son. 
From  this  time  forth.  Confusion  : 

If  mair  they  deave  U3  wi’  their  din. 

Or  Patronage  intrusion. 

We'll  light  a spunk,  and  every  skin 
We’ll  rin  them  aff  in  fusion, 
like  oil  some  day. 


£h  Saints  iraitlr.  (54) 

* Friendship ! mysterious  cement  of  the  soul! 
fiweet’ner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society ! 

1 owe  thee  much ! ” — Blair. 

Dear  Smith,  the  slee’est,  paukie  thief, 
that  e’er  attempted  stealth  or  rief, 

Te  surely  hae  some  warlock-breef 
Owre  human  hearts ; 

For  ne’er  a bosom  yet  was  prief 
Against  your  arts. 

For  me,  I swear  by  sun  and  moon. 

And  ev’ry  star  that  blinks  aboon. 

Ye’ve  cost  me  twenty  pair  o’  shoon 
Just  gaun  to  see  you; 

And  ev’ry  ither  pair  that’s  done, 

Mair  ta’en  I’m  wi’  you. 

That  auld  capricious  carlin.  Nature, 

To  mak  amends  for  scrimpit  stature, 

She’s  turn’d  you  aff,  a human  Creature 
On  her  first  plan ; 

And  in  her  freaks,  on  every  feature 

She’s  wrote,  the  Man. 

!fust  now  I’ve  ta:en  the  fit  o’  ryhme. 

My  barmie  noddle’s  working  prime, 

My  fancy  yerkit  up  sublime 

Wi’  hasty  summon : 

Hae  ye  a leisure-moment’s  time. 

To  hear  what’s  comin* ! 

Some  rhyme  a neighbour’s  name  to  lash ; 
Some  rhyme  (vain  thought)  for  needfu* 
cash; 

Some  rhyme  to  court  the  country  clash, 

And  raise  a din*; 

For  me,  an  aim  I never  fash — 

I rhyme  for  fun. 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot. 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat. 

And  damn’d  my  fortune  to  the  groat ; 

But  in  requit, 

Has  blesi  me  wi’  a random  shot 
O’  couutra  wit. 


This  while  my  notion ’s  ta’en  a sklent. 

To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  prent ; 

But  still  the  mair  I’m  that  way  bent. 

Something  cries  “ Hoolie 
I red  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent ! 

Ye’ll  sliaw  your  folly. 

There’s  ither  poets  much  your  betters. 

Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o’  letters, 

Hae  thought  they  had  ensur’d  then 
debtors 

A*  future  ages ; 

Now  moths  deform  in  shapeless  tatters. 
Their  unknown  pages.” 

Then  farewell  hopes  o’  laurel-boughs. 

To  garland  my  poetic  brows ! 

Henceforth  I’ll  rove  where  busy  ploughs 
Are  whistling  thrang. 

And  teach  the  lanely  heights  and  howes 
My  rustic  sang. 

I’ll  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed 
How  never-halting  moments  speed, 

Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread; 

Then,  all  unknown, 

I’ll  lay  me  with  th’  inglorious  dead. 

Forgot  and  gone ! 

But  why  o’  death  begin  a tale  ? 

Just  now  we’re  living  sound  and  hale. 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail. 

Heave  care  o’er  side ! 

And  large  before  enjoyment’s  gale. 

Let’s  tak  the  tide. 

This  life,  sae  far’s  I understand. 

Is  a’  enchanted  fairy  land, 

Where  pleasure  is  the  magic  wand. 

That,  wielded  right, 

Maks  hours  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand. 
Dance  by  fu’  light. 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield; 

For,  ance  that  five-and-forty’s  speel’d. 

See,  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

Wi’  wrinkl’d  face. 

Comes  hostin’,  hirplin’  owre  the  field, 

Wi’  creepin’  pace. 

When  ance  life’s  day  draws  near  th« 
gloamin’. 

Then  fareweel  vacant  careless  roamin’ ; 

And  fareweel  cheerfu’  tankards  foamin’. 

And  social  noise ; 

And  fareweel  dear,  deluding  woman  l 
The  joy  of  joys ! 

Oh  life  1 how  pleasant  in  thy  morning. 
Young  Fancy’s  rays  the  hills  adorning! 
Cold-pausing  caution’s  lesson  scorning. 

We  frisk  away, 

like  school -boys,  at  th’  expected  warning 
To  joy  and  play. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 


119 


We  wander  there,  we  wander  here. 

We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier. 

Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near. 

Among  the  leaves ! 

And  tho’  the  puny  wound  appear. 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

Some,  lucky,  find  a flow’ry  spot. 

For  which  they  never  toil’d  or  swat ; 

They  drink  the  sweet  and  eat  the  fat, 

But  care  or  pain  ; 

And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 

With  high  disdain. 

With  steady  aim  some  Fortune  chase; 

Keen  hope  does  ev’ry  sinew  brace  ; 

Thro’  fair,  thro’  foul,  they  urge  the  race. 
And  seize  the  prey : 

Then  cannie,  in  some  cozie  place. 

They  close  the  day. 

And  others*,  like  your  humble  servan*. 

Boor  wights  ! nae  rules  nor  roads  observin’; 
To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervin’. 

They  zig-zag  on ; 

Till  curst  with  age,  obscure  and  starvin,* 
They  aften  groan. 

Alas  ! what  bitter  toil  and  straining — 

But  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complaining! 

Is  fortune’s  fickle  Luna  waning? 

E’en  let  her  gang! 

Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 

Let’s  sing  our  sang. 

My  pen  I here  fling  to  the  door. 

And  kneel,  “Ye  Pow’rs,”  and  warm  implore, 
* Tho’  I should  wander  terra  o’er. 

In  all  her  climes. 

Grant  me  but  this,  I ask  no  more, 

Aye  rowth  o’  rhymes. 

Gie  dreeping  roasts  to  countra  lairds. 

Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards  ; 

Gie’  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  life  guards. 

And  maids  of  honour  ! 

And  yill  and  whisky  gie  to  cairds. 

Until  they  sconuer. 

A title,  Dempster  merits  it ; 

A garter  gie  to  Willie  Pitt ; 

Gie  wealth  to  some  be-ledger'd  cit, 

In  cent,  per  cent. 

But  give  me  real,  sterling  wit. 

And  I’m  content. 

While  ye  are  pleased  to  keep  me  hale, 

1 ’ll  sit  down  o’er  my  scanty  meal. 

Bet  water-brose,  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi'  cheerfu’  face. 

As  lang’s  the  muses  dinna  fail 
To  say  the  grace.** 

An  anxious  e’e  I never  throws 
Behiut  my  lug  or  by  my  nose; 


I jouk  beneath  misfortune’s  blow# 

As  weel's  I may : 

Sworn  foe  to  sorrow,  care,  and  prose^ 

I rhyme  away. 

Oh  ye  douce  folk,  that  iiv  e by  rule. 
Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool, 
Compar’d  wi’  you — oh  fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How  much  unlike ; 

Your  heart’s  are  just  a standing  pooS, 
Your  lives  a dyke ! 

Nae  hair-brain’ d,  sentimental  trace% 

In  your  unletter’d  nameless  faces  l 
In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray. 

But  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 
Ye  hum  away. 

Ye  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye’re  wise; 

Nae  ferly  tho’  ye  do  despise 

The  hairum-scairum,  ram-stam  boys, 

Tlie  rattling  squad : 

I see  you  upward  cast  your  eye3— 

— Ye  ken  the  road. 

Whilst  I — but  I shall  haud  me  there— 
Wi’  you  I’ll  scarce  gang  ony  where — 
Then,  Jamie,  I shall  say  nae  mair. 

But  quat  my  sang. 
Content  wi’  you  to  mak  a pair, 

Whare’er  I gang. 


f jje  fallij  f pggsra.— £ Cantata.  Css) 

RECITATIVO. 

When  lyart  leaves  bestrew  the  yird, 

Or  wavering  like  the  bauckie-bird. 

Bedim  cauld  Boreas’  blast ; 

When  hailstanes  drive  wi’  bitter  skytt 
And  infant  frosts  begin  to  bite. 

In  hoary  cranreuch  drest ; 

Ae  night  at  e’en  a merry  core 
O’  randie,  gangrel  bodies. 

In  Poosie  Nancy’s  held  the  splore. 

To  drink  their  orra  duddie3  : 

Wi’  quaffing  and  laughing. 

They  ranted  and  they  sang; 

Wi’ jumping  and  thumping. 

The  vera  girdle  rang. 

First,  neist  the  fire,  in  auld  red  rag$, 

Ane  sait  weel  brac’d  wi’  mealy  bags, 

And  knapsack  a’  in  order ; 

His  doxy  lay  within  his  arm, 

Wi’  usquebae  and  blankets  warn— 

She  blinket  on  her  sodger  : 

And  aye  he  gies  the  tozie  drab 
The  tither  skelpin’  kiss. 

While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab 
Just  like  an  aumos  dish  (56) 


12 


120 


BURNS’ S POETICAL  WORK& 


Ilk  smack  still,  did  crack  still. 

Just  like  a cadger’s  whip. 

Then  staggering*  and  swaggering 
He  roared  this  ditty  up. 

AIR. 

Tune — Soldiers ’ Joy. 

I am  a son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many 
wars,  [come ; 

And  show  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I 
This  here  was  for  a wench,  and  that  other  in 
a trench,  [the  drum. 

When  welcoming  the  French  at  the  sound  of 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

My  ’prenticeship  I past  where  my  leader 
breath’d  his  last,  [of  Abram  (57) ; 

When  the  bloody  die  was  cast  on  the  heights 
I served  out  my  trade  when  the  gall  aft  t game 
was  play’d,  [sound  of  the  drum. 

And  the  Morro  (58)  low  was  laid  at  the 
Lai,  de  daudle,  &c. 

I lastly  was  with  Curtis,  among  the  floating 
batt’ries  (59),  [limb ; 

And  there  I left  for  witness  an  arm  and  a 
Yet  let  my  country  need  me,  with  Elliot  (60) 
to  head  me,  [drum. 

I’d  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  a 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

And  now  tho*  I must  beg  with  a wooden  arm 
and  leg,  > [bum. 

And  many  a tatter’d  rag  hanging  over  my 
I’m  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle  and 
my  callet. 

As  when  1 us’d  in  scarlet  to  follow  & drum. 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

What  tho’  with  hoary  locks,  I must  stand  the 
winter  shocks,  [a  home, 

Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks  oftentimes  for 
When  the  tother  bag  I sell,  and  the  tother . 

bottle  tell,  [a  drum. 

I could  meet  a troop  of  hell  at  the  sound  of 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He  ended;  and  the  kebars  sheuk, 

Aboon  the  chorus  roar ; 

While  frighted  rattons  backward  leuk. 

And  seek  the  benmost  bore ; 

A fairy  fiddler  frae  the  neuk,  < 

He  skirl  d out  “ Encore !’* 

But  up  arose  the  martial  chuck. 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune — Soldier  Laddie . 

I once  was  a maid,  tho’  I cannot  tell  when, 
And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men; 


Some  one  of  a troop  of  dragoons  wm  jay 
daddie, 

No  wonder  I’m  fond  of  a sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  &c. 

The  first  of  my  loves  was  a swaggering  blade. 
To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  trade  ; 
His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  his  cheek  was  so 
ruddy. 

Transported  I was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

But  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  him  in  the 
lurch,  [ehurch ; 

The  sword  I forsook  for  the  Me  of  the 
He  ventur’d  the  soul,  and  I risk’d  the  body— 
’Twas  then  I prov’d  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal,  de  lal,  &c. 
Full  soon  I grew  sick  of  my  sanctified  sot. 
The  regiment  at  large  for  a husband  I got ; 
From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  the  fife  I wag 
ready, 

I asked  no  more  but  a sodger  laddie 

Sing,  Lal,  de  lal,  &c. 

But  the  peace  it  reduc’d  me  to  beg  in  despair, 
Till  I met  my  old  boy  at  Cunningham  fair ; 
His  rags  regimental  they  flutter’d  so  gaudy. 
My  heart  it  rejoic’d  at  a sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

And  now  I have  liv’d — I know  not  how  long 
And  still  I can  join  in  a cup  and  a song  ; 

But  whilst  with  both  hands  I can  hold  thg 
glass  steady 

Here’s  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor  Merry  Andrew  in  the  neuk. 

Sat  guzzling  wi’  a tinkler  hizzie ; 

They  mind’t  na  wha  the  chorus  teuk. 
Between  themselves  they  were  sae  busy ; 
At  length  wi’  drink  and  courting  dizzy. 

He  stoiter’d  up  and  made  a face ; 

Then  turn’d,  and  laid  a smack  on  Grizzie, 
Syne  tuned  his  pipes  wP  grave  grimace, 
AIR. 

Tune— Auld  Sir  Symon. 

Sir  Wisdom’s  a fool  when  he’s  fou. 

Sir  Knave  is  a fool  in  a session : 

He’s  there  but  a ’prentice  I trow. 

But  I am  a fool  by  profession. 

My  grannie  she  bought  me  a beulf^ 

And  I held  awa  to  the  school ; 

I fear  I my  talent  misteuk. 

But  what  will  ye  hae  of  a fool  ? 

For  drink  I would  venture  my  neck, 

A hizzie’s  the  half  o’  my  craft. 

But  what  could  ye  other  expect. 

Of  ane  that’s  avowedly  daft  ? 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 


121 


I ance  was  tied  up  like  a stirk; 

For  civilly  swearing  and  quaffin’ ; 

I ance  was  abus’d  in  the  kirk. 

For  touzling  a lass  i’  my  daffin. 

Poor  Andrew  that  tumbles  for  sport. 
Let  naebody  name  wi’  a jeer ; 
There's  ev’n,  I’m  taught,  i’  the  court 
A tumbler  ca’d  the  premier. 

Observ’d  ye,  yon  reverend  lad 
Maks  faces  to  tickle  the  mob  ; 

He  rails  at  our  mountebank  squad— 
Ilfs  rivalship  just  i’  the  job. 

And  now  my  conclusion  I’ll  tell. 

For  faith  I’m  confoundedly  dry ; 
The  chiel  that’s  a fool  for  himsel’, 
Gude  L — d ! he’s  far  dafter  than  I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then  neist  outspak  a raucle  carlin, 

Wha  keut  fu’  weel  to  cleek  the  sterling. 
For  monie  a pursie  she  had  hooked. 
And  had  in  mony  a well  been  ducked. 
Her  dove  had  been  a Highland  laddie. 
But  weary  fa’  the  waefu’  woodie ! 

Wi’  sighs  and  sobs  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  braw  John  Highlandman. 

AIR. 

Tune — O an  ye  were  de%d  Guidman. 
A Highland  lad  my  love  was  born. 

The  Lawland  laws  he  held  in  scorn 
But  he  still  was  faithfu’  to  his  clan. 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing,  hey  my  braw  John  Highlandman! 
Slug,  ho,  my  braw  John  Highlandman! 
There’s  not  a lad  in  a’  the  lan’ 

Was  match  for  my  John  Highlandman. 

With  his  philabeg  and  tartan  plaid. 

And  guid  claymore  down  by  his  side. 

The  ladies’  hearts  he  did  trepan. 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 

We  ranged  a’  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 

And  liv’d  like  lords  and  ladies  gay  ; 

For  a Lawland  face  he  feared  none. 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 

They  banish’d  him  beyond  the  sea, 

But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 

Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran. 
Embracing  my  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 

But,  oh  ! they  catch’d  him  at  the  last. 

And  bound  him  in  a dungeon  fast : 


My  curse  upon  them  every  one, 

They’ye  bang’d  my  braw  John  Highlandman 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

And  now  a widow,  I must  mourn. 

The  pleasurs’s  that  will  ne’er  return; 

No  comfort  but  a hearty  can. 

When  I think  on  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy  scraper,  wi’  his  fiddle, 

Wha  us’d  at  trysts  and  fairs  to  driddk. 
Her  strappin’  limb,  and  gaucy  middle 
(He  reach’d  na  higher) 

Had  hol’d  his  heartie  like  a riddle, 

. And  blawn’t  on  fire. 

Wi’  hand  on  haunch,  and  upward  e’e 
He  croon’d  his  gamut,  one,  two,  thre*. 
Then  in  an  arioso  key. 

The  wee  Apollo 
Set  off  wi’  allegretto  glee 

His  giga  solo. 

AIR. 

Tune — Whistle  oe'r  the  lave  eft 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear. 

And  go  wi’  me  and  be  my  dear. 

And  then  you  every  care  and  fear 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o’t. 

CHORUS. 

I am  a fiddler  to  my  trade. 

And  a’  the  tunes  that  e’er  I play'd. 

The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid. 

Was  whistle  owre  the  lave  o’t. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we’se  be  there^ 
And  oh  ! sae  nicely’s  we  will  fare  ; 

We’ll  bouse  about  tillDaddie  Care 
Sings  whistle  owre  the  lave  o’t. 

I am,  &C. 

Sae  merrily  the  banes  we’ll  pyke, 

And  sun  oursells  about  the  dyke. 

And  at  our  leisure,  when  ye  like. 

We’ll  whistle  ow’re  the  lave  o’t. 

I am,  &c. 

But  bless  me  wi’  your  heav’n  o’  charm% 
And  while  I kittle  hair  on  thairni9. 
Hunger,  cauld,  and  a sic  harms. 

May  whistle  ow’re  the  lave  o’t. 

I am,  &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her  charms  had  struck  a sturdy  cakr’d* 

As  weel  as  poor  gut-scraper ; 

He  taks  the  fiddler  by  the  beard, 

And  draws  a roosty  rapier— 


BURN?  S POETICAL  WORKS. 


122 

He  swcor  by  a’  was  swearing  worth, 

To  speet  him  like  a pliver. 

Unless  he  wad  from  that  time  forth 
Relinquish  her  for  ever. 

Wi’  ghastly  e’e,  poor  tweedle-dee 
Upon  his  hunkers  bended. 

And  pray’d  for  grace  wi’  ruefu’  face. 

And  sae  the  quarrel  ended. 

But  tho*  his  little  heart  did  grieve 
When  round  the  tinkler  prest  her. 

He  feign’d  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve. 

When  thus  the  caird  address’d  her : 

AIR. 

Tune — Clout  the  Caudron. 

My  bonny  lass,  I work  in  brass, 

A tinkler  is  my  station  : 

I’ve  travell’d  round  all  Christian  ground 
In  this  my  occupation  : 

I’ve  ta’en  the  gold.  I’ve  been  enroll’d 
In  many  a noble  squadron : 

But  vain  they  search’d,  when  off  I march’d 
To  go  and  clout  the  caudron, 

I’ve  tae’n  the  gold,  &c. 
Despise  that  shrimp,  that  wither’d  imp, 
Wi’  a’  his  noise  and  capon,’ 

And  tak  a share  wi’  those  that  bear 
The  budget  and  the  apron. 

And  by  that  stoup,  my  faith  and  houp. 
And  by  that  dear  Kilbagie  (61), 

If  e’er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi’  scant. 

May  I ne’er  weet  my  craigie. 

And  by  that  stoup,  &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The  caird  prevail’d — the  unblushing  fair 
In  his  embraces  sunk, 

Partly  wi’  love  o’ercome  sae  sair. 

And  partly  she  was  drunk. 

Sir  Violino,  with  an  air 

That  show’d  a man  of  spunk. 

Wish’d  unison  between  the  pair. 

And  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night. 
But  liurchin  Cupid  shot  a shaft. 

That  play’d  a dame  a shavie. 

The  fiddler  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 

Ahint  the  cl  icken  cavie. 

Her  lord,  a wight  o’  Homer’s  craft, 

Tho’  limping  wi’  the  spavie. 

He  hirpl’d  up,  and  lap  like  daft. 

And  shor’d  them  Dainty  Davie 

O’  boot  that  night 
He  was  a care-defying  blade 
A s ever  Bacchus  .listed, 

Tho’  Fortune  sair  upon  him  hid. 

His  heart  she  ever  miss’d  it. 


He  had  nae  wish  but — to  be  glad. 

Nor  want  but — when  he  thirsted; 

He  had  nought  but — to  be  sad. 

And  thus  the  Muse  suggested 

His  sang  that  night* 

AIR. 

Tune — For  a ’ that,  and  a’  f/iat, 

T am  a bard  of  no  regard, 

Wi’  gentle  folks,  and  a’  that : 

But  Homer-like,  the  glowrin’  byke, 

Frae  town  to  town  I draw  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

And  twice  as  muckle’s  a’  that; 

I’ve  lost  but  ane,  I’ve?  twa  behin/ 

I’ve  wife  eneugh  for  a’  that. 

I never  drank  the  Muses’  stank, 

Castalia’s  burn  and  a’  that ; 

But  there  it  streams,  and  richly  reams. 

My  Helicon  I ca’  that. 

For  a’  that,  &c. 

Great  love  I bear  to  a’  the  fair, 

Their  humble  slave,  and  a’  that; 

But  lordly  will,  I hold  it  still 
A mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

For  a’  that,  &c. 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  hour  we  meet, 

Wi’  mutual  love  and  a’  that : 

But  for  how  lang  the  flee  may  stang, 

Let  inclination  law  that. 

For  a’  that,  &c. 

Their  tricks  and  craft  have  put  me  daft, 
They’ve  ta’en  me  in,  and  a’  that ; 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  here  s the  *ex 
I like  the  jads  for  a’  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

And  twice  as  muckle’s  a’  that; 

My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid. 
They’re  welcome  till’t  for  a’  that. 
RECITATIVO. 

So  sang  the  bard — and  Nansie’s  wa’s 
Shook  with  a wonder  of  applause. 

Re-echo’d  from  each  mouth  : 

They  toom’d  their  pocks,  and  pawn'd  fed! 
duds. 

They  scarcely  left  to  co’er  their  fuds. 

To  quench  their  lowin’  drougth. 

Then  owre  again,  the  jovial  thrang, 

The  poet  did  request. 

To  loose  his  pack  and  wale  a sang, 

A ballad  o’  the  best ; 

He  rising,  rejoicing. 

Between  his  twa  Deborahs, 

Looks  round  him,  and  found  then 
Impatient  for  the  ehorua. 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 


m 


AIR. 

Tune — Jolly  Mortals, fill  your  Glasses. 

Ste  ! the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 

Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring  ! 

Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus. 
And  in  raptures  let  us  sing. 

CHORUS. 

A fig  for  those  by  law  protected! 
Liberty’s  a glorious  feast ! 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected. 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

What  is  title  ? what  is  treasure  t 
What  is  reputation’s  care  ? 

If  we  lead  a life  of  pleasure, 

'Tis  no  matter  how  or  where ! 

' A fig,  &c. 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable. 

Round  we  wander  all  the  day; 

And  at  night  in  barn  or  stable. 

Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 

A fig,  &c. 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 
Through  the  country  lighter  rove  F 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 
Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love ! 

A fig,  &c. 

Life  is  all  a variorum. 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes ; 

Let  them  cant  about  decorum 
Who  have  characters  to  lose. 

A fig,  &c. 

Here’s  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets ! 
Here’s  to  all  the  wandering  train ! 

Here’s  our  ragged  brats  and  callets  ! 

One  and  all  cry  out — Amen  ! 

A fig  for  those  by  law  protected ! 
Liberty’s  a glarious  feast ! 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected. 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 


2to  raas  3Hato  tn  Stan.  (62) 

A DIRGE. 

When  chill  November’s  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare. 

One  ev’ning,  as  I wandered  forth 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 

I spied  a man  whose  aged  step 
Seem’d  weary,  worn  with  care ; 

His  face  was  furrow’d  o’er  with  years. 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

•Young  stranger,  whither  wand’rest  thou?  ” 
Began  the  rev’rend  sage : 

•Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

. Or  yo  ithful  pleasure’s  rage  ? 


Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 
The  miseries  of  man. 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors. 
Out-spreading  far  and  wide. 

Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 
A haughty  lordling’s  pride : 

I’ve  seen  you  weary  winter-sun 
Twice  forty  times  return. 

And  ev’ry  time  has  added  proofs 
That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

Oh  man,  while  in  thy  early  years^ 

How  prodigal  of  time ! 

Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours^ 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime ! 

Alternate  follies  take  the  sway ; 

Licentious  passions  burn ; 

Which  tenfold  force  gives  nature’s  lawk 
That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

/ Or  manhood’s  active  might ; 

Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind. 

Supported  is  his  right ; 

But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life. 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn ; 

Then  age  and  want — oh  ! ill-match’d  p*il!-** 
Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

A few  seem  favourites  of  fate. 

In  pleasure’s  lap  carest ; 

Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 
Are  likewise  truly  blest. 

But,  oh ! what  crowds  in  every  land. 

All  wretched  and  forlorn ! 

Thro’  weary  life  this  lesson  learn— 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

Many  and  sharp  the  num’rous  ills 
Inwoven  with  our  frame ! 

More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves 
Regret,  remorse,  and  shame ; 

And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 
The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 

Man’s  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  t 

See  yonder  poor,  o’e^iabour’d  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile. 

Who  begs  a brother  of  the  earth 
To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 

And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 
The  poor  petition  spurn. 

Unmindful,  though  a weeping  wife 
And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

If  I’m  design’d  y:ra  lordling’s  slavit— 

By  Nature’s  law  designed— 

Why  was  an  independent  wish 
E’er  planted  in  my  mind? 


12 


124 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


If  not.,  why  am  I subject  to 
His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 
To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son. 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ; 

This  partial  view  of  human-kind 
Is  surely  not  the  last ! 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 
Had  never,  sure,  been  born. 

Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 
To  comfort  those  that  mourn ! 

Oh  Death ! the  poor  man’s  dearest  friend — 
The  kindest  and  the  best ! 

Welcome  the  hour,  my  aged  limbs 
Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 

The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow. 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  tom  ! 

But,  oh ! a blest  relief  to  those 
That  weary-laden  mourn ! ” 


®n  e Mmt, 

ON  TURNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH  THE  PLOUGH, 

November  1785.  (63.) 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow’rin’,  tim’rous  beastie. 

Oh,  what  a panic’s  in  thy  breastie  1 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi’  bickering  brattle ! 

I wad  be  laith  to  rin  and  chase  thee, 

Wi’  murd’ring  pattle ! 

I’m  truly  sorrow  man’s  dominion 
Has  broken  nature’s  social  union. 

And  justifies  that  ill  opinion. 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion. 

And  fellow-mortal! 

I doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 
What  then  ? poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live ! 
A daimen  icker  in  a tlirave 

’s  a sma’  request : 

I’ll  get  a blessin’  wi’  the  laive. 

And  never  miss’t ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 

Its  silly  wa’s  the  win’s  are  strewin’ ! 

And  naething,  now,  to  big  a new  ane, 

O’  foggage  green 

And  bleak  December’s  winds  ensuin’, 

Baith  snell  and  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  wraste. 

And  weary  winter  cornin’  fast. 

And  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

I hou  thought  to  dwell, 

'Till,  crash ! the  cruel  coulter  past 
Out  thro’  thy  cel L 


That  wee  bit  heap  o’  leaves  and  stibble^ 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a weary  nibble  ! 

Now  thou’s  turn’d  out  for  a’  thy  trouble^ 
But  house  or  haled 
To  thole  the  winter’s  sleety  dribble. 

And  cranreuch  cauld! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  ait  no  thy  lane. 

In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain: 

The  best  laid  schemes  o’  mice  and  mea* 
Gang  £ft  a-gley. 

And  lea’e  us  nought  but  grief  and  paii^ 
For  promis’d  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar’d  wi’  me  1 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 

But,  och ! I backward  cast  my  e’e^ 

On  prospects  drear  t 
And  forward,  tho’  I canna  see, 

I guess  and  fear. 


Sjjf  Lisina. 

DUAN  FIRST.  (64) 

The  sun  had  clos’d  the  winter  day. 

The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play  (65), 
And  hunger’d  maukin  ta’en  her  way 
To  kail-yards  green. 

While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 
Whare  she  has  been. 

The  thresher’s  wreary  flin gin’- tree 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me ; 

And  when  the  day  had  clos’d  his  e’e. 

Far  i’  the  west, 

Ben  i’  the  spence  (66),  right  pensivelie, 

I gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle-cheek, 

1 sat  and  ey’d  the  spewing  reek. 

That  fill’d  wi’  hoast-provoking  smeek. 

The  auld  clay  biggin’ ; 

And  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 
About  the  riggin*. 

All  in  this  mottie,  misty  clime, 

I backward  mus’d  on  wasted  time. 

How  I had  spent  my  youthfu’  primes 
And  done  nae  thing. 

But  stringin’  blethers  up  in  rhyme. 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Had  I to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 

I might,  by  this,  hae  led  a market. 

Or  strutted  in  a bank,  and  clarkit 
My  cash-account : 

While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarkife 
If  > a ’ th’  amount. 


THE  VISION. 


121 


T started,  mntt’ring,  blockhead!  coof  l 
And  heav’d  on  high  ray  waukit  loof. 

To  svveai  by  a’  yon  starry  roof. 

Or  some  rash  aitli, 

That  I henceforth  would  be  rhyme-proof 
Till  my  last  breath — 

When,  click  ! the  string  the  snick  did  draw ; 
And,  jee ! the  door  gaed  to  the  \va’ ; 

And  by  my  ingle-lowe  I saw. 

Now  bleezin’  bright, 

A tight,  outlandish  hizzie,  braw. 

Come  full  in  sight. 

Ye  needna  doubt,  I held  my  whisht; 

The  infant  aith,  half-form’d,  was  crusht ; 

I glowr’d  as  eerie’s  I’d  been  dusht 
In  some  wild  gien ; 

When  sweet,  like  modest  worth,  she  blusht. 
And  stepped  ben. 

Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 
Were  twisted  gracefu’  round  her  brows ; 

I took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token. 

And  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 
Wou’d  soon  been  broken. 

A “ hair-brain’d,  sentimental  trace” 

Was  strongly  marked  in  her  face ; 

A wildiy-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her ; 

Her  eye,  ev’n  turn’d  on  empty  space. 

Beam’d  keen  with  honour. 

Down  flow’d  her  robe  a tartan  sheen. 

Till  half  a leg  was  scrimply  seen  ; 

And  such  a leg ! my  bonnie  Jean 
Could  only  peer  it ; 

Sae  thought,  sae  taper,  tight  and  clean, 
Nane  else  came  near  it. 

Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue. 

My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew ; 

Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling,  threw 
A lustre  grand ; 

And  seem’d,  to  my  astonish’d  view, 

A well-know  i land. 

Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 

There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost : 
Here,  tumbling  billows  mark’d  the  coast 
With  surging  foam 
There,  distant  shone  Art’s  lofty  boast. 

The  lordly  dome. 

Here,  Doon  pour’d  down  his  far-fetch’d  floods; 
There,  well-fed  Irwine  stately  thuds  : 

Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  thro’  his  woods. 

On  to  the  shore, 

And  many  a lesser  torrent  scuds. 

With  seeming  roar. 

Low  in  a sandy  valley  spread,  - 

An  anaent  borough  rear’d  her  head  (67) ; 


Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read. 

She  boasts  a race, 

Tc  ev’ry  nobler  virtue  bred, 

And  polish’d  grace. 

By  stately  tow’r  or  palace  fair. 

Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air. 

Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

I could  discern ; 

Some  seem’d  to  muse,  some  seem’d  to  darsfe 
With  feature  stern. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel. 

To  see  a race  (68)  heroic  wheel, 

And  brandish  round  the  deep-dy’d  steel 
In  sturdy  blows ; 

While  back-recoiling  seem’d  to  reel 
Their  suthron  foes. 

His  Country’s  Saviour  (69),  mark  him  well  1 
Bold  Richardton’s  (70)  heroic  swell ; 

The  chief  on  Sark  (71)  who  glorious  fell 
In  high  command ; 

And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 
His  native  iand. 

There,  wdiere  a sceptr’d  Pictish  shade  (72) 
Stalk’d  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 

I mark’d  a martial  race,  portray’d 
In  colours  strong; 

Bold,  soldier-featur’d,  undismayed 
They  strode  along. 

Thro’  many  a wild  romantic  grove  (73), 
Near  many  a hermit-fancy’d  cove 
(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love). 

In  musing  mood. 

An  aged  judge,  I saw  him  rove. 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck  reverential  awe  (74), 

The  learned  sire  and  son  I saw  (75), 

To  Nature’s  God  and  Nature’s  law 
They  gave  their  lore, 

This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw; 

That,  to  adore. 

Brydone’s  brave  ward  (76)  I well  could  spy 
Beneath  old  Scotia’s  smiling  eye ; 

Who  call’d  on  Fame,  low  standing  by, 

To  hand  him  on, 

Where  many  a patriot-name  on  iugh 
And  hero  shone. 

DUAK  SECOND. 

With  musing-deep,  astonish’d  stare^ 

I view’d  the  heav’nly-seeming  fair  ; 

A whisp’ring  throb  did  witness  bear 
Of  kindred  sweet. 

When  with  an  elder  sisters’s  ai? 

She  did  me  greet. 


\26 


BUllNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


u All  hail!  my  own  inspired  bard! 

In  me  thy  native  Muse  regard  ! 

Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 

Tlius  poorly  low ! 

I come  to  give  thee  such  regard 
As  we  bestow. 

ICn  aw,  the  great  geniu3  of  this  land 
Has  many  a light,  aerial  band, 

Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 

H armoniously. 

As  arts  or  arms  they  understand. 

Their  labours  ply. 

They  Scotia’s  race  among  them  share ; 

Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare ; 

Some  raise  the  patriot  on  to  bare 
Corruption’s  heart : 

£cme  teach  the  bard,  a darling  care. 

The  tuneful  art. 

*Mong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  gore; 

They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits,  pour; 

Or,  ’mid  the  venal  senate’s  roar. 

They,  sightless,  stand. 

To  mend  the  honest  patriot-lore. 

And  grace  the  hand. 

And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage. 

Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age. 

They  bind  the  wild,  poetic  rage 
In  energy. 

Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 
Full  on  the  eye. 

Hence  Fullarton,  the  brave  and  young ; 
Hence  Dempster’s  zeal-inspired  tongue ; 
Hence  sweet  harmonious  Beattie  sung 
His  f Minstrel  lays  ; * 

Or  tore,  with  nobler  ardour  stung, 

The  sceptic’s  bays. 

To  lower  orders  are  assign’d 
The  humbler  ranks  of  human-kind. 

The  rustic  bard,  the  lab’ring  hind. 

The  artizan ; 

AT  choose,  as  various  they’re  inclin’d. 

The  various  man. 

W hen  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain. 

The  threatening  storm  some,  strongly,  rein: 
Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain. 

With  tillage-skill  ; 

And  some  instruct  the  shepherd-train, 
Blythe'o’er  the  hill. 

Some  hint  the  lover’s  harmless  wile ; 

Some  grace  the  maiden’s  artless  smile; 

Some  soothe  the  lab’rer’s  weary  toil. 

For  humble  gains, 

And  mak  his  cottage-scenes  beguile 
His  cares  and  pains. 

Borne,  bounded  to  a district-space. 

Explore  at  large  man’s  infant  race. 


To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 
Of  rustic  bard  ; 

And  careful  note  each  op’ning  grac^ 

A guide  and  guard. 

Of  these  am  I — Coila  my  name  (77)  J 
And  this  district  as  mine  I claim.  [farae^ 
Where  cnce  the  Campbells  (78),  diefs  oi 
Held  ruling  pow’r : 

I mark’d  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame, 

Thy  natal  hour. 

With  future  hope,  I oft  would  gas^ 

Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways. 

Thy  rudely  caroll’d,  chiming  phrase. 

In  uncouth  rhymes. 

Fir’d  at  the  simple,  artless  lays. 

Of  other  times. 

I saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore. 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar ; 

Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky, 

I saw  grim  nature’s  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

Or  when  the  deep  green -man  tied  earth 
Warm  cherish’d  ev’ry  flow’ret’s  birth. 

And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 
In  ev’ry  grove, 

I saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

When  ripen’d  fields,  and  azure  skies, 

Called  forth  the  reaper’s  rustling  noise^ 

I saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys. 

And  lonely  stalk, 

To  vent  thy  bosom’s  swelling  rise 
In  pensive  walk. 

When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  strong 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along. 

Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

Th’  adored  Name, 

I taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song. 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

I saw  thy  pulse’s  maddening  play, 

Wild  send  thee  pleasure’s  devious  way. 
Misled  by  Fancy’s  meteor-ray. 

By  passion  driven  ; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  Hepven. 

I taught  thy  manners-painting  strains. 

The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swaias. 

Till  now,  o’er  all  my  wide  domains 
Thy  fame  extends ; 

And  some,  the;  pride  of  Coila’s  plains. 
Become  thy  friends. 

Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I show. 

To  paint  with  Thomson’s  landscape  glow ; 

Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe. 

With  Shenstone’s  art; 

Or  pour^  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 
Warm  on  the  heart. 


THE  AUTHOR’S  EARNEST  CRY. 


12T 


Yet,  all  beneath  the  unrivall’d  rose, 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows ; 

Tho:'  large  the  forest’s  monarch  throw* 
His  army  shade. 

Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows, 
Adown  the  glade. 

Then  never  murmur  nor  repine  ; 

Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine; 

And,  trust  me,  not  Potosi’s  mine. 

Nor  king’s  regard, 

Can  give  a bliss  o’ermatching  thine, 

A rustic  bard. 

To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one — 

Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan ; 

Preserve  the  dignity  of  man. 

With  soul  erect; 

And  trust,  the  universal  plan 
Will  all  protect. 

And  wear  thou  this” — she  solemn  said. 

And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head : 

The  polish’d  leaves,  and  berries  red. 

Did  rustling  play ; 

And,  like  a passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away. 


ffifj?  Mjnr's  SsmA  ®nj  anfr  |5raijrr 

TO  THE  SCOTCH  REPRESENTATIVES  IN 
TIIE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS.  (79) 

**  Dearest  of  distillation  ! last  and  best ! 

How  art  thou  lost  1” — Parody  on  Milton. 

Ye  Irish  lords,  ye  knights  and  squires, 

Wha  represent  our  brughs  and  shires. 

And  doucely  manage  our  affairs 
In  parliament. 

To  you  a simple  Bardie’s  prayers 
Are  humbly  sent. 

Alas ! my  roopit  Muse  is  hearse  ! 

Your  honour’s  heart  wi’  grief  ’twad  pierce* 

To  see  her  sittin’  on  her  a — 

Low  i’  the  dust. 

And  scriecliin’  out  prosaic  verse, 

And  like  to  brust ! 

Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction, 
Scotland  and  me’s  in  great  affliction, 

E’er  sin'  they  laid  that  curst  restriction 
On  aqua  vitae ; 

And  reuse  them  up  to  strong  conviction. 
And  move  their  pity. 

Stand  forth,  and  tell  yon  Premier  youth  (80), 
The  honest,  open,  naked  truth  : 

Tell  him  o’  mine  and  Scotland’s  drouth. 

His  servants  humble : 

The  rauckle  devil  blaw  ye  south. 

If  ye  dissemble  l 


Does  ony  great  man  gircneb.  and  gloom? 
Speak  out,  and  never  fas  your  thoorn  ! 

Let  posts  and  pensions  sink  or  soom 

W’  them  wha  grant  ’em* 

If  honestly  they  canna  come. 

Ear  better  want  ’em. 

In  gathrin’  votes  you  were  na  slack ; 

Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack ; 

Ne’er  claw  your  lug,  and  lidge  your  back. 
And  hum  and  haw  ; 

But  raise  your  arm,  and  tell  your  crack 
Before  them  a’. 

Paint  Scotland  greeting  ower  her  thrissle. 
Her  mutchkin  stoup  as  toom’s  a whissle; 
And  d-mn’d  excisemen  in  a bussle. 

Seizin’  a stell. 

Triumphant  crushin’t  like  a mussel 
Or  lampit  shell. 

Then  on  the  tither  hand  present  her, 

A blackguard  smuggler,  right  behint  her, 
And  cheek-for-chow,  a chuffie  vintner, 
Colleaguing  join, 

Picking  her  pouch  as  bare  as  winter 
Of  a’  kind  coin. 

Is  there,  that  bears  the  name  o’  Scot, 

But  feels  his  heart’s  bluid  rising  ho£ 

To  see  his  poor  auld  mither’s  pot 

Thus  dung  in  staves. 

And  plundered  o’  her  hindmost  groat 
By  gallows  knaves  ? 

Alas ! I’m  but  a nameless  wight, 

Trod  i’  the  mire  out  o’  sight ! 

But  could  I like  Montgomeries  fight  (81), 
Or  gab  like  Boswell  (82), 
There’s  some  sark-necks  I wad  draw  tight^ 
And  tie  some  hose  well. 

God  bless  your  honours,  can  ye  see’t. 

The  kind,  auld,  cantie  carlin  greet. 

And  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet. 

And  gar  them  hear  it. 

And  tell  them,  with  a patriot  heat. 

Ye  winua  bear  it  ? 

Some  o*  you  nicely  ken  the  laws. 

To  round  the  period  and  pause. 

And  wi’  rhetoric  clause  on  clause 
To  male  harangues ; 

Then  echo  thro’  Saint  Stephen’s  wa’s 
Auld  Scotland’s  wrangs, 

Dempster  (83),  atrueblue  Scot  I'se  warran’, 
Thee,  aith-detesting,  chaste  Kilkerran  (84) 
And  that  glib-gabbet  Highland  baron, 

The  Laird  o’  Graham  (85) ; 
Aud  ane,  a chap  that’s  d-mn’d  auldfarran, 
Dundas  his  name.  (86) 


128 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Erskine  (87),  a spunkie  Norland  billie; 

True  Campbells,  Frederick  (8e>)  and  Ilay  (89) ; 
And  Livingstone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie ; 

And  monie  ithers, 

Whom  auld  Demosthenes  or  Tully 

May’n  own  for  brithers. 

See’  sodger  Hugh,  my  watchmen  stented. 

If  bardies  e’er  are  represented ; 

I ken  if  that  your  sword  were  wanted. 

Ye’d  lend  a hand. 

But  when  there’s  ought  to  say  anent  it. 
Ye’re  at  a stand.  (90) 

Arouse,  my  boys ! exert  your  mettle. 

To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle ; 

Or  faith ! I’ll  wad  my  now  pleugh-pettle. 
Ye'll  see’t  ere  lang, 
fche’ll  teach  you  wi’  a reekin’  whittle, 
Anither  sang. 

This  while  she’s  been  in  crankus  mood, 

Her  lost  militia  fir’d  her  bluid ; 

(Deil  na  they  never  mair  do  guid. 

Play’d  her  that  pliskie !) 

And  now  she’s  like  to  run  red-wud 
About  her  whisky. 

And  L — d ! if  ance  they  pit  her  till’fc. 

Her  tartan  petticoat  she’ll  kilt, 

And  durk  and  pistol  at  her  belt. 

She’ll  tak  the  streets. 

And  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt, 

I’  th’  first  she  meets ! 

For  G-d  sake,  sirs ! then  speak  her  fair. 

And  straik  her  cannie  wi’  the  hair. 

And  to  the  muckle  house  repair, 

Wi’  instant  speed. 

And  strive,  wi’  a’  your  wit  and  lear. 

To  get  remead. 

Yon  ill-tor.gu’d  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 

May  taunt  you  wi’  his  jeers  and  mocks ; 

But  gie  him’t  het,  my  hearty  cocks  ! 

E’en  cowe  the  cadie ! 

An  send  him  to  his  dicing  box 
And  sportin’  lady. 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o’  auld  Boconnock’s  (91), 
I’ll  be  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bonnocks  (92), 
And  drink  his  health  in  auld  Nause  Tin- 
nock’s  (93) 

Nine  times  a-week, 

if  he  some  scheme,  like  tea  and  winnocks  (94), 
Wad  kindly  seek. 

Could  he  some  commutation  broach. 

I’ll  pledge  my  aith  in  guid  braid  Scotch, 
He’ll  need  na  fear  their  foul  reprof  :h. 

Nor  erudition, 

Yon  mixtie-maxtie  queer  hotch-potch. 

The  Coalition. 

Auld  Scotland  l>as  a raucle  tongua  $ 

She’s  juit  a devil  wi’  a rung ; 


And  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 
To  tak  their  part, 

Tho’  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung; 

She’ll  no  desert. 

And  now,  ye  chosen  Five-and-Forty, 

May  still  your  mither’s  heart  support  yej 
Then,  though  a minister  grow  dorty. 

And  kick  your  place, 

Ye’ll  snap  your  fingers  poor  and  hearty; 
Before  his  face. 

God  bless  your  honours  a’  your  days, 

Wi’  sowps  o’  kail  and  brats  o’  claise. 

In  spite  o’  a’  the  thievish  kaes. 

That  haunt  St.  Jamies! 

Your  humble  Poet  sings  and  prays. 

While  Rab  his  name  is* 

POSTCRIPT. 

Let  half-starv’d  slaves  in  warmer  skie* 

See  future  wines,  rich  clust’ring,  rise  ; 

Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne’er  envies. 

But  blythe  and  frisky. 

See  eyes  her  freeborn,  martial  boys 
Tak  aff  their  whisky. 

What  tho’  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms. 
While  fragrance  blooms  and  beauty  charmA 
When  wretches  range,  in  famish’d  swarms* 
The  scented  groves. 

Or  hounded  forth,  dishonour  arms 
In  hungry  droves. 

Their  gun’s  a burthen  on  their  shoulther ; 
They  downa  bide  the  stink  o’  powther ; 

Their  bauldest  thought’s  a hank’ring  swithel 
To  stan’  or  rin. 

Till  skelp — a shot — they’re  atf,  a’throwther; 

To  save  their  skin. 

But  bring  a Scotsman  frae  his  hill. 

Clap  in  his  cheek  a Highland  gill. 

Say  such  is  royal  George’s  will. 

And  there’s  the  foe. 

Fie  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 
Twa  at  a blow. 

Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  tease  himj 
Death  comes — wi’  fearless  eye  he  sees  him; 
Wi’  bluidy  han’  a welcome  gies  him ; 

And  when  he  fa’s. 

His  latest  draught  o’  breathin’  lea’s  hha 
In  faint  huzzas ! 

Sages  their  solemn  een  may  steek. 

And  raise  a philosophic  reek. 

And  physically  causes  seek, 

In  clime  and  season ; 

But  tell  me  whisky’s  name  in  Greek, 

I’ll  tell  the  reason. 

Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  mither! 

Tho’  whiles  ye  moistify  your  leather. 


SCOTCH  DEINK. 


Till  wiare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o’  heather 

Ye  tine  your  dam  ; 

jfoecdom  and  whisky  gang  thegither !— - 
Take  aif  your  dram ! 


Thou  art  the  life  o’  public  haunts  ; 

B it  thee,  what  were  our  fairs  and  rants? 
Y.  /’n  godly  meetings  o’  the  saunts. 

By  thee  inspir’d. 

Alien  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents  (98), 
Are  doubly  fir’d. 


frnfrjr  Drink. 

* Gie  him  strong  drink,  until  he  vrink, 

That’s  sinking  in  despair; 

And  liquor  guid  to  fire  his  bl\  id, 

That’s  prest  w’  grief  and  ca  e ; 

There  let  him  bouse,  and  deep  carouse, 

Wi’  bumpers  flowing  o’er 

Till  he  forgets  his  loves  or  de*  ts.  jj 

And  minds  his  griefs  no  me  re.”  (95.)  i 
Solomon’s  Pkovelb^  xxxi,  6,  7.  [ 

, i 

Let  other  poets  raise  a fracas,  1 

’Bout  vines,  and  wines,  and  dr  /ken  Bacchus, 1 
And  crabbit  names  and  stores  wrack  us,  \ 
And  grate  o «r  lug,  > 

I sing  the  juice  Scotch  bee?  can  mak  us. 

In  glass  or  jug.  , 

Oh  thou,  my  Muse  ! guid  auld  Scotch  drink; 
Whether  thro’  wimplin’  worms  thou  jink, 

Or,  richly  brown,  ream  o’er  the  brink. 

In  glorious  faem, 

Inspire  me,  till  I lisp  and  wink, 

To  sing  thy  name ! 

Let  husky  wheat  the  hauglis  adorn, 

A)  d aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn, 

And  ut:as  and  beans,  at  e’en  or  morn. 

Perfume  the  plain, 

Leeze  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o’  grain  ! 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood. 

In  sou  pie  scones,  the  wale  o’  food ! 

Or  tumblin’  in  the  boilin’  flood 
Wi’  kail  and  beet ; 

But  when  thou  pours  thy  strong  heart’s  blood, 
There  thou  shines  chief, 

Food  fills  the  wame,  and  keeps  us  livin’; 

Tho’  life’s  a gift-  no  worth  receivin’, 

W hen  heavy  dragg’d  wi’  pine  and  grievin’ ; 
But,  oil’d  by  thee. 

The  wheels  o’  life  gae  down-hill  scrievin’, 

Wi  rattlin’  glee, 

Thoi:  clears  the  head  o’  doited  Lear : 

Thou  cheers  the  heart  o’  drooping  Care ; 
Thou  strings  the  nerves  o’  Labour  /air, 

At’s  weary  toil ; 

Thou  even  brightens  dark  Despair 
Wi’  gloomy  smile. 

A ft  clad  in  massy,  siller  weed, 

Wi’  gentles  thou  erects  thy  head  (98) ; 

Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o’  need, 

The  poor  man’s  wine. 

Hi*  wee  drap  parti  tch,  or  his  bread, 

Thou  kitchens  fine.  (S7) 


That  merry  night  we  get  the  com  in. 

Oh  sweetly  then  thou  reams  the  horn  in! 
Or  reekin’  on  a new-year  morning 
In  cog  or  bicker, 

A.nd  just  a wee  drap  sp’ritual  bum  in. 
And  gusty  sucker ! 

When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath. 

And  ploughmen  gather  wi’  their  graith. 
Oh  rare!  to  see  thee  fiz*z  and  freath 
I*  th’  lugget  caup  ! 

Then  Burnewin  comes  on  like  death 
At  ev’ry  chap. 

Nae  mercy,  then,  for  air  or  steel ; 

The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chiel. 
Brings  hard  owrehip,  wi’  sturdy  wheel. 
The  strong  forehammer. 

Till  block  and  studdie  ring  and  reel 
Wi’  dinsome  clamour. 

When  skirlin’  weanies  see  the  light. 

Thou  maks  the  gossips  clatter  bright. 
How  fumblin’  cuifs  their  dearies  slight  j 
Wae  worth  the  name  1 
Nae  howdie  gets  a social  night. 

Or  plack  frae  them. 

When  neebors  anger  at  a plea. 

And  just  as  wud  as  wud  can  be. 

How  easy  can  the  barley-bree 

Cement  the  quarrel  I 
It3  aye  the  cheapest  lawyer’s  fee. 

To  taste  the  barrel. 

Alake  ! that  e’er  my  Muse  has  reason 
To  wyte  her  countrymen  wi’  treason  l 
But  monie  daily  wreet  their  weasoa 
Wi’  liquors  nice. 

And  hardly,  in  a winter’s  season. 

E’er  spier  her  price. 

Wae  worth  that  brandy,  burning  trash ! 
Fell  source  o’  monie  a pain  and  brash  ! 
Twins  monie  a poor,  doylt,  drucken  hash* 
O’  half  his  days  ; 

And  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland’s  cash 
To  her  warst  faes. 

Ye  Scots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well. 

Ye  chief,  to  you  my  tale  I tell. 

Poor  plackless  devils  like  mysel. 

It  sets  you  ill, 

Wi’  bitter,  dearthfu’  wines  to  mell. 

Or  foreign  gill. 

May  gravels  round  his  blather  wrench. 
And  gouts  torment  hnn  inch  by  ind^ 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


13C 

Wha  twists  his  gruntle  wi’  a gluuch 

O’  sour  disdain, 

Out  owre  a glass  o’  whisky  punch 
Wi’  honest  men  ! 

Oh  whisky ! soul  }’  plays  and  pranks ! 
Accept  a Bardie’s  gratefu’  thanks  ! 

When  wanting  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 
Are  my  poor  verses ! 

Thou  comes they  rattle  i’  their  ranks 

At  ither’s  a — ! 

Thee,  Ferintosh ! oh  sadly  lost ! (99) 
Scotland  lament  frae  coast  to  coast ! 

Now  colic  grips,  and  barkin’  hoast. 

May  kill  us  a’ ; 

For  loyal  Forbes’  charter’d  boast, 

Is  ta’en  awa ! 

Thae  curst  horse-leeches  o’  th’  Excise, 

Wha  mak  the  whisky  stells  their  prize ! 

Haud  up  thy  han’,  Deil ! ance,  twice,  thrive ! 

There,  seize  the  blinkers  1 
And  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies 

For  poor  d — nd  drinkers. 
Fortune  ! if  thou’ 11  but  gie  me  still 
Hale  breeks,  a scone,  and  whisky  gill. 

And  rowth  o’  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Tak  a’  the  rest. 

And  deal’t  about  as  thy  blind  skill 
Directs  thee  best. 


Stoss  in  ifre  ftnrn 

OR  THE  RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 

41  My  son,  these  maxims  make  a rule, 

And  lump  them  aye  thegither ; 

^ The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a fool, 

The  Rigid  Wise  anither  ; 

The  cleanest  corn  that  e’er  was  dight 
Mav  hae  some  pyles  o’  caff  in ; 

So  ne’er  a fellow-creature  slight 
For  random  fits  o’  daffin.” 

Solomon— Eccles.  vii,  16. 

Oh  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy. 

Ye’ve  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 
Your  neebour’s  fauts  and  folly  ! 
Whase  life  is  like  a weel-gaun  mill. 
Supplied  wi’  store  o’  water. 

The  heaped  hap^er’s  ebbing  still. 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  co^e. 

As  counsel  for  poor  metals. 

That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom’s  door 
For  glaiket  Folly’s  portals ; 

I,  for  their  thoughtless,  c \reless  sakes. 
Would  here  propoi  e d fences. 

Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes. 
Their  failings  and  mischance's. 


Ye  see  your  state  wi’  theirs  compar’d. 
And  shudder  at  the  niffer. 

But  cast  a moment' s fair  regard. 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ  ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave 
That  purity  ye  pride  in. 

And  (what’s  aft  mair  than  a’  the  lave) 
Your  better  art  o’  hiding. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 
Gies  now  and  then  a wallop, 

Wrhat  ragings  mustdiis  veins  convulse^ 
That  still  eternal  gallop : 

Wi’  wind  and  tide  fair  i’  your  tail. 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way  ; 

But  in  the  teeth  o’  baith  to  sail. 

It  maks  an  unco  lee-way. 

See  social  life  and  glee  sit  down. 

All  joyous  and  unthinking. 

Till,  quite  transmugrified,  they’re  growa 
Debaucher^and  drinking : 

Oh  would  they  stay  to  calculate 
Th’  eternal  consequences ; 

Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  states 
D-mnation  of  expenses ! 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dame*. 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces. 

Before  ye  gie  poor  frailty  names. 

Suppose  a change  o’  cases ; 

A dear  lov’d  lad,  convenience  snu^ 

A treacherous  inclination — 

But,  let  me  whisper  i’  your  lug. 

Ye’re  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  maik. 

Still  gentler  sister  woman ; 

Though  they  may  gang  a kennin’  % 
To  step  aside  is  human : 

One  point  must  still  be  greatly  du\ 

The  moving  why  they  do  it : 

And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  ma.k. 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  ’tis  lie  dons 
Decidedly  can  try  us. 

He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tosv 
Each  spring — its  various  bias : 

Then  at  the  balance  let’s  be  mute. 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 

What’s  done  we  partly  may  compute 
But  know  not  what’s  resisted. 


Cara  larasnu’5  filrp. 

44  An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of  God.* 
Pope. 

Has  anld  Kilmarnock  seen  the  deil  ? 

Or  great  M'Kinlay  (100)  thrawn  his  heel? 
Q?  Robertson  (101)  again  grown  wed. 

To  preach  and  read? 


DESPONDENCY. 


131 


* Na,  wa  ir  than  a’ ! ” cries  ilka  chiel — 
Tam  Samson’s  dead  ! 
Kilmarnock  lang  may  grunt  and  grane. 
And  sigh,  and  sob,  and  greet  her  lane, 

And  deed  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  and  wean, 
In  mourning  weed ; 

To  death,  she’s  dearly  paid  the  kane — - 
Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

The  brethren  o’  the  mystic  level 
M ay  hing  their  head  in  woefu’  bevel, 

‘While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel, 
Like  ony  head ; 

Death’s  gi’en  the  lodge  an  unco  devel — 
Tam  Samson’s  dead  l 
When  winter  muffles  up  his  cloak. 

And  binds  the  mire  like,  a rock ; 

W hen  to  the  lochs  the  curlers  flock 
Wi’  gleesome  speed, 

Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock  ? — • 

Tam  Samson’s  dead  ? 

He  was  the  king  o’  a’  the  core, 

To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a bore. 

Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  roar 
In  time  o’  need ; 

But  now  he  lags  on  death’s  hog-score — 
Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Now  safe  the  stately  sawmont  sail. 

And  trouts  be-dropp’d  vvi’  crimson  hail, — 
And  eels  weel  kenn’d  for  souple  tail. 

And  geds  for  creed, 

Since  dark  in  death’s  tish-creel  we  wail 
Tam  Samson  dead ! 

Rejoice,  ye  birring  paitricks  a’ ; 

Ye  cootie  moorcocks,  crousely  craw; 

Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fud  fu’  braw, 
Withouten  dread; 

Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa’ — 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

That  woefu  mourn  be  ever  mourn’d 
Saw  him  in  shootin’  graith  adorn’d. 

While  pointers  round  impatient  burn’d, 
Frae  couples  freed; 

But,  och ! he  gaed  and  ne’er  return’d ! — 
Tam  Samson’s  dead  1 
In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters; 

In  vain  the  gout  his  ancles  fetters ; 

In  vain  the  burns  cam’  down  like  waters. 
An  acre  braid ! 

Now  ev’ry  auld  wife,  greetin’,  clatters, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Owre  many  a weary  bag  he  limpit. 

And  aye  the  tither  shot  he  tliumpit. 

Till  coward  death  behind  him  jumpit, 

Wi*  deadly  feide ; 

Now  he  proclaims,  wi’  tout  o’  trumpet, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Wrhen  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger, 

He  reel’d  his  wonted  bottle-swagger. 


1 But  yet  he  drew  tie  mortal  trigger 
Wi’  weel- aim  d heed; 

"L — d,  five*”  he  cried,  and  owre  did 
stagger — 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Ilk  hoary  hunter  mourn’d  a brither ; 

Ilk  sportsman  youth  bemoan’d  a father; 

You  auld  grey  stane,  amang  the  heather, 
Marks  out  his  head, 

Wliare  Burns  lias  wrote,  in  rhyming  blether 
Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

There  now  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest ; 

Perhaps  upon  his  mould’ring  breast 
Some  spitefu’  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest. 

To  hatch  and  breed ; 

Alas  ! nae  mair  he’ll  them  molest  !— 

- Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

When  August  winds  the  heather  wave. 

And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave. 

Three  volleys  let  his  mem’ry  crave 
O’  pouther  and  lead. 

Till  echoe  answer  frae  her  cave, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Heav’n  rest  his  saul,  whare’er  he  be ! 

Is  th’  wish  o’  mony  mae  than  me ; 

He  had  twa  fauts,  or  maybe  three. 

Yet  what  remead  ? 

Ae  social,  honest  man  want  we : 

Tam  Samson’s  dead! 

EPITAPH. 

Tam  Samson’s  weel  worn  clay  here  liea^ 

Ye  canting  zealots  spare  him  ! 

If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 

Ye’ll  mend  or  ye  win  near  him. 

PER  CONTRA. 

Jo,  Fame,  and  canter  like  a filly 

Thro’  e the  streets  and  neuks  o’  Killie  (102\ 

Tell  ev’ry  social,  honest  billy 

To  cease  his  grievin’. 

For  yet,  unskaith’d  by  death’s  gleg  gulli*, 
Tam  Samson’s  livin’  (103)  ! 


Djspniranj. 

AN  ODE. 

Oppress’d  with  grief,  oppress’d  with  caw% 
A burden  more  than  I can  bear, 

I set  me  down  and  sigh ; 

Oh  life ! thou  art  a galling  load. 

Along  a rough,  a weary  road. 

To  wretches  such  as  I ! 

Dim-backward  as  I cast  my  view, 

What  sick’ning  scenes  appear  ! 

WThat  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  thro?. 

Too  justly  I may  tear  l 


13 


132 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Still  caring,  despairing. 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom; 

My  woes  here  shall  close  ne’er 
But  with  the  closing  tomb  1 
Happy,  ye  sons  of  busy  life. 

Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife. 

No  other  view  regard  ! 

Ev’n  when  the  wished  end’s  denied. 

Yet  wdhle  the  busy  means  are  plied. 

They  bring  their  own  reward : 

Whilst  I,  a hope-abandon’d  wight* 

Unfitted  with  an  aim. 

Meet  ev’ry  sad  returning  night 
And  joyless  morn  the  same; 

You,  bustling,  a^d  justling, 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain; 

I listless,  yet  restless. 

Find  every  prospect  vain. 

How  blest  the  solitary’s  lot, 

Who,  all-forgetting,  all-forgot. 

Within  his  humble  cell, 

The  cavern  wild  with  tangling  rootl^ 

Sits  o’er  his  newly-gather’d  fruits. 

Beside  his  crystal  well ! 

Or  haply  to  his  ev’ning  thought. 

By  unfrequented  stream, 

The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought, 

A faint  collected  dream ; 

While  praising  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  heav’n  on  high. 

As  wand’ring,  meand’ring. 

He  views  the  solemn  sky. 

Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  plac’d 
Where  never  human  footstep  trac’d. 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part ; 

The  lucky  moment  to  improve. 

And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move, 

With  self-respecting  art : 

But,  ah ! those  pleasures,  loves,  and  joys. 
Which  I too  keenly  taste. 

The  solitary  can  despise. 

Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest ! 

He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not, 

Or  human  love  or  hate. 

Whilst  I here,  must  cry  here 
At  perfidy  ingrate  1 
Oh!  enviable,  early  days. 

When  dancing  thoughtless  pleasure’s  maze. 
To  care,  to  guilt  unknown ! 

How  ill  exchang’d  for  riper  times. 

To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes. 

Of  others  or  my  own  ! 

Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  spor^ 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush, 

Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court. 

When  manhood  is  your  wish! 

I he  losses,  the  crosses. 

That  active  man  engage ! 

^he  fears  all.  the  tears  all. 

Of  dint  jjedming  age  l 


®1)E  Cnitrr’s  Mttrhtj  Jligijt. 

INSCRIBED  TO  ROBERT  AIKIN,  ESQ.  ao# 

“ Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a disdainful  smile. 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor.” 
(105)— Gray. 

My  loved,  my  honour’d,  much  respected 
friend. 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  : 
With  honest  pride  I scorn  each  selfish 
end : [praise : 

My  dearest  meed,  a friend’s  esteem  and 
To  you  I sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 

The  lowly  train  in  life’s  sequester’d 
scene ; [ways ; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless 
What  Aitken  in  a cottage  would  have 
been ; [there,  I w een. 

Ah ! tho’  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier 
November  chill  blawrs  loud  wi’  angry 
sough ; [close ; 

The  short’ning  winter- day  is  near  a 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the 
pleugh ; [repose : 

The  black’ning  trains  o’  craws  to  their 
The  toil-w  orn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes. 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end. 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his 
hoes,  [spend, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to 

And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does 
hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

Th’  expectant  wee  things  toddlin,  stacher 
thro’  [and  glee. 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi’  flichterin’  nois® 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin’  bonnily. 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie 
wifie’s  smile. 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 
Does  a’  his  weary  kiaugh  and  care 
beguile,  [his  toil. 

And  make,}  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and 
Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in. 
At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun’, 
Some  ca’  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some 
tentie  rin 

A cannie  errand  to  a neibor  town ; 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman 
grown,  [e’e. 

In  youthfu’  bloom,  love  sparklin’  in  her 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a bra’  new 
gown. 

Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny  fee, 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hard* 
ship  be. 


THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


134 


With  joy  unfeign’d  brothers  and  sisters 
meet,  [spiers : 

And  each  for  other’s  weelfare  kindly 
The  social  hours,  swift-wing’d,  unnotic’d 
fleet ; [hears ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful 
years ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  a*  d her  shears. 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weeks 
the  new ; 

The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due. 

Their  master’s  and  their  mistress’s  com- 
mand. 

The  younkers  a’  are  warned  to  obey ; 
And  mind  their  labours  wi’  an  eydent 
hand,  [play ; 

And  ne’er,  tho’  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or 
"And  oh  ! be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 
And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and 
night ! 

Lest  in  temptation’s  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting 
might : Lord  aright ! ” 

They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the 

But,  hark!  a rap  comes  gently  to  the 
door,  [same, 

Jenny  wha  kens  the  meaning  o’  the 
Tells  how  a neibor  lad  cam  o’er  the  moor. 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her 
hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny’s  e’e,  and  flush  her 
cheek,  [name, 

Wi’  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires  his 
While  Jenny  hafllins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 
eel  pleas’d  the  mother  hears  it’s  nae  wild 
worthless  rake. 

Wi’  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him 
ben ; [e’e ; 

A strappin  youth ; he  taks  the  mether’s 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit’s  no  ill  ta’en ; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs, 
and  kye.  [joy. 

The  youngster’s  artless  heart  o’erflows  wi’ 
But  blate  and  lathefu’,  scarce  can  weel 
behave ; [spy 

The  mother,  wi’  a woman’s  wiles,  can 
W hat  makes  the  youth  sae  baslifu’  an’ 
sae  grave ; 

Weel  pleas’d  to  think  her  bairn’s  respected 
like  the  lave. 

Oh  happy  love !— where  love  like  this  is 

found ! [compare ! 

Oh  heart -felt  raptures;  bliss  beyond 


I’ve  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 
And  sage  experience  oids  me  this  de- 
clare— [spare, 

" If  Heaven  a draught  of  heavenly  pleasure 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale,- 
*Tis  when  a youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other’s  arms  breathe  out  the  tender 
tale,  [the  ev’ning  gale.’* 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scent* 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a heart, 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost  to  love  and 
truth ! — 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art 
Betray  sweet  Jenny’s  unsuspecting 
youth  ? [smooth  I 

Curse  on  his  perjur’d  arts ! dissembling 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience, all  exil’d? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth. 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o’er  their 
child  ? [traction  wild  ? 

Then  paints  the  ruin’d  maid,  and  their  dis- 
But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple 
board,  [food ; 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  of  Scotia’* 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford. 
That  ’yont  the  liallan  snugly  chows  her 
cood : [mood* 

The  dame  brings  forth,  in  compliinental 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain’d  keb- 
luck,  fell. 

And  aft  he’s  prest,  and  aft  he  ca’s  it  guid; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell. 
How  ’twas  a towmond  auld,  sin’  lint  was 
i’  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu’  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face. 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o’er,  with  patriarchal  grace. 
The  big  ha’-bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride; 
His  bonnet  rev’rently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 
glide. 

He  wales  a portion  with  judicious  care ; 
And  “Let  us  worship  God  ! ” he  says,  with 
solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple 
guise ; [aim : 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 
Perhaps  Dundee’s  wild-warbling  measures 
rise,  [name. 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the 
Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heaven-ward 
flame. 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia’s  holy  lays  .* 
Compar’d  with  these,  Italian  trills  are 
tame ; [raise'; 

The  tickl’d  ear  ro  heart-felt  rapture# 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator* 
praise. 


.134 


BURNS  3 POETICAL  W0EK3. 


The  prie3t  If Ve  father  reads  the  sacred 
page-  - [high ; 

IIow  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny  ; 

©r  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven’s  avenging 
ire ; 

Or  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah’s  wild,  seraphic  tire ; 

FY  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the 
theme—  (shed ; 

IIow  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second 
name,  [head : 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped, 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a 
land : 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished. 
Saw  in  the  sun  a mighty  angel  stand ; 

Ind  heard  great  Bab’lon’s  doom  pronounced 
by  Heaven’s  command. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven’s  eter- 
nal King,  [prays : 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband 
Hope  “ springs  exulting  on  triumphant 
wing,”  (106)  [days : 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 
Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise. 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 

IChile  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eter- 
nal sphere. 

Compar’d  with  this,  how  poor  Religion’s 
pride. 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
"When  men  display  to  congregations  wide. 
Devotion’s  ev’ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  pow’r,  incens’d,  the  pageant  will  de- 
sert. 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 
But,  haply,  iu  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleas’d,  the  language  of 
the  soul ; [enrol. 

And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev’ral 
way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest: 
The  parent -pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 
And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  re- 
quest, [nest. 

That  He,  who  stills  the  raven’s  clam’rous 
And  decks  tl  e lily  fair  in  flow’ry  pride. 
Would,  in  the  we; y his  wisdom  sees  the 
beat* 


For  them  and  for  their  tittle  ones  provides 
But,  chiefly,  in  then  hearts. with  grace  divina 
preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia’s  gran- 
deur springs,  [abroad : 

That  makes  her  lov’d  at  home,  rever’d 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of 
kings,  [God  i 19 

“ An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of 

And  certes,  in  fair  virtue’s  heav’nly  road. 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind ; 

What  is  a lordlmg’s  pomp  ? — a cumbrous 
load,  [kind 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin’d! 

Oh  Scotia ! my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven 
is  sent ! 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil. 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and 
sweet  content  l [prevent 

And  oh!  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives 
From  luxury’s  contagion,  weak  and  vile  1 

Then,  howe’er  crowns  and  coronets  be 
rent, 

A virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a wall  of  fire  around  their  much- 
lov’d  isle. 

Oh  Thou ! who  pour’d  the  patriotic  tide 
That  stream’d  through  Wallace’s  un- 
daunted heart. 

Who  dar’d  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die  the  second  glorious  part, 

(The  patriot’s  God,  peculiarly  thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  re- 
ward !) 

Oh  never,  never,  Scotia’s  realm  desert ; 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot 
bard,  [guard ! 

In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and 


®n  a JHmrataia  Daisq. 

IN  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH  THB 
PLOUGH  IN  APRIL,  1786.  (107) 
Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow’r, 
Thou’s  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 

For  I maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 
Thy  slender  stem : 

To  spare  thee  now  i3  past  my  pow’r. 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas ! it’s  no  thy  neibor  sweet. 

The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  ’mang  the  deivy  weet  I 
Wi’  speckl’d  breast, 

When  up-ward- spri  aging,  blythe,  to  greeS 
The  purpling  east. 


EPISTLE  TO  A YOUNG  FRIEND. 


153 


Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 
Amid  the  storm. 

Scarce  rear’d  above  the  parent  earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield. 
High  shelt’ring  woods  and  wa’s  maun  shield  : 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O’  clod  or  stane. 

Adorn  the  histie  stibble-field. 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread. 

Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head. 

In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed 
And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 

Sweet  flow’ret  of  the  rural  shade! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betray’d. 

And  guileless  trust, 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil’d,  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 

Oh  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  starr’d! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 
Of  prudent  lore. 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o’er  ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv’n. 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv’n. 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv’n 
To  mis’ry’s  brink, 

Till  wrench’d  of  ev’ry  stay  but  Heav’n, 

He,  ruin’d,  sink ! 

Ev’n  thou  who  mourn’st  the  Daisy’s  fate. 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date ; 

Stern  Ruin’s  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 

Till  crush’d  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight. 
Shall  be  thy  doom. 


In  a f%ung  /rirai 

may,  1796.  (108) 

I LANG  hae  thought,  my  youthfu’  friend, 
A something  to  have  sent  you. 
Though  it  should  serve  nae  other  end 
Thau  just  a kind  momento ; 

But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang. 
Let  time  and  chance  determine ; 
'Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a sang, 

Pbrhaps  turn  out  a sermon. 


Ye’ll  try  the  world  fu*  soon,  my  lad, 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me. 

Ye  ll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad. 

And  muckle  they  may  grie\e  ye: 

For  care  and  trouble  set  vour  thought, 
Ev  n when  your  ends  attained; 

And  a’  your  views  may  come  to  nought^ 
Where  ev’ry  nerve  is  strained. 

I’ll  no  say  men  are  villains  a’ : 

The  real,  harden’d  wicked, 

Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law. 
Are  to  a few  restricked 
But,  och ! mankind  are  unco  weak. 

And  little  to  be  trusted ; 

If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake. 

It’s  rarely  right  adjusted! 

Yet  they  wha  fa’  in  fortune  s strife. 
Their  fate  we  should  na  censure, 

For  still  th’  important  end  of  life. 

They  equally  may  answer ; 

A man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 

Tho’  poortith  hourly  stare  him ; 

A man  may  tak  a neibor’s  part. 

Yet  liae  no  cash  to  spare  him. 

Aye  free,  aff  han,  your  story  tell. 

When  wi’  a bosom  crony ; 

But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel 
Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 

Conceal  yoursel  as  weel’s  ye  can 
Frae  critical  dissection ; 

But  keek  through  ev’ry  other  man, 

Wi’  sharpen’d,  sly  inspection. 

The  sacred  lowe  o’  weel-plac’d  love. 
Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 

But  never  tempt  th’  illicit  rove, 

Tho’  naething  should  divulge  iti 
I waive  the  quantum  o’  the  sin. 

The  hazard  of  concealing ; 

But,  och ! it  hardens  a’  within. 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  ! 

To  catch  dame  Fortune’s  golden  t&siku 
Assiduous  wait  upon  her ; 

And  gather  gear  by  ev’ry  wile 
That’s  justified  by  honour; 

Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a hedge. 

Nor  for  a train-attendant. 

But  for  the  glorious  privilege 
Of  being  independent. 

The  fear  o’  hell’s  a hangman’s  whip 
To  haud  the  wretch  in  order ; 

But  where  ye  feel  your  honour  grip. 

Let  that  aye  be  your  border  : 

Its  slightest  touches,  instaut  pau»~* 
Debar  a’  side  pretences ; 

And  resolutely  keeps  its  laws* 

Uncaring  consequences. 

13* 


136 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  great  Creator  to  revere 
Must  sure  become  the  creature. 

But  still  the  preaching  can  forbear. 

And  e’en  the  rigid  feature : 

Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range. 

Be  complaisance  extended  ; 

An  Atheist  laugh’s  a poor  exchange 
For  Deity  offended ! 

When  ranting  round  in  pleasure’s  riag, 
Religion  may  be  blinded ; 

Or  if  she  gie  a random  sting. 

It  may  be  little  minded ; 

But  when  on  life  we’re  tempest  driv*n, 

A conscience  but  a canker, 

A correspondence  fix’d  wi’  Heav’n 
Is  sure  a noble  anchor ! 

Adieu ! dear,  amiable  youth 
Your  heart  can  ne’er  be  wanting ! 

May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth 
Erect  your  brow  uudaunting  ! 

In  ploughman  phrase,  “God  send  you 
speed,” 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser : 

And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede 
Than  ever  did  th’  adviser ! 


1 Driiratiira  in  fanin  Santilimr,  fsij. 

(109) 

Expect  na,  sir,  in  this  narration, 

A fleeching,  fleth’rin  dedication, 

To  roose  you  up,  and  ca’  you  guid. 

And  sprung  o’  great  and  noble  bluid, 
Because  ye’re  surnam’d  like  his  grace ; 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race  ; 

Then  when  I’m  tir’d,  and  sae  are  ye, 

Wi’  mony  a fulsome,  sinfu’  lie, 

Set  up  a face,  how  I stop  short. 

For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 

This  may  do — maun  do,  sir,  wi’  them  wha 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a wamefou ; 
For  me  ! — sae  laigh  I needna  bow. 

For,  lord  be  thankit,  1 can  plough ; 

And  when  I downa  yoke  a naig, 

Then,  Lord  be  thankit,  1 can  beg  ; 

Sae  I shall  say,  and  that’s  nae  flatt’rin*. 

It’s  just  sic  poet,  and  sic  patron. 

The  Poet,  some  guid  angel  help  him, 

Or  else,  L fear  some  ill  ane  skelp  him. 

He  may  do  weel  for  a’  he’s  done  yet. 

But  only  he’s  no  just  begun  yet. 

The  Patron  (sir,  ye  maun  forgive  me, 

I winna  lie,  come  what  will  o’  me). 

On  ev’ry  hand  it  will  ahowed  be, 

He’»  just— nae  better  than  he  should  be. 


| I readily  and  freely  grant, 

He  downa  see  a poor  man  want ; 

What’s  no  his  aim  he  winna  fak  it, 

Wbat  ance  he  says  he  winna  break  ft ; 
Ought  he  can  lend  he’ll  no  refus’t 
Till  aft  his  goodness  is  abus’d; 

And  rascals  whyles  that  do  him  wiang, 

Ev’n  that,  ho  does  na  mind  it  lang  : 

As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father. 

He  does  na  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  then,  nae  thanks  to  him  for  a’  that ; 
Nae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca’  that; 

It’s  naething  but  a milder  feature. 

Of  our  poor  sinfu’,  corrupt  nature : 

Ye’ll  get  the  best  o’  moral  works, 

’Mang  black  Gentoos  and  pagau  Turks, 

Or  hunter’s  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 

Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 

That  he’s  the  poor  man’s  friend  in  need. 

The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed,  / 

It’s  no  thro’  terror  of  d-mu-tion ; 

It’s  just  a carnal  inclination. 

Morality,  thou  deadly  bane,  * 

Thy  tens  o’  thousands  thou  hast  slain ! 

Vain  is  his  hope,  whose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice  1 

No — stretch  a point  to  catch  a plack ; 

Abuse  a brother  to  his  back ; 

Seal  thro’  a winnock  frae  a wh-re. 

But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door  ; 

Be  to  the  poor  like  ony  whunstane. 

And  haud  their  noses  to  the  grunstane* 

Ply  ev’ry  art  o’  legal  thieving ! 

No  matter — stick  to  sound  believing! 

Learn  three-mile  pray’rs,  and  half-mile 
graces, 

WY  weel-spread  looves,  and  lang  wry  faces ; 
Grunt  up  a solemn,  lengthen’d  groan. 

And  damu  a’  parties  but  your  own ; 

I’ll  warrant  then,  ye’re  nae  deceiver, 

A steady,  sturdy,  staunch  believer. 

Oh  ye  wha  leaves  the  springs  o’  Calvin, 

For  gumlie  dubs  of  your  am  delvin’  1 
Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error. 

Ye’ll  some  day  squeel  in  quaking  terror 
When  Vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath. 
And  in  the  lire  throws  the  sheath ; 

When  Ruin,  with  his  sweeping  besom. 

Just  frets,  till  heav’n  commission  giei 
him  : 

While  o’er  the  harp  pale  Mis’ry  moan9. 

And  strikes  the  ever-deep’ning  tones. 

Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans  1 

Your  pardon.  Sir,  for  this  digression, 

1 maist  forgat  my  dedication ; 

But  when  divinity  comes  cross  me. 

My  readers  still  are  sure  to  loss  luo. 


A DREAM. 


m 


Sc,  Sir,  ye  see  ”twas  me  daft  vapour. 

But  I maturely  thought  it  proper. 

When  a’  my  woaks  I did  review. 

To  dedicate  them.  Sir,  to  you  : 

Because  (ye  need  na  tak  it  ill) 

I thought  them  something  lik  yoursel. 

Then  patronise  them  wi’  your  favour. 

And  your  petitioner  shall  ever 

I had  amaist  said,  ever  pray. 

But  that’s  a word  I need  na  say : 

For  prayin’  I hae  little  skill  o’t ; 

I’m  baith  dead  sweer,  and  wretched  ill  o't ; 
But  I’se  repeat  each  poor  man’s  pray’r. 
That  kens  or  hears  about  you.  Sir — 

“ May  ne’er  misfortune’s  growling  bark, 
Howl  thro’  the  dwelling  o’  the  clerk  ! 

May  ne’er  his  gen’rous,  honest  heart. 

For  that  same  gen’rous  spirit  smart ! 

May  Kennedy’s  far-honour’d  name 
Lang  beet  his  hymeneal  flame. 

Till  Ilamiltons,  at  least  a dizen. 

Are  by  their  canty  fireside  risen : 

Five  bonnie  lasses  round  their  table, 

And  seven  braw  fellows,  stout  and  able 
To  serve  their  king  and  country  weel. 

By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel ! 

May  health  and  peace,  with  mutual  rays. 
Shine  on  the  ev’ning  o’  his  days. 

Till  his  wee  curlie  J ohn’s  ier-oe, 

When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow. 

The  last,  sad,  mournful  rites  bestow.” 

I will  not  wind  a lang  conclusion. 

With  complimentary  effusion : 

But  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavours 
Are  blest  with  fortune’s  smiles  and  favours, 
I am,  dear  Sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 

Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  if  (which  pow’rs  above  prevent) 

That  iron- hearted  carl.  Want, 

Attended  in  his  grim  advances. 

By  sad  mistakes  and  black  mischances. 
While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fly 
him, 

Make  you  as  poor  a dog  as  I am. 

Your  humble  servant  then  no  more; 

For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor! 
But,  by  a poor  man’s  hopes  in  Heav’u  l 
While  recollection’s  power  is  giv’n. 

If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life. 

The  victim  sad  of  fortune’s  strife, 

I,  thro’  the  tender  gushing  tear, 

Should  recognise  my  master  dear. 

If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together, 

Then  Sir,  your  hand — my  friend  and  bro- 

ua. 


I In™. 

‘‘Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  the  statute 
blames  with  reason  : [treason.”  (110) 

But  surely  dreams  were  ne’er  indicted 

Guid-mornin’  to  your  Majesty  ! 

May  Heaven  augment  your  blisses 
On  ev’ry  new  birth- day  ye  see, 

A humble  poet  wishes  ! 

My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee; 

On  sic  a day  as  this  is, 
la  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 

Amang  thae  birth-day  dresse* 

Sae  line  this  day. 

I see  ye’re  complimented  throng. 

By  many  a lord  and  lady ; 

“ God  save  the  king ! ” ’s  a cuckoo  sang 
That’s  unco  easy  said  aye  ; 

The  poets,  too,  a venal  gang, 

Wi’  rhymes  weel-turn’d  and  ready. 

Wad  gar  you  trow  ye  ne’er  do  wrong; 

But  aye  unerring  steady. 

On  sic  a day. 

For  me ! before  a monarch’s  face, 

Ev’n  there  I winna  flatter ; 

For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  places 
Am  I your  humble  debtor  : 

So,  nae  reflection  on  your  grace. 

Your  kingship  to  bespatter  ; 

There’s  mony  waur  been  o’  the  rac#. 

And  aiblms  ane  been  better 

Than  you  this  day. 

’Tis  very  true,  my  sov’reign  king, 

My  skill  may  weel  be  doubted 
But  facts  are  duels  that  winna  ding; 

And  downa  be  disputed : 

Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing. 

Is  e’en  right  reft  and  clouted. 

And  now  the  third  part  of  the  string; 

And  less,  will  gang  about  it 
Than  did  ae  day. 

Far  be’t  frae  me  that  I aspire 
To  blame  your  legislation, 

Or  say,  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire. 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation ! 

But  faith ! I muckle  doubt,  my  sire; 

Ye’ve  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps,  wha,  in  a barn  or  byre. 

Wad  better  fill’d  their  station 

Than  courts  yon  day! 

And  now  ye’ve  gien  auld  Britain  peace| 
Her  broken  shins  to  plaister ; 

Your  sair  taxation  does  her  fleece. 

Till  she  has  scarce  a tester; 

For  me,  thank  God,  my  life’s  a lease; 

Nae  bargain  wearing  faster, 

Or,  faith ! I fear,  that,  wi’  the  geese; 

I shortly  boost  to  pasture 

I’  the  craft  some  day. 


m 


BUKNS’S  POETICAL  WOEK3. 


I*m  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

When  taxes  he  enlarges, 

(And  Will’s  a true  guid  fallow’s  get  (111) 
A name  not  envy  spairges). 

That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt, 

Ai  d lessen  a’  your  charges ; 

But.  G-d-sake ! let  nae  saving-fit 
Abridge  yourbonnie  barges  (112) 

And  boats  this  day. 

Adieu,  my  liege  ! may  freedom  geek 
Beneath  your  high  protection  ; 

And  may  ye  rax  corruption’s  neck, 

And  gie  her  for  dissection ! 

But  since  I’m  here.  I’ll  no  neglect. 

In  loyat,  true  affection, 

To  pay  your  Uueen,  with  due  respect. 

My  fealty  and  subjection 

This  great  birth-day. 

Hail,  Majesty  Most  Excellent! 

WTiile  nobles  strive  to  please  ye. 

Will  ye  accept  a compliment 
A simple  poet  gies  you  ? 

Thae  bonnie  bairntime,  Heav’n  has  lent. 
Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 
fn  bliss,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent. 

For  ever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day. 

For  you,  young  potentate  o'  Wales, 

I tell  your  Highness  fairly, 

Down  pleasure’s  stream,  wi’  swelling  sails, 
I:m  tauld  ye’re  driving  rarely ; 

But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails. 
And  curse  your  folly  sairly. 

That  e’er  ye  brak  Diana's  pales. 

Or  rattl’d  dice  wi’  Charlie  (113), 

By  night  or  day. 

iet  aft  a ragged  cowte's  been  known 
To  mak  a noble  aiver ; 

€o,  ye  may  doucely  fill  a throne. 

For  a’  their  clish-ma-claver : 

There,  him  at  Agincourt  wha  shone. 

Few  better  were  or  braver ; 

And  yet,  wi’  funny,  queer  Sir  John, 

He  was  an  unco  shaver 

For  monie  a day  (114.) 

For  you  right  rev’rend  Osnaburg  (115), 
INane  secs  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 
iltho’  a ribbon  at  your  lug, 

Wa  1 been  a dress  completer : 

As  ye  disown  yon  pauglitv  dog 
That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 

Tnen,  swith  ! and  get  awife  to  hug. 

Or,  trouth!  y i’ll  stain  the  mitre, 

Some  luckless  day. 

Toung,  "oyal  Tarry  Breeks  (116),  I learn. 
Ye’ve  lately  come  athrawt  her; 

4 glorious  galley  \ 117),  stem  and  stern, 
Weel  rigg’d  for  Venus’  barter; 


j But  first  hang  out,  that  she *11  disc^a 
I Your  hymeneal  chartei, 

Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple  aim, 
And,  large  upon  her  quarter, 

Come  full  that  day. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonnie  blossoms  a’. 

Ye  royal  lasses  dainty, 

Heav’n  mak  ye  guid  as  well  as  braw. 
And  gie  you  lads  a-plenty  : 

But  sneer  na  British  boys  awa’. 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  eye ; 

And  German  gentles  are  but  sma’, 
They’re  better  just  than  want  ay# 
On  onie  day. 

God  bless  you  a’ ! consider  now. 

Ye’re  unco  muckle  dautet ; 

But  ere  the  course  o’  life  be  thro*. 

It  may  be  bitter  sautet : 

And  I hae  seen  their  coggie  fou. 

That  yet  hae  tarrow’t  at  it ; 

But  or  the  day  was  done,  I trow. 

The  luggen  they  hae  clautet 

Fu’  clean  that  day. 


a Sari’s  €pitapjj. 

Is  there  a whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre-blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool. 
Let  him  draw  near  ; 

And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool. 

And  drap  a tear. 

Is  there  a bard  of  rustic  song. 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among. 
That  weekly  this  area  throng. 

Oh,  pass  not  by  ! 

But,  with  a frater-feeling  strong, 

Here,  heave  a sigh. 

Is  there  a man,  whose  judgment  clear. 

Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer. 

Yet  runs,  himself,  life’s  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  w7ave ; 

Here  pause — and,  through  the  starting  te&2| 
Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below. 

Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wdse  to  know; 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow. 

And  softer  flame ; 

But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low. 

And  stain’d  his  name! 
Deader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soar’s  fancy’s  flights  beyond  the  pole. 

Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  pursuit ; 

Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-  control 
Is  wisdom’s  root. 


TIIE  TWA  DOGS. 


®ljt  Sma  lags, 

A TALE.  (118) 

WAS  in  that  place  o’  Scotland’s  isle 
That  bears  the  name  o’  Auld  King  Coil  (119), 
Upon  a bonnie  day  in  June, 

When  wearing  through  the  afternoon, 

Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame. 
Forgather’d  ance  upon  a time. 

The  first  I’ll  name,  they  ca’d  him  Caesar, 
Was  keepit  for  his  honour’s  pleasure  ; 

His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 
Show’d  he  was  nane  o’  Scotland’s  dogs ; 

But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 

Whare  sailor’s  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

His  locked,  letter’d,  braw  brass  collar 
Show’d  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar ; 

But  though  he  was  o’  high  degree. 

The  fient  a pride — nae  pride  had  he ; 

But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressing 
E’en  wi’  a tinkler-gipsy’s  messin’. 

At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 

Nae  tawted  tyke,  though  ere  sae  duddie. 

But  he  wad  stan’t,  as  glad  to  see  him, 

And  stroan’t  on  stanes  and  hillocks  wi’  him. 
The  tither  was  a ploughman’s  collie, 

A rhyming,  ranting,  raving  billie, 

Wha  for  his  friend  and  comrade  had  him, 
And  in  his  freaks  had  I math  ca’d  him. 

After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang  (120), 
Was  made  lang  syne — Lord  knows  how  lang. 
He  was  a gash  and  faithful  tyke. 

As  ever  lap  or  sheugh  or  dyke. 

His  honest,  sonsie,  baws’nt  face. 

Aye  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 

His  breast  was  white,  his  touzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi’  coat  o’  glossy  black; 

His  gaucie  tale,  wi’  upward  curl, 

Hung  o’er  his  hurdies  wi’  a swirl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o’  ither, 

A nd  unco  pack  and  thick  thegither  : 

Wi’  social  nose  whyles  snuff’d  and  snowkit. 
Whyles  mice  and  moudieworts  they  howkifc ; 
Whyles  scour’d  awa  in  lang  excursion, 

And  worried  ither  in  diversion ; 

Until  wi’  datfin’  weary  grown, 

Upon  a knowe  they  sat  them  down. 

And  there  began  a lang  digression 
About  the  lords  o’  the  creation. 

CASSAR. 

JVe  aften  wonder’d,  honest  Luath, 

What  sort  o'  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have ; 
And  when  the  gentry’s  life  I saw. 

What  way  poor  bodies  liv’d  ava. 

Our  laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents, 

His  coals,  liia  kain,  and  a’  his  stents; 


1Z* 

He  rises  when  he  likes  him  Eel ; 

His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 

He  ca’s  his  coach,  he  ca’s  his  horse  | 

He  draws  a bonnie  silken  purse 

As  lang’s  my  tail,  whare,  through  the  stteft^ 

The  vellow  letter'd  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e’en  its  nought  but  toiling, 

At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling  ; 

And  though  the  gentry  first  are  stechin. 

Yet  e’en  the  ha’  folk  fill  their  pechan 
Wi*  sauce,  ragouts,  and  sic  like  trashtrie: 
That’s  little  short  o’  downright  wastrie. 

Our  whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner. 

Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a dinner. 

Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  hanour  has  in  a’  the  lan’ ; 

And  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  pamch  ia» 

I own  its  past  my  comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth,  Csesar,  whyles  they’re  fash’t  enough; 
A cotter  howkin’  in  a sheugh, 

Wi’  dirty  staues  biggin’  a dyke. 

Baring  a quarry,  and  sic  like  ; 

Himself,  a wife,  he  thus  sustains, 

A smytrie  o’  wee  duddie  weans, 

And  nought  but  his  hau’  dark,  to  keep 
Them  right  and  tight  in  thack  and  rape. 

And  when  they  meet  wi’  sair  disasters. 

Like  loss  o’ health,  or  want  o’  masters. 

Ye  maist  wad  think,  a wee  touch  langer. 
And  they  maun  starve  o’  cauld  or  hunge*; 
But,  how  it  comes,  I never  kenn’d  yet, 
Theyre’  maistly  wonderfu’  contented : 

And  buirdly  chiels,  and  clever  hizzies. 

Are  bred  in  sic  a way  as  this  is. 

€JE  SAR. 

But  then  to  see  how  ye’re  neglecit. 

How  huff’d,  and  cuff’d,  and  disrespeckit  1 
L — d,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
For  del  vers,  ditchers,  and  sic  cattle, 

They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  folk. 

As  I wad  by  a stinkin’  brock. 

I’ve  notic’d,  on  our  Laird’s  court-day. 

And  mony  a time  my  heart’s  been  wa$, 
Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o’  cash. 

How  they  maun  thole  a factor’s  snash ; 
He’ll  stamp  and  threaten,  curse  and  swear. 
He’ll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear  ; 
While  they  maun  stan’,  wi’  aspect  humbly 
And  hear  it  a’,  and  fear  and  tremble  I 
I see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches ; 

But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches! 

LUATH. 

They’re  no  sae  wretched’s  ane  wad  think; 
Tho’  constantly  on  poortith’s  brink ; 
They’re  sae  accustom’d  wi’  the  sight. 

The  viiw  ot  gies  them  little  fright. 


no 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS 


Then  chance  and  fortune  are  sae  guided. 
They’re  aye  in  less  or  mair  provided ; 
And  th-o’  fatigu’d  wi’  close  employment, 
A blink  o’  rest’s  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o’  their  lives, 

Their  grushie  weans  and  faithfu’  wives ; 
The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 
That  sweetens  a’  their  tire-side ; 

And  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o’  nappy 
Can  make  the  bodies  unco  happy ; 

They  lay  aside  their  private  cares. 

To  mind  the  Kirk  and  State  atfairs : 
They’ll  talk  o’  patronage  and  priests, 

Wi’  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts. 

Or  tell  what  new  taxation’s  coming 
And  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon’ on. 

As  bleak-fac’d  Hallowmas  returns. 

They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns. 

When  rural  life,  o’  ev’ry  station. 

Unite  in  common  recreation  ; 

Love  blinks,  Wit  slaps,  and  social  Mirth 
Forgets  there’s  Care  upo’  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins. 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  win’s ; 

The  nappy  reeks  wi’  mantling  ream. 

And  sheds  a heart-inspiring  steam ; 

The  luntin  pipe,  and  sneeshin  mill. 

Are  handed  round  wi’  right  guid  will ; 
The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin’  crouse. 

The  young  anes  rantin’  thro’  the  house — 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them. 
That  I for  joy  hae  barkit  wit’  them. 

Still  it’s  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said. 

Sic  game  is  now  owe  aften  play’d. 
There’s  monie  a creditable  stock 
O’  decent,  honest,  fawsont  fo’k. 

Are  riven  out  baitfc  root  and  branch, 

Some  rascal’s  pridefu’  greed  to  quench, 
Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel  the  faster 
In  favour  wi’  some  gentle  master, 

Wha’  aiblins  thrang  a parliamentin’, 

Tor  Britain’s  guid  his  saul  indentin’ — — 

cmsAU. 

Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it ; 

For  Britain’s  guid  ! guid  faith,  I doubt  it. 
Say  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him. 
And  saying  ay  or  no’s  they  bid  him : 

At  operas  and  plays  parading. 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading: 

Or  may  be,  in  a frolic  daft. 

To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a waft. 

To  mak  a tour  and  tak  a whirl. 

To  learn  bun  ton , and  see  the  wort*. 
There'  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 

He  rives  his  father’s  atdd  entails; 

Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  route, 

Tj  thrum  guitars,  andfecht  wi’  nowte; 


Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 

W-re  hunting  at  lang  groves  o’  myrtle*  } 
Then  bouses  drumly  German  water. 

To  mak  himsel’  look  fair  and  fatter, 

And  clear  the  consequential  sorrows. 
Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 

For  Britain’s  guid  ! — for  her  destructiott! 
Wi’  dissipation,  feud,  and  faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech  man  ! dear  sirs!  is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a braw  estate  l 
Are  we  sae  foughten  and  harass’d 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last ! 

Oh  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts. 

And  please  themselves  wi’  countra  sports, 

It  wad  for  ev’ry  ane  be  better. 

The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  and  the  Cotter! 
For  thae  frank,  rantin’,  ramblin’  billies, 
Fient  haet  o’  them’s  ill-hearted  fellows ; 
Except  for  breakin’  o’  their  timmer. 

Or  speakin’  lightly  o’  their  limmer. 

Or  shootin’  o’  a hare  or  moor-cock. 

The  ne’er  a bit  they’re  ill  to  poor  folk. 

But  will  ye  tell  me,  Master  Caesar, 

Sure  great  folk’s  life’s  a life  o’  pleasure? 
Nae  cauld  or  hunger  e’er  can  steer  them. 
The  vera  thought  o’t  need  na  fear  them, 

CiESAR. 

L — d,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne’er  envy  ’em. 

It’s  true,  they  needna  starve  or  sweat. 

Thro’  winter’s  cauld,  or  simmer’s  heat ; 
They've  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes* 
And  fill  auld  age  wi’  grips  and  granes ; 

But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools. 

For  a’  their  colleges  and  schools. 

That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 

They  mak  enow  themselves  to  vex  them ; 
And  aye  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them. 

In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 

A country  fellow  at  the  pleugh. 

His  acre’s  till’d,  he’s  right  eneugh; 

A country  girl  at  her  w heel. 

Her  dizzen’s  done,  she’s  unco  weel: 

But  Gentlemen,  and  Ladies  warst, 

Wi’  ev’n  down  want  o’  wrark  are  curst; 

They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  and  lazy; 

Tho’  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy; 

Their  days  insipid,  dull,  and  tasteless; 

Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  and  restless ; 
And  e’en  their  sports,  their  balls  and  rarje% 
Their  gallopping  thro’  public  places. 
There's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  and  art. 

The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 

The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches. 

Then  sawther  a’  in  deep  debauches; 


LAMENT. 


Ul 


A«  night  they’re  mad  wi’  drink  and  wh-ring,  i 
Niest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  Ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters,  J 

As  great  and  gracious  a’  as  sisters  ; | 

But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o’  ither. 
They’re  a’  nm  deils  and  jads  thegither.  j 
Whyles,  o’er  the  wee  bit  cup  and  platie,  [ 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty ; 

Or  lee-iang  nights,  wi’  crabbit  leuks. 

Pore  owre  the  devil’s  pictur’d  beuks ; 

Stake  on  a chance  a farmer’s  stackyard. 

And  cheat  like  onie  unhang’d  blackguard. 
There’s  some  exception,  man  and  woman ; 
But  this  is  Gentry’s  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o’  sight 
And  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night : 

The  bum-clock  humm’d  wi’  lazy  drone; 

The  kye  stood  rowtin’  i’  the  loan ; 

When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs. 
Rejoic’d  they  were  na  men,  but  dogs ; 

And  each  took  off  his  several  way. 

Resolv’d  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


faraint, 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  UNFORTUNATE 
ISSUE  OF  A FRIEND’S  AMOUR.  (121) 

* Alas ! how  oft  does  goodness  wTound  itself ! 
And  sweet  affection  prove  the  spring  of  woe ! ” 

Home  I 

Oh  thou  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines. 

While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep  ! 

Thou  seest  a wretch  who  inly  pines. 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep! 
With  woe  I nightly  vigils  keep. 

Beneath  thy  wan,  un warming  beam; 

And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep. 

How  life  and  love  are  all  a dream. 

I joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 
The  faintly  marked  distant  hill: 

I joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn. 

Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill 
My  fondly-fluttering  heart,  be  still ! 

Thou  busy  pow’r,  remembrance,  cease ! 
Ah!  must  the  agonizing  thrill 
For  ever  bar  returning  'peace  ! 

No  idly-feign’d  poetic  pains, 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lamentings  claim ; 

No  shepherd’s  pipe — Arcadian  strains  ; 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame: 

The  plighted  faith;  the  mutual  flame; 

The  oft-attested  Pow’rs  above; 

The  promis’d  father’s  tender  name; 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love! 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms, 

How  liave  the  raptur  J moments  fl^WB 


How  have  I wish’d  for  fortune’s  charms, 
For  her  dear  sake,  and  her’s  alone! 

And  must  I think  it — is  sue  gone. 

My  secret  heart’s  exultiug  boast? 

And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan ? 

And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost  ? 

Oh ! can  she  bear  so  base  a heart. 

So  lost  to  honour,  lost  to  truth. 

As  from  the  fondest  lover  part. 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth ! 
Alas ! life’s  path  may  be  unsmooth ! 

Her  way  may  lie  thro’  rough  distress ! 
Then,  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will  soothe* 
Her  sorrows  share,  and  make  them  lesaf 

Ye  winged  hours  that  o’er  us  past. 
Enraptur’d  more,  the  more  enjoy’d. 

Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast, 

My  fondly  treasur’d  thoughts  employ’d. 
That  breast,  how  dreary  now,  and  void. 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room! 

Ev’n  ev’ry  ray  of  hope  destroy’d. 

And  not  a wish  to  guild  the  gloom ! 

The  morn  that  warns  th’  approaching  day, 
Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  woe : 

I see  the  hours  in  long  array. 

That  I must  suffer,  lingering,  slow. 

Full  many  a pang,  and  many  a throe. 

Keen  recollection’s  direful  train. 

Must  wring  my  soul,  ere  Phoebus,  low. 
Shall  kiss  the  distant,  western  main. 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I try, 
Sore-harass’d  out  with  care  and  grief. 

My  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-worn  eye, 

Keep  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief : 
Or  if  I slumber,  fancy,  chief. 

Reigns  haggard-wild,  in  sore  affright : 
Ev’n  day,  all-bitter,  brings  relief. 

From  sufch  a horror-breathing  night. 

Oh ! thou  bright  queen,  who,  o’er  th’  ex- 
pause, [sway! 

Now  highest  reign’st,  with  boundless 
Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 
Observ’d  us,  fondly-wand’ring,  stray  ! 

The  time,  unheeded,  sped  away. 

While  love’s  luxurious  pulse  beat  high. 
Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray, 

To  mark  the  mutual  kindling  eye. 

Oh  ! scenes  in  strong  remembrance  set ! 

Scenes  never,  never  to  return! 

Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I forget. 

Again  I feel,  again  I burn  I 
From  ev’ry  joy  and  pleasure  torn, 

Life’s  weary  vale  I’ll  wander  thro* ; 

And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I’ll  mourn 
A faithless  woman’s  broken  iow. 


142 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Sites  fn 

Edina  ! Scotia’s  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towr’rs. 

Where  once  beneath  a monarch’s  feet 
Sat  Legislation’s  sov’reign  pow’rs  ! 

From  marking  wildly-scatter’d  flow’rs. 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I stray’d. 

And  singing,  lone,  the  ling’ring  hours, 

I shelter  in  thy  honour’d  shade. 

Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide. 

As  busy  Trade  his  labour  plies ; 

There  Architecture’s  noble  pride 
Bids  elegance  and  splendour  rise ; 

Here  J ustice,  from  her  native  skies. 

High  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod; 
There  learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes. 

Seeks  Science  in  her  coy  abode. 

Thy  sons,  Edina ! social,  kind. 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ; 

Their  views  enlarg’d,  their  lib’ral  mind. 
Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale  ; 

Attentive  still  to  sorrow’s  wail. 

Or  modest  merit’s  silent  claim ; 

And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 

And  never  envy  blot  their  name ! 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn. 

Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky. 

Sweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn, 

Dear  as  the  raptur’d  thrill  of  joy ! 

Fair  Burnet  strikes  til’  adoring  eye, 

Heav’u’s  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine; 

I see  the  Sire  of  Love  on  high. 

And  own  his  work  indeed  divine  (122) ! 
There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms. 

Thy  rough,  rude  fortress  gleams  afar : 
like  some  bold  vet’ran,  grey  in  arms. 

And  mark’d  with  many  a seaming  scar : 
The  pond’rous  wall  and  massy  bar. 
Grim-rising  o’er  the  rugged  rock ; 

Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war. 

And  oft  repell’d  th’  invader’s  shock. 

With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitying  tears, 
I view  that  noble,  stately  dome, 

Where  Scotia’s  kings  of  other  years. 

Fam’d  heroes  ! had  their  royal  home : 
Alas,  how  chang’d  the  times  to  come ! 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust ! 

Their  hapless  race  wild- wan  d’ring  roam, 

Tho’  rigid  law  cries  out,  ’twas  just ! 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps. 
Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore. 

Thro’  hostile  ranks  and  ruin’d  gap9 
Old  Scotia’s  bloody  lion  bore  : 

Ev’n  1 who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply,  my  sires  have  left  their  shed. 

And  fac’d  grim  danger’s  loudest  roar. 

Bold  following  where  your  fathers  led ! 


Edina ! Scottia’s  darling  seat! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow’rs. 
Where  once  beneath  a monarch’s  feet 
Sat  Legislation’s  sov’reign  pow’rs  I 
From  marking  wildly-scatter’d  flow’re, 
As  on  the  banks  of  Ayi  I stray’d. 
And  singing,  lone,  the  ling’ring  hours, 
I shelter  in  thy  honour’d  shade. 


-Brigs  nf  Igr. 

INSCRIBED  TO  JOHN  BALLANTYNE,  ESOf 
AYR. 

The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough, 
learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  ev’ry  bough; 
The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush. 
Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green 
thorn  bush ; [shrj**j 

The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  red-breavA 
Or  deep-ton’d  plovers,  grey,  wild-whistihv 
o’er  the  hill ; 

Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  peasant’s  lowly  shed, 
To  hardy  independence  bravely  bred. 

By  early  poverty  to  hardship  steel’d, 

And  train’d  to  arms  in  stern  misfortune'! 
field — 

Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes. 
The  servile,  mercenary  Swiss  of  rhymes  ? 

Or  labour  hard  the  panegyric  close. 

With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  prose  ? 
No  1 though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely 
sings,  [strings. 

And  throws  his  hand  uncouthly  o’er  the 
He  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  the  Bard, 
Fame,  honest  fame,  his  great,  his  dear  re- 
ward! 

Still,  if  some  patron’s  gen’rous  care  he  trace, 
Skill’d  in  the  secret  to  bestow  with  grace ; 
When  Ballantyne  befriends  his  humble 
name. 

And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  fame. 
With  heartfelt  throes  his  grateful  bosom 
swells. 

The  god-like  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 


* Twas  when  the  stacks  get  on  theif 
winter-hap,  [crap  ; 

And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-woa 
Potato-bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 
Of  coming  Winter’s  biting,  frosty  breath ; 
The  bees,  rejoicing  o’er  their  summer  toils. 
Unnumber’d  buds  and  flow’rs’  delicious 
spoils,  [piles, 

Seal’d  up  with  frugal  care  in  massive  w*xen 
Are  doom’d  by  man,  that  tyrant  o’er  th# 
weak,  [reek: 

The  death  o’  devils  smoor’d  wi’  brimstone 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR. 


The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  ev’ry 
side, 

The  wounded  conveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide  ; 
The  feather’d  field-mates,  bound  by  Nature’s 
tie. 

Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie  : 
(What  warm,  poetic  heart,  but  inly  bleeds. 
And  execrates  man’s  savage,  ruthless  deeds  !) 
Nae  mair  the  flow’r  iu  field  or  meadow 
springs  ; 

Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings. 
Except,  perhaps,  the  robin’s  whistling  glee. 
Proud  o’  the  height  o’  some  bit  half-lang 
tree : 

rfhe  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days. 
Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide-spreads  the  noon- 
tide blaze,  [the  rays. 

Wliile  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton  in 
*Twas  in  that  season,  when  a simple  bard, 
Unknown  and  poor,  simplicity’s  reward, 

Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of  Ayr, 
By  whim  inspired,  or  haply  prest  wi’  care, 
He  left  his  bed,  and  took  his  wayward  route, 
And  down  by  Simpson’s  (123)  wheel’d  the 
left  about : 

(Whether  impell’d  by  all-directing  Fate 
To  witness  what  I after  shall  narrate  ; 

Or  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high. 

He  wander’d  out  he  knew  not  where  or  why) 
The  drowsy  Dungeon-clock  (124)  had  num- 
ber’d two,  [was  true : 

And  Wallace  Tower  (125)  had  sworn  the  fact 
The  tide-?woln  Firth,  with  sullen  sounding 
roar,  [the  shore. 

Through  the  still  night  dash’d  hoarse  along 
All  else  was  hush’d  as  Nature’s  closed  e’e : 
The  silent  moon  shone  high  o’er  tow’r  and 
tree : 

The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 
Crept,  gently-crusting,  o’er  the  glittering 
stream.  [Bard, 

When,  lo ! on  either  hand  the  list’ning 
The  clanging  sugh  of  whistling  wings  is 
heard , 

Two  dusky  forms  dart  thro’  the  midnight  air. 
Swift  as  tlw  gos  (126)  drives  on  the  wheel- 
ing hare ; 

4ne  on  the  Auld  Brig  his  airy  shape  uprears, 
The  ither  flutters  o’er  the  rising  piers : 

Our  warlock  Rhymer  instantly  descry ’d 
The  Sprites  that  owre  the  Brigs  of  Ayr  pre- 
side. 

(That  Bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke. 
And  ken  the  lingo  of  the  sp’ritual  folk; 

Fays,  Spunkies,  Kelpies,  a’,  they  can  explain 
them,  [them.) 

&nd  ev’u  the  vera  deils  they  brawly  ken 
Auld  Brig  appear’d  of  ancient  Pictish  race. 
The  very  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face  j 


I4S 

He  seem’ d as  he  wi*  bad  warstl’d  lang^ 
Yet,  teughly  dome,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 
New  Brig  wasbuskit  in  a Draw  new  coat. 
That  he  at  Lon’ on,  frae  ane  Adams,  got ; 

In’s  hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth’s  a 
bead, 

Wi’  virls  and  whirlygigums  at  the  head. 

The  Goth  was  stalking  round  with  anxictfcS 
search. 

Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  ev’ry  arch 
It  chanc’d  his  new-come  neebor  took  his  e’e^ 
And  e’en  a vex’d  and  angry  heart  had  he  ! 
Wi’  thieveless  sneer  to  see  his  modish  mien. 
He,  down  the  water,  gies  him  this  guid- 
e’en : — 

AULD  BRIG. 

I doubt  na’,  frien’,  ye’ll  think  ye’re  nsa 
sheepshank, 

Ance  ye  were  streekit  o’er  frae  bank  to  bank  I 
But  gin  ye  be  a brig  as  auld  as  me, 

Tho’,  faith,  that  day  I doubt  ye’ll  never  see; 
There’ll  be,  if  that  date  come.  I'll  wad  & 
boddle. 

Some  fewer  whigmaleeries  in  your  noddle. 

NEW  BRIG. 

Auld  Vandal,  ye  but  show  your  little 

mense. 

Just  much  about  it  wi’  your  scanty  sense ; 
Will  your  poor,  narrow  foot-path  of  a street, 
Whare  twa  wheel-barrows  tremble  when  they# 
meet—  [lime; 

Your  ruin’d,  formless  bulk  o’  stane  and 
Compare  wi’  bonnie  Brigs  o’  modern  time? 
There’s  men  o’  taste  wou’d  tak  the  Ducat* 
stream  (127),  [swim, 

Tho’  they  should  cast  the  vera  sark  and 
Ere  they  would  grate  their  feelings  wi’  the 
view 

Of  sic  an  ugly.  Gothic  hulk  a3  you. 

AULD  BRIG. 

Conceited  gowk!  puff’d  up  wi*  windy 
pride — [tide ; 

This  mony  a year  I’  re  stood  the  flood  and 
And  tho’  wi’  crazy  eild  I’m  sair  forfairn. 

I’ll  be  a Brig,  when  ye’se  a shapeless  cairn ! 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 
i But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  ye  better. 

| When  heavy,  dark,  continued  a’ -day  rains, 
i Wi’  deepening  deluges  o’erflow  the  plains  ; 

1 When  from  the  hills  where  springs  tho 
| brawling  Coil, 

Or  stately  Lugar’s  mossy  fountains  boil. 

Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland 
course,  [source. 

Or  haunted  Garpal  (128)  draws  his  feebla 
Arous’d  by  blust’ring  winds  and  spotting 
thowes,  [rowes ; 

In  mony  a torrent  down  his  snaw-brco 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  TORES. 


144 

While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring 
speat,  [gate ; 

Sweeps  dams  arid  mills,  and  brigs,  a’  to  the 
And  from  Glenbuck  (129),  down  to  the  Rat- 
ton-key  (130),  [sea — 

Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen’d  tumbling 
Then  down  ye’ll  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise ! 
And  dash  the  gunilie  jaups  up  to  the  pour- 
ing skies. 

A lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost. 

That  Arckietcture’s  noble  art  is  lost ! 

NEW  BRIO. 

f ine  Architecture,  trowth,  I needs  must 
say’t  o’t ! [gate  o’t ! 

The  L — d be  thankit  that  we’ve  tint  the 
Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices, 
Hanging  with  tlireat’ning  jut  like  precipices; 
O’er -arching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring  coves. 
Supporting  roofs  fantastic,  stony  groves : 
Windows,  and  doors  in  nameless  sculpture 
drest. 

With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest ; 
Forms  like  some  bedlam  Statuary’s  dream. 
The  craz’d  creations  of  misguided  whim  ; 
Forms  might  be  worshipp’d  on  the  bended 
knee. 

And  still  the  second  dread  command  be  free. 
Their  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air, 
or  sea.  [taste 

Mansions  that  would  disgrace  the  building 
Of  any  mason  reptile,  bird  or  beast ; 

Fit  only  for  a doited  monkish  race. 

Or  frosty  maids  forsworn  the  dear  embrace; 
Or  cuifs  of  latter  times  wha  held  the  notion 
That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling  true  devotion ; 
Fancies  that  our  good  B)#igh  denies  protec- 
tion ! [resurrection ! 

And  .soon  may  they  expire,  unblest  with 

AULD  BRIG. 

Oh  ye,  my  dear-remember’ d ancient  yeal- 
ings,  [ings ! 

Were  ye  but  here  to  share  my  wounded  feel- 
Ye  worthy  Proveses,  and  mony  a Bailie, 

Wha  in  the  paths  o’righteousness  did  toil 
aye; 

Ye  dainty  Deacons  and  ye  douce  Conveneers, 
To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey- 
cleaners  ; 

Ye  godly  Councils  wha  hae  blest  this  town ; 
Ye  godly  brethren  o’  the  sacred  gown, 

Wha  meekly  ga’e  your  hurdies  to  the  smi- 
tei  s ; [writers  ; 

And  (what  would  now  be  strange)  ye  godly 
A’  ye  douce  folk  I’ve  borne  aboon  the  broo. 
Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say  or  do  ! 
How  would  your  spirits  groan  in  deep  vexa- 
tion, 

To  see.eack  melancholy  alteration  j 


And  agonising,  curse  the  time  and  pko 
When  ye  begat* the  base,  degen’rate  race! 
Nae  langer  rev’rend  men,  their  country*! 

glory.  [braid  story ! 

In  plain  braid  Scots  hold  forth  a plain 
Nae  longer  thrifty  citizens  and  douce, 

Meet  owre  a pint,  or  in  the  council- house ; 
But  staumrel,  corky-headed,  graceless  gen- 
try. 

The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  country ; 
Men,  three  parts  made  by  tailors  and  ay 
barbers,  [new  Brigs  and  Harbours  ! 
Wha  waste  your  weel-hain’d  gear  on  d — d 

* NEW  BRIG. 

Now  hand  you  there  1 for  faith  you’ve 
said  enough,  [through ; 

And  muckle  mair  than  ye  can  mak  to 
As  for  your  Priesthood,  I shall  say  but  little. 
Corbies  and  Clergy  are  a shot  right  kittle : 
But,  under  favour  o’  your  langer  beard. 
Abuse  o’  Magistrates  might  weel  be  spar’d: 
To  liken  them  to  your  auld-warld  squad, 

I needs  must  say,  comparisons  are  odd. 

In  Ayr,  wag-wits  nae  mair  can  have  a handle 
To  mouth  “ a citizen,”  a term  o’  scandal ; 
Nae  mair  the  Council  waddles  down  the 
street. 

In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit ; 

Men  wha  grew  wise  priggin’  owre  hops  and 
raisins. 

Or  gather’d  lib’ral  views  in  bonds  and  seisins. 
If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a random  tramp, 
Had  shor’d  them  with  a glimmer  of  his  lamp. 
And  would  to  Common-sense  for  once 
betray’d  them,  [them. 

Plain,  dull  Stupidity  stept  kindly  in  to  aid 


What  further  clish-ma-claver  might  been 
said,  [shed. 

What  bloody  wars,  if  Spirites  had  blood  to 
No  man  can  tell ; but  all  before  their  sight, 
A fairy  train  appear’d  in  order  bright  : 
Adown  the  glitt’ring  stream  they  featly 
danc’d : [glanc’d : 

Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dressea 
They  footed  o’er  the  wat’ry  glass  so  neat. 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet: 
While  arts  of  minstrelsy  among  them  rung. 
And  soul-ennobling  bards  heroic  ditties  sung. 
Oh,  had  MT.auchlan  (131),  thairm-inspiring 
Sage, 

Been  there  to  hearthis  heavenly  band  engage. 
When  thro’  his  dear  strathspeys  they  bore 
with  highland  rage ; 

Or  when  they  struck  oli  Scotia’s  nc citing 

air. 

The  lover’s  raptur’d  joys  Dr  bleeding  cares; 


ON  CAPTAIN  MATTHEW  HENDERSON. 


143 


How  would  his  highland  lug  been  nobler  fir’  1, 
And  ev’n  his  matchless  hand  with  finer  touch 
inspir’d  ! 

No  guess  could  tell  what  instrument  appear'd. 
But  all  the  soul  of  Music’s  self  was  heard; 
Harmonious  concert  rung  in  every  part. 
While  simple  melody  pour’d  moving  on  the 
heart. 

The  Genius  of  the  stream  in  front  appears, 
A venerable  Chief  advanc’d  in  years ; 

His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crown’d. 

His  manly  leg  with  garter  tangle  bound  : 
Next  came  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  ring, 
Sweet  Female  Beauty  hand  in  hand  with 
Spring  ; [ J oy. 

Then,  crown’d  with  flow’ry  hay,  came  Rural 
And  Summer,  with  his  fervid-beaming  eye : 
All-cheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowing  horn. 
Led  yellow  Autumn,  wreath’d  with  nodding 
corn ; [show. 

Then  Winter’s  time-bleach’d  locks  did  hoary 
By  Hospitality  with  cloudless  brow. 

Next  follow’d  Courage,  with  his  martial 
stride  ; [hide  (132) ; 

From  where  the  Feal  wild  woody  coverts 
Benevolence,  with  mild,  benignant  air. 

A female  form,  came  from  the  tow’rs  of 
Stair  (133) ; 

Learning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures  trode, 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-lov’d  abode 
(134) ; [wreath. 

Last,  white-rob’d  Peace,  crown’d  with  a hazel 
To  rustic  Agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  death ; 

At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their 
kindling  wrath. 


♦it  Captain  fflattlura  Srntemt, 

A GENTLEMAN  WHO  HELD  THE  PATENT 
TOR  HIS  HONOURS  IMMEDIATELY  FROM 
ALMIGHTY  GOD.  (135) 

“ Should  the  poor  be  flattered  Siiakspeare. 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run, 

For  Matthew’s  course  was  bright; 

His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 

A matchless  heavenly  light ! 

Oh  Death ! thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody ! 

The  meikle  devil  wi’  a woodie 
Haurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie. 

O’er  hurcheon  hides, 

And  like  atock-fish  come  o’er  his  studdie 
Wi’  thy  auld  sides ! 

He’s  gane ! he’s  gane ! he’s  frae  us  torn. 

The  ae  best  fellow  e’er  was  born } 

L 


Thee  Matthew,  Nature’s  sel’  shall  mourn 
By  wood  and  wild. 

Where,  haply,  Pity  stray’s  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exil’d ! 

Ye  hills ! near  neighbours  o’  the  stama, 
That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns  ! 

Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns  (135^1 
Where  echo  slumbers ! 

Come  join,  ye  Nature’s  sturdiest  bairn^, 

My  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 

Ye  haz’ly  shaws  and  briary  dens ! 

Ye  bumies,  wimplin’  down  your  glens, 

Wi’  toddlin?  din, 

Or  foaming  strang,  wi’  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin ! 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o’er  the  lea  | 

Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see ; 

Ye  woodbines,  hanging  bonnilie. 

In  scented  bow’rs; 

Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree. 

The  first  o’  flow’rt. 

At  dawn,  when  ev’ry  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a diamond  at  its  head. 

At  ev’n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  she^ 

I’  th’  rustling  gale. 

Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro’  the  glade. 

Came  join  my  wail. 

Mourn  ye  wee  songsters  o’  the  wood ; 

Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud  ; 

Ye  curlews  calling  thro’  a clud ; 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 

And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood  I**6* 
He’s  gane  for  ever  ! 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels ; 

Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi’  airy  wheels 
Circling  the  lake ; 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake. 

Mourn,  clam’ring  craiks  at  close  o’  day, 
’Mang  fields  o’  flow’ring  clover  gay  ; 

And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 
Frae  our  cauld  shores 
Tell  the  far  warlds,  wha  lies  in  clay 
Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  owlets,  frae  your  ivy  bow’r. 

In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  towY, 

What  time  the  moon,  wi’  silent  glowY 
Sets  up  her  horn. 

Wail  thro’  the  dreary  midnight  houl 
Till  waukrife  morn ! 

Oh,  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains  I 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  eanty  stramsa 


POETICAL  WOEKS. 


143 

now,  what  else  for  me  remains 
But  tales  of  woe  ? 

And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 
Maun  ever  flow. 

Mourn,  spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year ! 

Ilk  cow?!ip  cup  shall  kep  a tear : 

Thou,  simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
Shoots  up  its  head, 

Thy  gay,  green,  flow’ry  tresses  shear 
For  him  that’s  dead. 

Thou,  autumn,  wi*  thy  yellow  hair. 

In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 

Thou,  winter,  hurling  thro’  the  air 
The  roaring  blast. 

Wide  o’er  the  naked  world  declare 
The  worth  we’ve  lost ! 

Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light ; 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 

And  you,  ye  twinkling  starries  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn ! 

For  through  your  orbs  he’s  ta’en  his  flight. 
Ne’er  to  return. 

Oh,  Henderson  ! the  man — the  brother ! 
And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  ft>r  ever? 

And  hast  thou  cross’d  that  unknown  river. 
Life's  dreary  bound  ? 
tike  thee,  where  shall  I lind  another. 

The  world  around  ? 

So  to  your  sculptur’d  tombs,  ye  grea^, 

In  a’  the  tinsel  trash  o’  state  ! 

But  by  thy  honest  turf  I’ll  wait. 

Thou  man  of  worth  5 
And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow’s  fate 
E’er  lay  in  earth. 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Btop,  passenger  ! — my  story’s  brie# 

And  truth  I shall  relate,  man; 

| tell  nae  common  tale  o’  grief — 

For  Matthew  was  a great  man. 

If  thou  uncommon  merit  hast. 

Yet  spum’d  at  fortune’s  door,  man, 

A look  of  pity  hither  cast — 

For  Matthew  was  a poor  man. 

If  thou  a noble  sodger  art. 

That  passest  by  this  grave,  man, 

There  moulders  here  a gallant  heart— 

For  Matthew  was  a brave  man. 

If  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  ways, 

Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man. 

Here  lies  wha  weal  had  won  tin  praise— 
For  Matthew  was  a bright  man 
If  thou  at  friendship’s  sacred  ca’ 

Wad  life  itself  resign,  man. 

Thy  sympathetic  tear  maun  fa’— 

For  Matthew  was  a krnu  man  I 


If  thou  art  staunch  without  a stain. 
Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man. 
This  was  a kinsman  o’  thine  ain — 
For  Matthew  was  a true  man. 

If  thou  hast  wit,  and  fun,  and  fire. 
And  ne’er  guid  wine  did  fear,  man. 
This  was  thy  billie,  dam,  and  sire— ~ 
For  Matthew  was  a queer  man. 

If  ony  whiggish  whingin’  sot. 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man. 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  bis  lot ! 

For  Matthew  was  a rate  mm. 


Cara  <!!>' 

A TALE.  (137) 

“ Of  bro  wnysis  and  of  bogilis  full  is  this  buk«." 

Gawin  Douglas 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 

And  drouthy  neighbours,  neighbours  meet. 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late. 

And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 

While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy. 

And  gettin’  fou  and  unco  happy. 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles^ 

The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles. 

That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame. 

Where  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame. 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o’  Shan  tor. 

As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 

(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne’er  a town  surpasses. 

For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses). 

Oh  Tam  ! had’st  thou  but  been  sae  wise. 

As  ta’en  thy  ain  wife  Kate’s  advice ! 

She  tauld  the  weal  thou  was  a skellum, 

A blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum; 
That  frae  November  till  October: 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  rae  sober; 

That  ilka  melder,  wi’  the  miller. 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 

That  ev’ry  naig  wras  ca’d  a shoe  on. 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on ; 

That  at  the  Lord’s  house,  ev’n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi’  Kirton  Jean  till  Mon* 
day.  (138) 

She  prophesied,  that,  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown’d  in  Dooit 
Or  catch’d  wi’  wrarlocks  in  the  mirk. 

By  Alloway’s  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  ! it  gars  me  greet. 

To  think  how  mony  com  sels  swreet. 

How  mony  lengthen’d  sage  advices. 

The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises; 

But  to  our  tale  : — Ae  maiket  night, 

Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right. 


TAM  0'  SHANTE&. 


HI 


Fa^t  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

Wi’  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely  ; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnny, 

His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony; 

Tam  lo’ed  him  like  a vera  brither — 

They  had  been  fou’  for  weeks  thegither ! 
The  night  drave  on  wi’  sangs  and  clatter. 
And  aye  the  ale  was  growing  better : 

The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 

Wi*  favours  secret,  sweet,  and  precious. 

The  Souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories. 

The  landlord’s  laugh  was  ready  chorus : 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle — 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a man  sae  happy. 

E’en  drown’d  himself  amang  the  nappy; 

As  bees  flee  hame  wi’  lades  o’  treasure. 

The  minutes  wing’d  their  way  wi’  pleasure : 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious. 
O’er  a ’ the  ills  o’  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 

You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 

Or  like  the  snowfall  in  the  river, 

A moment  white— then  melts  for  ever  ; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place  ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow’s  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide, 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride ; 

That  hour,  o’  night’s  black  arch  the  key- 
stane, 

That* dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  on  ; 
And  sic  a night  he  taks  the  road  in 
As  ne’er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  ’twad  blawn  its  last ; 

The  rattling  show’rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow’d. 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow’d : 
That  night,  a child  might  understand. 

The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weal  mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg, 

A better  never  lifted  leg, 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro’  dub  and  mire. 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire  ; 

Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet. 
Whiles  crooning  o’er  some  auld  Scot’s  son- 
net ; 

Whiles  glow’ring  round  wi  prudent  cares. 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares. 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh  (139), 

Where  ghaists  and  owlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford. 

Where  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor’d; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  staue. 

Where  drunken  Charlie  brak’s  neck  bane; 
And  thro’  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn. 

Where  hunters  fand  the  murder’d  bairn ; 


And  near  tbe  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Where  Mungo’s  mither  hang’d  lierseL 
Before  him  Boon  pours  all  his  floods ; 

The  doubling  storm  roars  thro’  the  woods; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole. 

Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 
When  glimmering  thro’  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem’d  in  a bleeze ; 

Thro’  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 
Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 

What  dangers  thou  can’st  make  us  scorn! 
Wi*  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi’  usquebae  we’ll  face  the  devil ! — 

The  swats  sae  ream’d  in  Tammie’s  nodcEfl^ 
Fair  play,  he  car’d  nae  deils  a boddle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish’d. 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish’d. 

She  ventur’d  forward  on  the  light ; 

And,  wow ! Tam  sawr  an  unco  sight ! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a dance; 

Nae  cotillon  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  rsela^ 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels : 

A winnock-bunker  in  the  east. 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o’  beast; 

A towzie  tyke,  black,  grim  and  large. 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge  ; 

He  screw’d  the  pipes  and  garb  them  skir^ 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a’  did  dirl. 

Colli  us  stood  round,  like  open  presses. 

That  sliaw’d  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a light — • 

By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A murderer’s  banes  in  gibbet  aims ; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee  unchristen’d  bairns  ; 

A thief,  new-cutted  frae  a rape, 

Wi’  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi’  bluid  red-rusted; 

Five  scimitars,  wi’  murder  crusted  ; 

A garter,  which  a babe  had  strangled, 

A knife,  a father’s  throat  had  mangled, 
•Whom  his  ain  son  o’  life  bereft, 

The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft : 

Wi’  mair  o’  horrible  and  awfu’. 

Which  ev’n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu9. 

As  Tammie  glowr’d,  amaz’d  and  curious. 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious  s 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew ; 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew ; 

They  reel’d,  they  set,  they  cross’d,  they 
cleckit, 

Till  ilka  carline  swat  and  reckit. 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark. 

And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ; 

Now  Tam,  oh  Tam  ! had  tliae  been  queans 
A’  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teen*; , 


148 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Their  sarks,  instead  o’  cieeshie  flannen. 

Been  snaw-wliite  seventeen-hunder  linen ! 
Their  breeks  o’  mine,  my  only  pair. 

That  ance  were  plusk  o'  guid  blue  hair, 

1 wad  hae  gi’en  them  off  my  hurdies. 

For  ae  biink  o’  the  bonnie  burdies ! 

But  wither’d  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags,  wad  spean  a foal, 

Louping  and  Hinging  on  a cummock, 

I wonder  did.na  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn’d  what  was  what  fu’  brawlie; 
There  was  a winsome  wench  and  walie. 

That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kenn’d  on  Carrick  shore ; 

For  mony  a beast  to  dead  she  shot. 

And  perish’d  mony  a bonnie  boat. 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  beer. 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear.) 

Her  cutty  sark,  o’  Paisley  harn. 

That  while  a lassie  she  had  worn. 

In  longitude  tho’  sorely  scanty. 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie — 

Ah  ! little  kenn’d  thy  reverend  grannie, 

That  sark  slie  coft  ior  her  wee  Nannie, 

Wi’  twa  pund  Scots  (’twas  a’  her  riches). 
Wad  ever  grac’d  a dance  o’  witches  ! 

But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cour. 

Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow’r ; 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 

(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  strang,) 

And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  bewitch’d. 

And  thought  his  very  een  enrich’d ; 

Even  Satan  glowr’d  and  fldg’d  fu  fain. 

And  hotch’d  and  blew  wi’  might  and  main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 

Tam  tint  his  reason  a’  thegither. 

And  roars  out,  " Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  l” 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied. 

When  oat  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi’  angry  fyke, 

When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke; 

As  open  pussie’s  mortal  foes. 

When,  pop ! she  starts  before  their  nose ; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 

When  “ Catch  the  thief!  ” resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi’  mony  an  eldritch  screech  and  hollow. 
Ah,  Tam ! ah,  Tam ! thou’il  get  thy  fairin’ ! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a herrin’  l 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comm’ ! 

Kate  soon  will  be  a woefu’  woman! 

Nowr,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 

And  win  the  key-stane  (14U)  o’  the  brig; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 

A running  stream  they  darena  cross ! 

But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make. 

The  fient  a tail  she  had  to  shake  1 


For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 

Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 

And  flew  at  Tam  wi’  furious  ettle. 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie’s  mettle— 

Ae  spring  brought  oft’  her  master  hal^ 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail ; 

The  carline  caught  her  by  the  rump. 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o’  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man  and  mother’s  son  take  heed : 
Whene’er  to  drink  you  are  inclin’d. 

Or  cutty- sarks  run  in  your  mind, 

Think  ! ye  may  buy  the  joys  over  de*z— 
Remember  Tam  o’  Shanter’s  mare. 


ftragir  /raprat.  (i4i) 

All  devil  as  I am,  a damned  wretch, 

A harden’d,  stubborn,  unrepenting  vilk*n. 
Still  my  heart  melts  at  human  wretchedness } 
And  with  sincere  tho’  unavailing  sighs, 

I view  the  helpless  children  of  distress. 

With  tears  indignant  I behold  th’  oppressor 
Rejoicing  in  the  honest  man’s  destruction, 

W hose  unsubmitting  heart  was  all  his  crime. 
Even  you,  ye  helpless  crew,  I pity  you ; 

Ye  whom  the  seeming  good  think  sin  to  pity; 
Ye  poor,  despis'd,  abandon’d  vagabonds, 

W horn  vice,  as  usual,  has  turn’d  o’er  to  ruin. 
— Oh,  but  for  kind,  tho’  ill-requited  friends, 
I had  been  driven  forth  like  you  forlorn. 

The  most  detested,  worthless  wretch  among 
you ! 


‘tBkitrr,  a lirp.  (142) 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast. 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw ; 

Or  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 
The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw : 

While  tumbling  brown,  the  burn  comes  dowi^ 
And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae ; 

And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest. 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

“The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o’ercast” (1 13\ 
The  joyless  winter  day 
Let  others  fear,  to  me  more  dear 
Than  all  the  pride  of  May : 

The  tempest’s  howl,  it  soothes  my  sou^ 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join; 

The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine! 

Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  schen&3 
These  wToes  of  mine  fulfil. 

Here,  firm,  I rest,  they  must  be  beat, 

Because  they  are  thy  will! 


ELEGY  ON  ROBERT  RUISSEAUX. 


141 


Then  all  I want  (oh,  do  thou  grant 
This  one  request  of  mine  !) 

Since  to  enjoy  thou  dost  deny. 
Assist  me  to  resign. 


1 ISraqrr, 

UNDER  THE  PRESSURE  OP  VIOLENT 
ANGUISH.  (144) 

Oh  thou  great  Being!  wliat  thou  art 
Surpasses  me  to  know : 

Yet  sure  I am,  that  known  to  Thee 
Are  all  thy  works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands, 

AH  wretched  and  distrest; 

Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 
Obey  Thy  high  behest. 

Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 
From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 

Oh,  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears. 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death ! 

But  if  I must  afflicted  be. 

To  suit  some  wise  design ; 

Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves, 

To  bear  and  not  repine  l 


SI  ^raijir, 

ON  THE  PROSPECT  OP  DEATH. 

Oh  ihou  unknown.  Almighty  Cause 
Of  all  my  hope  and  fear  ! 

In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour. 
Perhaps  I must  appear  ! 

If  I have  wander’d  in  those  paths 
Of  life  I ought  to  shun  ; 

As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 
Remonstrates  I have  done. 

Thou  know’st  that  Thou  hast  formed  me. 
With  passions  wild  and  strong ; 

And  list’ning  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

“Where  human  weakness  has  come  short. 
Or  frailty  stept  aside. 

Bo  Thou,  All-good ! for  such  thou  art. 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

Where  with  intention  I have  err’d, 

No  other  plea  I have, 

But,  Thou  art  good ; and  goodness  still 
Delighteth  to  forgive. 


Itaniasf 

ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION.  (145) 

Why  am  I loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 
Have  I so  found  it  full  of  pleasing 
, charms  ? 


Some  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of  ill  be- 
tween : [storms : 

Some  gleams  of  sunshine  ’mid  renewing 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 

Or  death’s  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms ; 
I tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging 
rod. 

Fain  would  I say,  “Forgive  my  foul  of- 
fence ! ” 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey ; 
But  should  my  Author  health  again  dis- 
pense. 

Again  I might  desert  fair  virtue’s  way: 
Again  in  folly’s  path  might  go  astray; 

Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man; 
Then  how  should  I for  heavenly  mercy  pray. 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy’s 
plan  ? [tation  ran  ? 

Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourn’d,  yet  to  temp- 

Oh  Thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below  I 
If  I may  dare  a lifted  eye  to  Thee, 

Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to 
blow. 

Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea : 
With  that  controlling  pow’r  assist  ev’n  me. 
Those  headlong  furious  passions  to  con- 
fine; 

For  all  unfit  I feel  my  pow’rs  to  be. 

To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  hallowed  line; 
Oh,  aid  me  with  Thy  help.  Omnipotence 
Divine ! 


filrgij  he  tfis  Draifj  nf  Halirrt  IRuisstaar. 

(146.) 

Now  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair. 

He’ll  gabble  rhyme,  nor  sing  nae  mair, 

Cauld  poverty,  wi’  hungry  stare, 

Nae  mair  shall  fear  him; 

Nor  anxious  fear,  nor  cankert  care. 

E’er  mair  come  near  him 

To  tell  the  truth,  they  seldom  fash’t  him, 
Except  the  moment  that  they  crush’t  him; 
For  sune  as  chance  or  fate  had  hush’t  ’em. 
Tho’  e’er  sae  short, 

Then  wi’  a rhyme  or  song  he  lash’t  ’em. 
And  thought  it  sport. 

Tho’  he  was  bred  to  kmtra  wark, 

And  counted  was  baith  wight  and  stalk. 

Yet  that  was  never  Robin’s  mark 
To  mak  a man ; 

But  tell  him,  he  was  learned  and  dark. 

Ye  roos’d  him  than  l 


150 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ffte  Ml 

TO  THE  BET.  MR.  JAMES  STEVEN.  (117) 

t)n  his  Text,  Max.  iv.  2. — “And  they  shall  go 
forth,  and  grow  up,  like  calves  of  the  stall.*’ 
Eight,  Sir  ! your  text  I’ll  prove  it  true. 
Though  Heretics  may  laugh ; 

For  instance,  there’s  yoursel’  just  now, 

God  knows,  an  unco  calf! 

And  should  some  patron  be  so  kind. 

As  bless  you  wi’  a kirk, 

I doubt  na.  Sir,  but  then  we’ll  find. 

Ye’re  still  as  great  a stirk. 

But,  if  the  lover’s  raptur’d  hour 
Shall  ever  be  your  lot. 

Forbid  it,  ev’ry  heavenly  power 
You  e’er  should  be  a Scot ! 

Tho’,  when  some  kind,  connubial  dear. 

Your  but-and-ben  adorns. 

The  like  has  been  that  you  may  wear 
A noble  head  of  horns. 

And  in  your  lug,  most  reverend  James, 

To  hear  you  roar  and  rowte. 

Few  men  o’  sense  will  doubt  your  claims 
To  rank  amang  the  nowte.  t. 

And  when  ye’re  number’d  wi’  the  dead. 
Below  a grassy  hillock, 

Wi’  justice  they  may  mark  your  head— 

**  Here  lies  a famous  bullock !” 


€\)t  turn  Mnfo, 

OR  THE  HOLY  TULZIE.  (148) 

Oh  a*  ye  pious  godly  flocks, 

Weel  fed  on  pastures  orthodox, 

Wha  now  will  keep  you  frae  the  fox. 

Or  worrying  tykes. 

Or  wha  will  tent  the  waifs  and  crocks. 
About  the  dykes  ? , 

The  twa  best  herds  in  a’  the  wast. 

That  e’er  gae  gospel  horn  a blast. 

These  five  and  twenty  simmers  past. 

Oh ! dool  to  tell, 
lla’e  had  a bitter  black  out-cast 
• Atween  themsel. 

Oh,  Moodie,  man,  and  wordy  Russell, 

Ilow  could  you  raise  so  vile  a bustle. 

Ye’ll  see  how  New-Light  herds  will  whistle, 
And  think  it  fine  : 

The  L — ’s  cause  ne’er  got  sic  a twistle 
Sin’  I ha’e  mine. 

O,  Sirs  ! whae’er  wad  ha’e  expeckit 
Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negleckit. 

Ye  wha  were  ne’er  by  lairds  respeckit. 

To  wear  the  plaid. 

But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit. 

To  be  their  guide. 


What  flock  wi’  Hoodie’s  fl  ock  could  rank, 

Sae  hale  and  hearty  every  shank ! 

Nae  poison’d  sour  Arminian  stank. 

He  let  them  taste, 

Frae  Calvin’s  well,  aye  clear,  they  drank—* 
Oh  sic  a fea  it ! 

The  thummart,  wil’-cat,  brock,  and  tod. 

Well  kenn’d  his  voice  through  a’  the  wood. 
He  smelt  their  ilka  hale  and  rod, 

Baith  out  and  in. 

And  weel  he  lik’d  to  shed  cheir  bluid. 

And  sell  their  skin. 

What  herd  like  Russell  (1  i9)  tell’d  his  tale^ 
His  voice  was  heard  thro’  muir  and  dale. 

He  kenn’d  the  Lord’s  sheep,  ilka  tail. 

O’er  a’  the  height. 

And  saw  gin  they  were  sick  or  hale. 

At  the  first  sight. 

He  fine  a mangy  sheep  could  scrub. 

Or  nobly  fling  the  gospel  dub. 

And  New-Light  herds  could  nicely  drub. 

Or  pay  their  skin ; 

Could  shake  them  o’er  the  burning  dub. 

Or  heave  them  in. 

Sic  twa — Oh ! do  I live  to  see’t. 

Sic  famous  twa  should  disagreet. 

And  names  like  villain,  hy  jocrite. 

Ilk  ither  gi'en. 

While  New-Light  .herds,  wi’  laughin’  spite. 
Say  neither's  lyin’  ! 

A’  ye  wha  tent  the  gospel  fauld. 

There’s  Duncan  (150),  d^ep,  and  Peebles 
shaul  (151), 

But  chiefly  thou,  apostle  Auld  (152), 

We  trust  in  thee, 

That  thou  wilt  work  them,  het  and  cauld. 
Till  they  agree. 

Consider,  Sirs,  how  we’re  beset ; 

There’s  scarce  a new  herd  that  we  get 
But  comes  frae  ’mang  that  cursed  set 
I winna  name ; 

I hope  frae  heav’n  to  see  them  yet 
In  fiery  flame. 

Dalrymple  (153)  has  been  lang  our  fae, 
M'Gill  (154)  has  wrought  us  meikle  wae. 
And  that  curs’d  rascal  ca’  i M‘Q,uhae  (155), 
And  baith  the  Shaws  (156), 
That  aft  ha’e  made  us  blark  and  blae, 

Wi’  vengefu’  paw3. 

Auld  Wodrow  (157)  lang  has  hatch’d  miscljH 
We  thought  aye  death  wad  bring  relief. 

But  he  has  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Ane  to  succeed  him, 

A chield  wha’ll  soundly  buff  our  beef; 

I meikle  dread  him. 


HOLT  WILLIE’S  PRAYER. 


m 


And  mony  a ane  fiat  I could  tell, 

YVha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 

Forbye  turn -coats  amang  oursel. 

There’s  Smith  for  ane, 

I doubt  he’s  but  a grey-nick  quill. 

And  that  ye’ll  tin’. 

Oh  ! a’  ye  flocks  c er  a’  the  hills. 

By  mosses,  meadows,  moors  and  fells. 

Come,  join  your  counsel  and  your  skills 
To  cowe  the  lairds. 

And  get  the  brutes  the  powers  themsels 
To  choose  their  herds. 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance. 

And  Learning  in  a woody  dance. 

And  that  fell  cur  ea’d  Common  Sense, 

That  bites  sae  sair. 

Be  banish’d  o’er  the  sea  to  France : 

Let  him  bark  there. 

Then  Shaw’s  and  Dalrymple’s  eloquence, 

M' Gill’s  close  nervous  excellence, 

Q,uhae’s  pathetic  manly  sense. 

And  guid  M'Math,  [158 
Wi’  Smith,  wba  thro’  the  heart  can  glance. 
May  a’  pack  aff. 


ffinltj  WilUt’j  f raisrr.  (159) 

On  Thou,  wba  in  the  heavens  dost  dwelt, 
Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel’. 

Sends  ane  to  heaven,  and  ten  to  hell, 

A’  f or  thy  glory. 

And  no  for  ony  giude  or  ill 

They’ve  done  afore  thee ! 

I bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might. 
When  thousands  thou  hast  left  in  night. 
That  I am  here  afore  thy  sight. 

For  gifts  and  grac^ 

A burnin’  and  a whinin’  light 
To  a’  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation. 

That  I should  get  sic  exaltation, 

I wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation. 

For  broken  laws. 

Five  thousand  years  ’fore  my  creation. 
Thro'  Adam’s  cause. 

When  frae  my  mither’s  womb  I fell, 
I’hou  might  hae  piunged  me  into  hell, 

Fo  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail, 

In  burnin’  lake. 

Where  damned  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Cb  lin’d  to  a stake. 

Vet  I am  here  a chosen  sample; 

To  show  thy  graco  is  great  and  ample; 
r’m  here  a pillar  in  thy  temple, 

Strong  as  a rock, 

A guide,  n buckler,  an  example; 

To  a’  thy  flock. 


But  yet,  oh  Lord ! confess  I muafe, 

At  times  I’m  fash’d  wi’  fleshly  lust ; 

And  sometimes,  too,  wi’  wardly  trust, 
Vile  self  gets  in  ; 

But  thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Deiil’d  in  sin. 

n * * £ 

Maybe  thou  lets’t  this  fleshly  thorn. 

Beset  thy  servant  e’en  and  morn. 

Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should  turni 
’Cause  he’s  sae  gifted ; 

If  sae,  thy  ban’  maun  e’en  be  borne. 

Until  thou  lift  it. 

Lord,  bless  tliy  chosen  in  this  place; 

For  here  thou  hast  a chosen  race : 

But  God  confound  their  stubborn  face; 

And  blast  their  name, 

Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace 
And  public  shame. 

Lord,  mind  Gaw’n  Hamilton’s  deserts. 

He  drinks,  and  swears,  and  plays  at  carte% 
Yet  has  sae  mony  takin’  arts, 

Wi’  grat  and  sma’, 

Frae  Godjg  ain  priests  the  people’s  hearts 
He  steals  awa’. 

And  when  we  chasten’d  him  therefore; 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a splore. 

As  set  the  warld  in  a roar 

O’  laughin’  at  us ; — 

Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store; 

Kail  and  potatoes. 

Lord,  hear  my  earnest  cry  and  pray’r. 
Against  the  presbyt’ ry  of  Ayr; 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  Lord,  mak  it  bar® 
Upo’  their  heads. 

Lord,  weigh  it  down,  and  dinna  spare. 

For  their  misdeeds. 

Oh  Lord  my  God,  that  glib-tongu’l  Aiki% 
My  very  heart  and  saul  are  quakin’. 

To  think  how  we  stood  groanin’,  sliakin* 
And  swat  wi’  dread. 

While  he  wi’  hingin’  lips  and  snakin’. 
Held  up  his  head.. 

Lord,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him. 
Lord,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him. 

And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  ’em. 

Nor  hear  their  pray’r; 

But  for  thy  people’s  sake  destroy  ’ea?0 
And  dinna  spare. 

But,  Lord,  remember  me  and  mine, 

Wi’  mercies  temp’ral  and  divine. 

That  I for  gear  and  grace  may  shine; 

IExcell’d  by  nane. 

And  a’  the  glory  shall  be  thine; 

Amen,  Amen  \ 


152 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


tfpitapji  mt  Snlti  Uullif. 

Here  Holy  Willie’s  sair-worn  clay 
Taks  up  its  last  abode  ; 

Kis  soul  has  ta'en  some  other  way, 

I fear  the  left-hand  road. 

Stop  ! there  he  is,  as  sure’s  a gun. 
Poor,  silly  body,  see  him  ; 

Nae  wonder  he’s  as  black’s  the  grim*. 
Observe  vvha’s  standing  wi’  him. 

Your  brunstane  devilship,  I see. 

Has  got  him  there  before  ye  ; 

But  haud  your  nine-tail  cat  a wee. 
Till  ance  you’ve  heard  my  story. 

Your  pity  I will  not  implore. 

For  pity  ye  hae  nane ; 

Justice,  alas  ! has  gi’en  him  o’er. 

And  mercy’s  day  is  gaen. 

But  hear  me,  sir,  deil  as  ye  are. 

Look  something  to  your  credit ; 

A coof  like  him  wad  stain  your  name. 
If  it  were  keut  ye  did  it. 


dFpisilf  In  Snim  dJmtMr  nf  ISiltnarnnrlt. 

ON  THE  PUBLICATION  OF  HIS 
ESSAYS.  (160) 

On  G ou die!  terror  of  the  Wings, 

Dread  of  black  coats  and  rev’rend  wigs. 

Sour  Bigotry,  on  her  last  legs, 

Girnin’,  looks  back, 

Wishin’  the  ten  Egyptian  plagues 
Wad  seize  you  quick. 

Poor  gapin’,  glowrin’  Superstition, 

Wraes  me  ! she’s  in  a sad  condition ; 

Fie  ! bring  Black  Jock,  her  state  physician. 
To  see  her  water. 

Alas ! there’s  ground  o’  great  suspicion 
She’ll  ne’er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  lang  did  grapple. 

But  now  she’s  g t an  unco  ripple ; 

Haste,  gie’  her  name  up  i’  the  chapel. 

Nigh  unto  death ; 

See,  how  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple. 

And  gasps  for  breath. 
Enthusiasm’s  past  redemption, 

Gane  in  a galloping  consumption. 

Not  a’  the  quacks,  wi’  a’  their  gumption, 
Will  ever  mend  her. 

Her  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presumption. 
Death  soon  will  end  her. 

*Tis  you  and  Taylor  (161)  are  the  chief, 

Wha  are  to  blame  for  this  mischief. 

But  gin  the  Lord’s  ain  fauk  gat  leave, 

A toom  tar-barrel 
And  twa  red  peats  wad  send  relief. 

And  end  the  quarrel. 


f pistlr  In  Sfaljit 

ENCLOSING  SOME  POEMS.  (162) 

Oh  rough,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine, 

The  wale  o’  cocks  for  fun  and  drinkin’  l 
There’s  mony  godly  folks  are  thinkin’. 

Your  dreams  (161)  and  tricki 
Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a-sinkin’, 

Straught  to  Auld  Nick’s. 

Ye  hae  sae  mony  cracks  and  cants. 

And  in  your  wicked,  drunken  rants. 

Ye  mak  a devil  o’  the  saunts. 

And  till  them  fou  (164); 

And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  and  wants, 
Are  a’  seen  through. 
Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 

That  holy  robe,  oh  dinna  tear  it ! 

Spare’t  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it. 
The  lads  in  black ! 

But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 
Rives’t  alf  their  back. 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye’re  skaithing. 
It’s  just  the  blue-gown  badge  and  clai thing 
O’  saunts ; tak  that,  ye  lea’e  them  naethiug 
To  ken  them  by, 

Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen 
Like  you  or  I. 

I’ve  sent  you  here  some  rhyming  ware^ 

A’  that  I bargain’d  for,  and  mair ; 

Sae,  when  you  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 

I will  expect 

Yon  sang  (165),  ye’ll  sen’t  wi’  canny  carc^ 
And  no  neglect. 

• * * * 


ffiirir  <£>pisito  to  fnfro  fapraik.  (i6S) 

September  13,  1785, 
Good  speed  and  furder  to  you,  Johnny, 
Guide  health,  hale  han’s,  and  weather  bonny  } 
Now  when  ye’re  nickan  down  fu’  canny 
The  stalf  o’  bread. 

May  ye  ne’er  want  a stoup  o’  hran’y 
To  clear  your  head. 

May  Boreas  never  thresh  your  rig9. 

Nor  kick  your  rickles  aff  their  legs, 

Sendin’  the  stuff  o’er  muirs  and  naggs 
Like  drivin’  wrack ; 

But  may  the  tapmast  grain  that  wags 
Come  to  the  sack. 

I’m  bizzie  too,  and  skelpin’  at  it. 

But  bitter,  daudin’  showers  hae  wrat  it, 

Sae  my  auld  stumpie  pen  I gat  it 
Wi’  muckle  wark. 

And  took  my  jotteleg  and  whatt’  it, 

Like  ony  clark. 


151 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  M‘MATH. 


It’s  now  twa  mon  th  that  I’m  your  debtor. 
For  your  braw,  nameless,  dateless  letter. 
Abusin’  me  for  harsh  ill  nature 
On  holy  men. 

While  deil  a litfir  yourseT  ye’re  better. 
But  mair  profane. 

But  let  the  ldrk-folk  ring  their  bells, 

Lot’s  sing  about  our  noble  sel’s  ; 

We’el  cry  nae  jads  frae  heathen  hills 
To  help,  or  roose  us, 

But  browster  wives  and  whiskey  stills, 
They  are  the  muses. 

Your  friendship,  Sir,  I winna  quat  it. 

And  if  ye  mak  objections  at  it. 

Then  haiT  in  nieve  some  day  we’ll  knot  it. 
And  witness  take. 

And  when  wi’  usquebae  we’re  wat  it, 

It  winna  break. 

But  if  the  beast  and  branks  be  spar’d 
Till  kye  be  gaun  without  the  herd. 

And  a’  the  vittel  in  the  yard. 

And  theekit  right, 

I mean  your  ingle-side  to  guard 
Ae  winter  night. 

Then  muse-inspirin’  aqua  vitae 

Shall  make  us  baith  sae  blythe  and  witty 

Till  ye  forget  ye’re  auld  and  gatty. 

And  be  as  canty 

As  ye  were  nine  year  less  than  thretty. 
Sweet  ane  and  twenty  ! 

But  stooks  are  cowpet  wi’  the  blast. 

And  now  the  sinn  keeks  in  the  west. 

Then  I maun  rin  amang  the  rest 

And  quat  my  chanter ; 

Sae  I subscribe  myself  in  haste 

Your’s  Rab  the  Ranter. 


tfjrisflE  tn  tilt  Urn.  Sntjix  ffi'Mj.  (167) 
September  17,  1785. 
While  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cow’r 
To  shun  the  bitter  blaudin’  show’r. 

Or  in  gulravage  rinnin’  scow’r 
To  pass  the  time. 

To  you  I dedicate  the  hour 
In  idle  rhyme. 

My  musie,  tir’d  wi’  mony  a sonnet 
On  gown,  and  ban’,  and  douse  black  bonnet, 
Is  grown  right  eerie  now  she’s  done  it. 

Lest  they  should  blame  her. 
And  rouse  their  holy  thunder  on  it, 

And  anathem  her. 

I own  ’twas  rash,  and  rather  hardy. 

That  1,  a simple,  couutra  bardie, 

Shou’d  meddle  wi’  a pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  they  ken  me, 

Can  easy,  wi’  a single  wordie. 

Louse  h-U  upon  mo. 


But  I gae  mad  at  their  grimaces. 

Their  sighin’,  cantin’,  grace-proud  faces. 
Their  three-mile  prayers,  and  hauf-mile  graces 
Their  raxin’  conscience, 

Whase  greed,  revenge,  and  pride  disgraces, 
Waur  nor  their  nonsense. 

There’s  Gawn  (168),misca’t  waur  than  a beast 
Wha  has  mair  honour  in  his  breast 
Than  mony  scores  as  guid’s  the  priest 
"Wha  sae  abus’t  him. 

And  may  a bard  no  cragk  his  jest 

What  way  they’ve  use’t  him! 

See  him,  the  poor  man’s  friend  in  need. 

The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed. 

And  shall  his  fame  and  honour  bleed 
By  worthless  skellum3. 

And  not  a muse  erect  her  head 

To  cowe  the  blellums  ? 

Oh,  Pope,  had  I thy  satire’s  darts 
To  gie  the  rascals  their  deserts, 

I’d  rip  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts. 

And  tell  aloud 

Their  jugglin’  hocus-pocus  arts 

To  cheat  the  crowd. 

God  knows, ^’m  no  the  thing  I shou’d  b* 
Nor  am  I even  the  thing  I cou’d  be. 

But  twenty  times  I rather  wou’d  be 
An  atheist  clean, 

Then  under  gospel  colours  hid  be 
Just  for  a screen. 

An  honest  man  may  like  a glass, 

An  honest  man  may  like  a lass. 

But  mean  revenge,  and  malice  fause^ 

He’ll  still  disdain. 

And  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws. 

Like  some  we  ken. 

They  take  religion  in  their  mouth  , 

They  talk  o’  mercy,  grace,  and  truth, 

For  what  ? — to  gie  their  malice  skouth 
On  some  puir  wight. 

And  hunt  him  down,  o’er  right  and  ruth. 

To  ruin  straight. 

All  hail.  Religion ! maid  divine ! 

Pardon  a muse  sae  mean  as  mine. 

Who  in  her  rough  imperfect  line. 

Thus  daurs  to  name  the©| 

To  stigmatise  false  friends  of  thine 

Can  ne’er  defame  thee. 

Tho’  blotch’t  and  foul  wi’  mony  a stain. 

And  far  unworthy  of  thy  train. 

With  trembling  voice  I tune  my  strain 
To  join  with  those 
"Who  boldly  daur  thy  cause  maintain 
In  spite  o’  foes  : 

In  spite  o’  crowds,  in  spite  o’  mob», 

In  spite  o’  undermining  jobs. 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  'WORKS. 


154 

Is  spite  o’  dark  banditti  stabs 
At  worth  andrit 

By  scoundrels,  even  wi’  holy  robes, 

But  hellish  spite. 

Oh  Ayr ! my  dear,  my  native  ground, 
"Within  thy  presbyterial  bound 
A candid  lib’ral  band  is  found 

Of  public  teachers. 

As  men,  as  Christians  too,  renown’d. 

And  manly  preachers. 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  nam’d ; 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  fam’d ; 

And  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine’s  blam’d 
(Which  gies  you  honour), 

Ev’n  Sir,  by  them  your  heart’s  esteem’d. 

And  winning  manner. 

Pardon  this  freedom  I have  ta’en. 

And  if  impertinent  I’ve  been. 

Impute  it  not,  good  Sir,  in  ane 

Whase  heart  ne’er  wrang’d  ye. 
But  to  his  utmost  would  befriend 

Ought  that  belang’d  ye. 


©{ie  Slmrriran  ©Oar, 

A FRAGMENT.  (169) 

When  Guildford  good  our  pilot  stood. 
And  did  our  helm  thraw,  man, 

Ae  night,  at  tea,  began  a plea. 

Within  America,  man  : 

Then  up  they  gat  the  maskin’-pat. 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,  man  ; 

And  did  nae  less,  in  full  Congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 

Then  thro’  the  lakes  Montgomery  takes, 
I wat  he  was  na  slaw,  man ; 

Down  Lowrrie’s  burn  he  took  a turn. 
And  Carleton  did  ca’  man ; 

But  yet,  what-reck,  he,  at  Quebec^ 
Montgomery -like  did  fa’,  man, 

"Wi’  sword  in  hand,  before  his  band, 
Amang  his  en’mies  a’,  man. 
loor  Tammy  Gage,  within  a cage. 

Was  kept  at  Boston  ha’,  man  ; 

Till  Willie  Howe  took  o’er  the  knowe 
For  Philadelphia,  man : 

Wi’  sword  and  gun  he  thought  a sin 
Guid  Christian  blood  to  draw,  man : 
But  at  New  York,  wi’  knife  and  fork. 
Sir-loin  he  hacked  sma’,  man. 
Burgoyne  gaed  up,  like  spur  and  whip. 
Till  Fraser  brave  did  fa’,  man ; 

Then  lost  his  way,  ae  misty  day. 

In  Saratoga  shaw,  man. 

Cornwallis  fought  as  lang’s  he  dought. 
And  did  the  buckskins,  claw,  man ; 
But  Clinton’s  glaive  frae  rust  to  save. 
He  hun$  it  to  the  wa , man. 


Then  Montague,  and  Giuliford,  tbo, 

Began  to  fear  a fa’,  man ; 

And  Sackville  dour,  whn  stood  the  atour^ 
The  German  Chief  to  thraw,  man ; 

For  Paddy  Burke,  like  ony  Turk, 

Nae  mercy  had  at  a’,  man  ; 

And  Charlie  Fox  threw  by  the  box. 

And  lows’d  his  tinkler  jaw,  man. 

Then  Rockingham  took  up  the  game^ 

Till  death  did  on  him  ca’,  man  ; 

When  Shelburne  meek  held  up  his  chee^ 
Conform  to  gospel  law,  man ; 

Saint  Stephen’s  boys,  wi’  jarring  noise. 

They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man. 

For  North  and  Fox  united  stocks. 

And  bore  him  to  the  wa’,  man. 

Then  clubs  and  hearts  were  Charlie’s  carte% 
He  swrept  the  stakes  awa’,  man. 

Till  the  diamond’s  ace,  of  Indian  race^ 

Led  him  a sair  faux  pas , man ; 

The  Saxon  lad3,  wi’  loud  placads. 

On  Chatham’s  boy  did  ca’,  man*; 

And  Scotland  drew  her  pipe,  and  blew, 
“Up,  Willie,  waur  them  a’,  man !” 
Behind  the  throne  then  Grenville’s  gon 
A secret  word  or  twa,  man ; 

While  slee  Dundas  arous’d  the  class, 
Be-north  the  Roman  wa’,  man ; 

And  Chatham’s  wraith,  in  heavenly  graitl^ 
(Inspired  Bardies  saw,  man) 

Wi’  kindling  eyes  cry’d,  “ Willie,  rise ! 

Would  I hae  fear’d  them  a’,  man  ?’* 

But,  word  and  blow.  North,  Fox,  and  Co* 
Gowlf’d  Willie  like  a ba’,  man, 

Till  Suthron  raise,  and  coost  their  claise 
Behind  him  in  a raw,  man  ; 

And  Caledon  threw  by  the  drone. 

And  did  her  whittle  draw,  man ; 

And  swoor  fu’  rude,  thro’  dirt  and  blood* 
To  make  it  guid  in  law,  man.  (170) 

» • • • 


$Ernaii  tn  lanit, 

A BROTHER  POET. 

AULD  NEIBOR, 

I’m  three  times  doubly  o’er  your  debtor 
For  your  auld-farrant,  frien’ly  letter ; 
Tho’  I maun  say’t,  I doubt  ye  flatter. 

Ye  speak  sae  fair. 

For  my  puir,  silly,  rhymin’  clatter 
Some  less  maun  sair. 

Hale  be  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddla  i 
Lang  may  your  elbock  jink  and  diddle. 
To  cheer  you  thro’  the  weary  widdle 
O’  war'ly  cares, 

| Till  bairns’  bairns  kindly  cuddle 

1 Your  auld,  gray  haira, 


THE  FIRST  PSALM. 


m 


But,  Davie  lad  Fra  red  ye’re  glaikit; 

Pm  tauld  the  muse  ye  hae  negleckit ; 

And  gif  it’s  sae,  ye  sud  be  licket 
Until  ye  fyke ; 

Sic  hauns  as  you  sud  ne’er  be  faiket, 

Be  hain’t  wha  like. 

For  me,  I’m  on  Parnassus’  brink, 

Rivin’  the  words  to  gar  them  clink ; 

Whyles  daez’t  wi’  love,  whyles  daez’t  wi’ 
drink, 

Wi’  jads  or  masons ; 

And  whyles,  but  aye  owre  late,  I think 
Braw  sober  lessons. 

Of  a’  the  thoughtless  sons  o’  man, 

Commen’  me  to  the  bardie  clan ; 

Except  it  be  some  idle  plan 

O’  rhymin’  clink. 

The  devil-haet,  that  I sud  ban. 

They  ever  think. 

Nae  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  o’livin’ 
Nae  cares  to  gie  us  joy  or  grievin’ ; 

But  just  the  pouchie  put  the  nieve  in. 

And  while  ought’s  there. 
Then  hiltie  skiltie,  we  gae  scrievin’. 

And  fash  nae  mair. 

Leeze  me  on  rhyme  ! it’s  aye  a treasure. 
My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure. 

At  hame,  a-fiel’,  at  wark,  or  leisure, 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie  ! 

Tho’  rough  and  raploch  be  her  measure. 
She’s  seldom  lazy. 

Haud  to  the  Muse,  my  dainty  Davie : 

The  warj’  may  play  you  monie  a shavie ; 

But  for  the  Muse,  she’ll  never  leave  ye, 

Tho’  e’er  sae  puir, 

Na,  even  tlio’  limpin’  wi’  the  spavie 
Frae  door  to  door. 


If  a ftniit. 

All  hail ! inexorable  lord ! 

At  whose  destruction-breathing  word 
The  mightiest  empires  fall ! 

Thy  cruel,  woe-delighted  train. 

The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A sullen  welcome,  all ! 

With  stern-resolv’d,  despairing  eye, 

I see  each  aimed  dart ! 

For  one  has  cut  my  dearest  tie. 

And  quivers  in  my  heart. 

Then  low’ring  and  pouring. 

The  storm  no  more  I dread ; 
Though  thick  ning  and  black’ uing, 
Bound  my  devoted  head. 


And  thou  grim  pow’r,  by  life  abhon  d. 
While  life  a pleasure  can  afford. 

Oh  hear  a wretch’s  prayer ! 

No  more  I shrink  appall’d,  afraid; 

I court,  I beg  thy  friendly  aid. 

To  close  this  scene  of  care ! 

When  shall  my  soul,  in  silent  peace. 
Resign  life’s  joyless  day; 

My  weary  heart  its  throbbings  cease. 
Cold  mould’ ring  in  the  clay  ? 

N o fear  more,  no  tear  more. 

To  stain  my  lifeless  face ; 
Enclasped,  and  grasped 
Within  thy  cold  embrace ! 


<£| \)t  /irat  iii  Strata  nf  lljt  Hintiitiji 
psalm. 

Oh  Thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 
Of  all  the  human  race  ! 

Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 
Their  stay  and  dwelling  pla^e  ! 

Before  the  mountains  heav’d  their  heads. 
Beneath  Thy  forming  hand. 

Before  this  ponderous  globe  itself 
Arose  at  Thy  command ; 

That  Pow’r  which  raised  and  still  upholds 
This  universal  frame. 

From  countless,  unbeginning  time 
Was  ever  still  the  same. 

Those  mighty  periods  of  years 
Which  seem  to  us  so  vast, 

Appear  no  more  before  Thy  sight 
Than  yesterday  that’s  past. 

Thou  giv’st  the  word : Thy  creature,  man. 

Is  to  existence  brought ; 

Again  Thou  say’st,  “ Ye  sons  of  men, 
Return  ye  into  nought ! ” 

Thou  layest  them  with  all  their  cares 
In  everlasting  sleep ; 

As  with  a floc-a  Thou  tak’st  them  (if 
With  overwhelming  sweep. 

They  flourish  like  the  morning  flow'r. 

In  beauty,’ s pride  array’d; 

But  long  here  night,  cut  down,  it  lief 
All  wither’d  and  decay’d. 


QTjj t /irat  psalm. 

The  man,  in  life  wherever  plac’d. 
Hath  happiness  in  store, 

Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked’*  wig. 
Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore  I 


15 


! 53 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 
Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 

But  with  humility  and  awe 
Still  u ilks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high. 
And  Arm  the  root  below. 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt. 
Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast, 

And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 
Before  the  sleeping  blast. 

For  why  ? that  God  the  good  adore 
Hath  giv’n  them  peace  and  rest, 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne’er  be  truly  blest. 


$n  a Itausa, 

©N  SEEING  ONE  ON  A LADY’S  BONNET, 
AT  CHURCH.  (171) 

Ha!  wliare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin’  ferlie! 

Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly  : 

I canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely, 

Owre  gauze  and  lace ; 

Tho’,  faith,  I fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 
On  sic  a place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin’,  blastit  wonner. 

Detested,  shunn’d,  by  saunt  and  sinner. 

How  dare  you  set  your  feet  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a lady! 

Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner 
On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar’s  haffet  squattle ; 
There  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl  and  sprattle 
Wi’  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle. 

In  shoals  and  nations  ; 

Whore  horn  nor  bane  ne’er  daur  unsettle 
Your  thick  plantations. 

How  baud  you  there,  ye’re  out  o’  sight. 
Below  the  fatt’rells,  snug  and  tight; 

Na,  faith  ye  yet ! ye’ll  no  be  right 
Till  ye’v&  got  on  it. 

The  vera  tapmost,  tow ’ring  height 
O’  Miss’s  bonnet. 

My  sooth  ! right  bauld  ye  set  your  n(  sc  out, 
As  plump  and  grey  as  ony  grozet; 

Oh  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet. 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum, 

I’d  gie  you  sic  a hearty  dose  o’t, 

Wad  dress  your  droddum ! 


1 wad  na  been  surpris'd  to  spy 

You  on  an  auld  wife’s  flannen  toy; 

Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy. 

On’s  wyliecoat ; 

But  Miss’s  fine  Lunardi ! fie ! (1 7ST 
How  daur  ye  do’t  ? 

Oh,  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head. 

And  set  your  beauties  a’  abread ! 

Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie’s  makin’ ! 

Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I dread. 

Are  notice  takin’ ! 

Oh  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 

To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us ! 

It  wad  frae  mony  a blunder  free  us 
And  foolish  notion : 

What  airs  in  dress  and  gait  wad  lea’e  us. 
And  ev’n  devotion ! 


ffljri  Smmtfnnj. 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A MANDATE  BY  TUB 
SURVEYOR  OP  THE  TAXES,  (173.) 

Sir,  as  your- mandate  did  request, 

I send  you  here  a faithfu’  list 
O’  gudes  and  gear,  and  a’  my  graith, 

To  which  I’m  clear  to  gie  my  aith. 

Imprimis,  then,  for  carriage  cattle, 

I have  four  brutes  o’  gallant  mettle. 

As  ever  drew  afore  a pettle. 

My  han’  afore’ s (174)  a gude  auld  has  been 
And  wight  and  wilfu’  a’  his  days  been. 

My  ban’  ahin’s  (175)  a weel  gaun  filly, 
That  aft  has  borne  me  hame  frae  Killie  (176)^ 
And  your  auld  burro’  mony  a time. 

In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime— 

But  ance,  whan  in  my  wooing  pride, 

I like  a blockhead  boost  to  ride. 

The  wilfu’  creature  sae  I pat  to, 

(L — pardon  a’  my  sins  and  that  too  !) 

I play’d  my  filly  sic  a shavie. 

She’s  a’  bedevil’d  with  the  spavie. 

My  fur  ahin’s  (177)  a wordy  beast. 

As  e’er  in  tug  or  tow  was  trac’d. 

The  fourth’s  a Highland  Donald  hastie, 

A d — n’d  red  wud  Kilburnie  blastie ! 

Forbye  a cowte  o’  cowtes  the  wale, 

As  ever  ran  afore  a tail. 

If  he  be  spar’d  to  be  a beast, 

He  11  draw  me  fifteen  pun’  at  least— 
Wheel  carriages  I hae  but  few. 

Three  carts,  and  twTa  a feckly  new ; 

Ae  auld  wheelbarrow,  mair  for  token, 

Ae  leg  and  baith  the  trams  are  broken; 

I made  a poker  o’  the  spin’le, 

And  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trin’le 


WILLIE  CHALMERS. 


1ST 


For  men,  Lve  three  mischievous  boys. 

Run  tlciis  for  fan  tin’  and  for  noise  ; 

A gautisman  ane,  a thrasher  t’other. 

Wee  Davock  hauds  the  nowt  in  fother. 

I rule  them,  as  I ought,  discreetly. 

And  aften  labour  them  completely; 

And  aye  on  Sundays  duly,  nightly, 

I on  the  Questions  targe  them  tightly ; 
Till,  faith,  wee  Davock’s  turn’d  sae  gleg, 
Tho’  scarcely  langer  than  your  leg, 

He’ll  screed  you  aff  Effectual  Calling  (178), 
As  fast  as  ony  in  the  dwalling. 

I’ve  nane  in  female  servan’  station, 

(L- — keep  me  aye  frae  a’  temptation !) 

I hae  nae  wife— and  that  my  bliss  is. 

And  ye  have  laid  nae  tax  on  misses ; 

And  then,  if  kirk  folks  dinna  clutch  me, 

I ken  the  devils  dare  na  touch  me. 

Wi’  weans  I’m  mair  than  weel  contented, 
Heav’n  sent  me  ane  mae  than  I wanted. 

My  sonsie  smirking  dear-bought  Bess  (179), 
She  stares  the  daddy  in  her  face. 

Enough  of  ought  ye  like  but  grace; 

But  her,  my  bonny  sweet  wee  lady, 

I’ve  paid  enough  for  her  already. 

And  gin  ye  tax  her  or  her  mither, 

B’  the  L — ! ye’se  get  them  a’  thegither. 

And  now,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken, 

Nae  kind  of  licence  out  I’m  takin’ ; 

Thro’  dirt  and  dub  for  life  I’ll  paidle. 

Ere  I sae  dear  pay  for  a saddle ; 

My  travel  ao  n foot  I’ll  shank  it, 

I’ve  sturdy  bearers,  Gude  be  thankit. 

Sae  dinna  put  me  in  your  buke, 

Nor  for  my  ten  white  shillings  luke. 

This  list  wi’  my  ain  hand  I’ve  wrote  it. 
The  day  and  date  as  under  noted; 

Then  know  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
tiubscrijjsi  huic, 

Robert  Burns 
Mossgiel,  February  22,  1786. 


1 Erfi  in  (fain  lamiltan,  fsij., 

MAUCHLINE. 
(recommending  a boy.) 

Mossgiel,  May  3,  1786. 

I hold  it.  Sir,  my  bounden  duty. 

To  warn  you  how  that  Master  Tootie, 

Alias,  Laird  M’Gami, 

Was  here  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
Tlout  whom  ye  spak  the  tither  day. 

And  wad  hae  don’t  aff  han’ : 


But  lest  he  learn  the  eallan  tricks, 

As,  faith,  I muckle  doubt  him. 

Like  scrapin’  out  auld  Crummie’s  nicks  (180), 
And  tellin’  lies  about  them  : 

As  lieve  then,  I’d  have  then, 

Your  clerkship  he  should  sair. 

If  sae  be  ye  may  be 
Not  fitted  other  where. 

Altho’  I say’t,  he’s  gleg  enough. 

And  ’bout  a house  that’s  rude  and  roughj 
The  boy  might  learn  to  swear  ; 

But  then  wi’  you  he’ll  be  sae  taught, 

A get  sic  fair  example  straught, 

I havena  ony  fear. 

Ye’ll  catechise  him  every  quirk. 

And  shore  him  weel  wi’  hell ; 

And  gar  him  follow  to  the  kirk— 

— Aye  when  ye  gang  yoursel. 

If  ye  then  maun  be  then 

Frae  hame  this  cornin’  Friday ; 

Then  please,  Sir,  to  lea’e.  Sir, 

The  orders  wi’  your  lady. 

My  word  of  honour  I hae  gien, 

In  Paisley  John’s,  that  night  at  e’en. 

To  meet  the  warld’s  worm ; 

To  try  to  get  the  t va  to  gree, 

And  name  the  airless  (181)  and  the  fee, 

In  legal  mode  and  form : 

I ken  he  weel  a snick  can  draw. 

When  simple  bodies  let  him ; 

And  if  a devil  be  at  a’, 

In  faith  he’s  sure  to  get  him. 

To  phrase  you,  and  praise  yon. 

Ye  ken  your  Laureat  scorns  : 

The  pray’r  still,  you  share  still. 

Of  grateful  Minstrel  Burns. 


ttillif  Cjiatars.  O82) 

Wi’  braw  new  branks  in  mickle  pride. 
And  eke  a braw  new  brechan. 

My  Pegasus  I’m  got  astride. 

And  up  Parnassus  pechin; 

Whiles  owre  a bush  wi’  downward  crush. 
The  doited  beastie  stammers ; 

Then  up  he  gets  and  off  he  sets 
For  sake  o’  Willie  Chalmers. 

I doubt  na,  lass,  that  weel  kenn’d  name 
May  cost  a pair  o’  blushes  ; 

I am  nae  stranger  to  your  fame. 

Nor  his  warm  urged  wishes. 

Your  bonnie  face  sae  mild  and  sweet, 

His  honest  heart  enamours. 

And  faith  ve’ll  no  be  lost  a whit, 

Tho’  waired  on  Willie  Chalmers. 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


m 

Auld  truth  herseF  might  swear  ye’re  fair. 
And  honour  safely  back  her, 

'And  modesty  assume  your  air. 

And  ne’er  a ane  misrak’  her : 

And  sic  twa  love  inspiring  een 
Might  fire  even  holy  Palmers ; 

Nae  wonder  then  they’ve  fatal  been 
To  honest  Willie  Chalmers. 

I doubt  na  fortune  may  you  shore 
Some  mim-mou’d  pouther’d  priestie, 

Fu’  lifted  up  wi’  Hebrew  lore. 

And  band  upon  his  breastie  : 

But  oh ! what  signifies  to  you 
His  lexicons  and  grammars  ; 

The  feeling  heart’s  the  royal  blue. 

And  that’s  wi’  Willie  Chalmers. 

Some  gapin’  glowrin’  countra  laird. 

May  warsle  for  your  favour  ; 

May  claw  his  lug,  and  straik  his  beard. 
And  hoast  up  some  palaver. 

My  bonnie  maid,  before  ye  wed 
Sic  clumsy- witted  hammers, 

$eek  Heaven  for  help,  and  barefit  skelp 
Awa’  wi’  Willie  Chalmers. 

Forgive  the  Bard  ! my  fond  regard 
For  ane  that  shares  my  bosom. 

Inspires  my  muse  to  gie’m  his  dues^ 

For  deil  a hair  I roose  him. 

May  powers  aboon  unite  you  soon. 

And  fructify  your  amours, 

And  every  >ear  come  in  mair  dear 
To  you  and  W illie  Chalmers. 


finis  aBrittm  ee  a Sank  Safi,  (iss) 

Wae  worth  thy  power,  thou  cursed  leaf. 
Fell  source  o’  a’  my  woe  and  grief : 

For  lack  o’  tlice  I’ve  lost  my  lass. 

For  lack  o’  thee  I scrimp  my  glass. 

I see  the  children  of  affliction 
Unaided,  through  thy  cursed  restriction. 

I’ve  seen  the  oppressor’s  cruel  smile 
Amid  his  hapless  victim’s  spoil, 

And,  for  thy  potence,  vainly  wish’d 
To  crush  the  villain  in  the  dust. 

For  lack  o’  thee  I leave  this  much  loved 
shore, 

Never,  perhaps,  to  greet  old  Scotland  more. 

R.  B. — Kyle. 


®a  a Was.  (184) 

Humid  seal  of  soft  affections, 
Tend’rest  pledge  of  future  bliss. 
Dearest  tie  of  young  connections, 

*.  Love’s  first  snow-drop,  virgin  kisau 


Speaking  silence,  dumb  confession. 
Passion’s  birth,  and  infants’  play. 
Dove-like  fondness,  chaste  concession, 
Glowing  dawn  of  brightei  day. 
Sorrowing  joy,  adieu’s  last  action. 

When  iing’ring  lips  no  more  must  joiDJ 
What  words  can  ever  speak  affection. 

So  thrilling  and  sincere  as  tlnne  I 


firsts  ‘Umiira  nnkrr  33inlmi  Critf. 

(185) 

Accept  the  gift  a friend  sincere 
Wad  on  thy  worth  be  pressin* ; 
Remembrance  oft  may  start  a tear. 

But  oh  ! that  tenderness  forbear. 

Though  ’twad  my  sorrows  lessen. 

My  ’morning  raise  sae  clear  and  fair, 

] thought  sair  storms  wad  never 
Bedew  the  scene ; but  grief  and  cart 
In  wildest  fury  hae  made  bare 
My  peace,  my  hope,  for  ever ! 

You  think  Pm  glad ; oh,  I pay  weel. 

For  a’  the  joy  I borrow. 

In  solitude — then,  then  I feel 
I cfmna  10  mysel’  conceal 
My  deeply  ranklin’  sorrow. 

Farewell ! within  thy  bosom  free 
A sigh  may  whiles  awaken  ; 

A tear  may  wet  thy  laughin’  ee. 

For  Scotia’s  son — ance  gay  like  thee— 
Now  hopeless,  comfortless,  forsaken! 


LYING  AT  A FRIEND’S  HOUSE  ONE  NIGHTS 
THE  AUTHOR  LEFT  THE  FOLLOWING 

firsts 

IN  THE  ROOM  WHERE  HE  SLEPT.  (186) 

Oh  thou  dread  Power,  who  reign’st  above, 

I know  thou  wilt  me  hear. 

When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  lov* 

I make  my  prayer  sincere  1 
The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stroke. 

Long,  long,  be  pleased  to  spare, 

To  bless  his  lilial  little  flock 
And  show  what  good  men  are. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 
With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 

Oh,  bless  her  with  a mother’s  joys. 

But  spare  a mother’s  Tears  ! 

Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling  youtk^ 
In  manhood’s  dawning  blush — 

Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  tr uth, 

| Up  to  a parent’s  wish  I 


1st 


EPISTLE  TO  MAJOR  LOGAN, 


He  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band, 

W ith  earnest  tears  I pray, 
thou  know’st  the  snares  on  every  hand— 
Guide  Thou  their  steps  alway. 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast. 
O’er  life’s  rough  ocean  driven. 

May  they  rejoice,  no  wanderer  lost, 

A family  in  heaven! 


®n  fflr.  5H‘3irara, 

OF  CRAIGEN-GI LLAN. 

Blit,  o’er  a gill  I gat  your  card, 

I trow  it  made  me  proud; 

° See  wha  taks  notice  o’  the  bard !” 

I lap  and  cried  fu’  loud. 

Now  deil-ma-care  about  their  jaw. 

The  senseless,  gawky  million  : 

I’ll  cock  my  nose  aboon  them  a’— 

I’m  roos’d  by  Craigen-Gillan  ! 

*Twas  noble.  Sir  ; ’twas  like  yoursel. 

To  grant  your  high  protection : 

A great  man’s  smile,  ye  ken  fu’  well. 

Is  aye  a blest  infection. 

Tho’  by  his  (187)  banes  who  in  a tub 
Match’d  Macedonian  Sandy ! 

On  my  ain  legs  thro’  dirt  and  dub, 

7.  independent  stand  aye. 

And  when  those  legs  to  guid,  warm  kail, 
Wi’  welcome  canna  bear  me; 

A lee  dyke-side,  a sy bow-tail, 

A barley-scone  shall  cheer  me. 

Heaven  spare  you  lang  to  kiss  the  b eath 
O’  many  flow’ry  simmers ! 

And  bless  your  bonnie  lasses  baith-  - 
I’m  tauld  they’re  loosome  kimme rs ! 

And  God  bless  young  Dunaskin’s  aird. 
The  blossom  of  our  gentry  ! 

And  may  he  wear  an  auld  man’s  beard, 

A credit  to  his  country. 


finis  mt  minting  mitb  Sksil,  fnri)  iatr. 

(188) 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 

I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-thir  , 

A ne’er-to-be-forgotten  day, 

Sae  far  I sprachled  up  the  b ae, 

I dinner’d  wi’  a L ird. 

I’ve  been  at  drucken  writers’  feasts, 

Nay,  been  bitch-fou  ’mang  godly  priests, 
Wi’  rev’rence  be  it  spoken ; 

I’ve  ev’n  join’d  the  honour’d  jorum, 

When  mighty  squireships  of  the  quorum. 
Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 


But  wi’  a Lord  ! — stand  out  my  shin, 

A Lord — a Peer — an  Earl’s  son  ! 

Up  higher  yet  my  bonnet ! 

And  sic  a Lord ! — lang  Scotch  ells  twa. 

Our  Peerage  he  o’erlooks  them  a’. 

As  I look  o’er  my  sonnet. 

But,  oh ! for  Hogarth’s  magic  pow’r ! 

To  show  Sir  Bardie’s  willyart  glow’r. 

And  how  he  star’d  and  stammer’d! 
When  goavan,  as  if  led  wi’  branks, 

And  stumpin’  on  his  ploughman  shanks, 

He  in  the  parlour  hammer’!. 

I sidling  shelter’d  in  a nook, 

And  at  his  Lordship  steal’t  a look. 

Like  some  portentous  omen  4 
Except  good  sense  and  social  glee. 

And  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 

I marked  nought  uncommon. 

I watch’d  the  symptoms  o’  the  great. 

The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state. 

The  arrogant  assuming ; 

The  fient  a pride,  nae  pride  had  he, 

Nor  sauce,  nor  state,  that  I could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughing 
Then  from  his  Lordship  I shall  learn. 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 
One  rank  as  weel’s  another; 

Nae  honest  worthy  man  need  care 
To  meet  with  noble  youthful  Paer, 

For  he  but  meets  a orother. 


fpisili  in  fflajnr  fngstn.  f183) 

Hail,  thairm-inspirin’,  rattlin’  Willie ! 
Though  fortune’s  road  be  rough  and  hilly 
To  every  fiddling,  rhyming  billie. 

We  never  heed, 

But  take  it  like  the  unback’d  filly. 

Proud  o’  her  speed. 

When  idly  goavan  whyles  we  saunter 
Yirr,  fancy  barks,  awa  we  canter 
Uphill,  down  brae,  till  some  mishanter. 
Some  black  bog-hole. 
Arrests  us,  then  the  scathe  and  banter 
We’re  forced  to  thole. 


Hale  be  your  heart ! — hale  be  your  fiddlt 
Lang  may  your  elbock  jink  and  diddle. 
To  cheer  you  through  the  weary  widdle 
O this  wild  warl’, 

Until  you  on  a crummock  driddle 
A grey-hair’d  carle. 

Come  wealth,  come  poortith,  late  or  sooi 
Heaven  send  your  heart-strings  aye  in 
And  screw  your  temper  pins  aboon 
A fifth  or  mair. 

The  melancholious,  lazy  croon 
O’  cankrie 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


May  still  your  life  from  day  to  day 

Nae  ‘lente  largo”  in  the  play. 

But  “ allegretto  forte”  gay 

Harmonious  flow 

A sweeping,  kindling,  bauld  strathspey— 
Encore ! Bravo ! 

A blessing  on  the  cheery  gang 
Wha  dearly  like  a jig  or  sang. 

And  never  think  o’  right  and  wrang 
By  square  and  rule. 

Bat  as  the  clegs  o’  feeling  stang 
Are  wise  or  fool. 

My  hand-waled  curse  keep  hard  in  chase 
The  harpy,  hoodock,  purse-proud  race, 

Wha  count  on  poortith  as  disgrace — 

Their  tuneless  hearts  1 
May  fireside  discords  jar  a base 
To  a’  their  parts ! 

But  come,  your  hand,  my  careless  brither, 
I’th’  ither  warl’,  if  there’s  anither — 

And  that  there  is  I’ve  little  swither 
About  the  matter — 

We  cheek  for  chow  shall  jog  thegither  ; 
I’se^ne’er  bid  better. 

We’ve  faults  and  failings — granted  clearly, 
W e’re  frail  backsliding  mortals  merely, 

"Eve’s  bonnie  squad  priests  wyte  them  sheerly 
For  our  grand  fa’ ; 

But  still,  but  still,  I like  them  dearly — 

God  bless  them  a’  1 

Ochon  for  poor  Castalian  drinkers, 

When  they  fa’  foul  o’  earthly  jinkers. 

The  witching  curs’d  delicious  blinkers 
Hae  put  me  hyte, 

And  gart  me  weet  my  waukrife  winkers, 

Wi’  girnin’  spite. 

But  by  yon  moon ! — and  that’s  high  swearing 
And  every  star  within  my  hearin’  ! 

And  by  her  een  wha  was  a dear  anel 
I’ll  ne’er  forget ; 

I hope  to  gie  the  jads  a clearin' 

In  fair  play  yet. 

My  loss  I mourn,  but  not  repent  it* 

I’ll  seek  my  pursie  whare  I tint  it. 

An  X to  the  Indies  I were  wonted, 

Some  cantrip  hour, 

By  some  sweet  elf  I’ll  yet  be  dinted. 

Then,  vive  V amour ! 

Faitcs  wes  bamemains  respectueuses, 

To  sentimental  sister  Susie, 

And  honest  Lucky  ; no  to  roose  you. 

Ye  may  be  proud. 

That  sic  a couple  fate  allows  ye 

Tb  grace  your  blood. 


Nae  mair  at  present  can  I measure 
And  trowth,  my  rhymin’  ware’s  nae  treasure; 
But  when  in  Ayr,  some  half-hour’s  leisure 
Be’t  light,  be't  dark. 

Sir  bard  will  do  himself  the  pleasure 
To  call  at  Park. 

Robert  Burn&. 
Momgiel,  30 th  October  1780. 


ITamrnf, 

WRITTEN  WHEN  THE  POET  WAS  ABOITf 
TO  LEAVE  SCOTLAND. 

O’  er  the  mist-shrouded  cliffs  of  the  lone 
mountain  straying,  [rave. 

Where  the  wild  winds  of  winter  incessantly 

What  woes  wring  my  heart  while  intently 
surveying  [the  wave. 

The  storm’s  gloomy  path  on  the  breast  of 

Ye  foam-crested  billows,  allow  me  to  wail. 

Ere  ye  toss  me  afar  from  my  lov'd  native 
shore ; 

Where  the  flower  which  bloom’d  sweetest  in 
Coila’s  green  vale. 

The  pride  of  my  bosom,  my  Mary’s  no  more. 

No  more  by  the  banks  of  the  streamlet  we’ll 
wander,  [the  wave; 

And  smile  at  the  moon’s  rimpled  face  in 

No  more  shall  my  arms  cling  with  fondness 
around  her,  [her  grave. 

For  the  dew-drops  of  momiug  fall  cold  on 

No  more  shall  the  soft  thrill  of  love  warm  my 
breast,  [shore ; 

I haste  with  the  storm  to  a far  distant 

Where  unknown,  unlarnented,  my  ashes  shall 
rest. 

And  joy  shall  revisit  my  bosom  no  more. 


<f>tt  a Irnirl;  ffiartr, 

GONE  TO  THE  WEST  IN®IES.  $190) 

A’  ye  wha  live  by  sowps  o’  drinV 
A’  ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink, 

A’  ye  wha  live  and  never  think. 

Come,  mourn  wi’  me ! 

Our  billie’s  gien  us  a’  jink. 

And  owre  the  sea. 

Lament  him  a’  ye  rantin’  core, 

Wha  dearly  like  a random-splore, 

Nae  mair  he’ll  join  the  merry  roar 
In  social  key ; 

For  now  he’s  taen  anither  shore. 

And  owrc  the  seal 

The  bonny  lasses  weel  may  misa  hrm. 
And  n their  dear  petitions  place  hkn? 


TO  A HAGGIS. 


IffI 


The  widows,  wives,  and  a*  may  bless  him, 

Wi  tearfu’  e’e ; 

For  weal  I wat  they’ll  sairly  miss  him 
That’s  ovvre  the  sea  ! 

Oh  fortune,  they  ha’e  room  to  grumble ! 
Had’ st  thou  taen  aff  some  drowsy  bumble, 
Wha  can  do  nought  but  fyke  and  fumble, 
’Twad  been  nae  plea ; 

But  he  was  gleg  as  ony  wumble. 

That’s  owre  the  sea ! 

Auld  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear 
And  stain  them  wi’  the  saut,  saut  tear ; 
’Twill  mak  her  poor  auld  heart,  I fear. 

In  flinders  flee ; 

He  was  her  laureat  mony  a year, 

That’s  owre  the  sea  ! 

He  saw  misfortune’s  cauld  nor-west; 
Tang  mustering  up  a bitter  blast; 

A jillet  brak  hi»  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be  ! 

So,  took  a berth  afore  the  mast. 

And  owre  the  sea. 

To  tremble  under  fortune’s  cummock/> 

On  scarce  a bellyfu’  o’  drummock, 

Wi’  his  proud,  independent  stomach. 
Could  ill  agree ; 

So  row’t  his  hurdies  in  a hammock, 

And  ovvre  the  sea. 

He  ne’er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding. 
Yet  coin  his  pouches  wad  na  bide  in ; 

Wi’  him.it  ne’er  was  under  hiding — 

He  dealt  it  free  : 

The  muse  was  a’  that  he  took  pride  ia. 
That’s  owre  the  sea. 

Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel. 

And  hap  him  in  a cozie  biel : 

Ye’ll  find  him  aye  a dainty  chiel. 

And  fou’  o’  glee  ; 

He  wad  na  wrang’d  the  vera  deil. 

That’s  owre  the  sea. 

Fareweel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie ! 
Your  native  soil  was  right  ill-willie; 

But  may  ye  flourish  like  a lily. 

Now  bonnilie ! 

I’ll  toast  ye  in  my  hindmost  gillie, 

Tho’  owre  the  sea  1 


IBrittm 

ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A COPY  OF  THE 
POEMS,  PRESENTED  TO  AN  OLD  SWEET- 
HEART, THEN  MARRIED. 

Once  fondly  lov’d  and  still  remembered  dear; 

Sweet  early  object  of  my  youthful  vows ! 
Accept  this  mark  of  friendship,  warm,  sincere. 
Friendship ! ’tis  all  cold  duty  now  allows. 

M 


And  when  you  read  the  simple  artless  rhymes. 
One  friendly  sigh  for  him — lie  asks  no  more 
Who  distant  burns  in  flaming  torrid  clime3. 
Or  liaply  lies  beneath  th’  Atlantic  roar. 


Cljc  /arrmrU* 

“ The  valiant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer 
Or  what  does  he  regard  his  single  woes  1 
But  when,  alas  ! he  mulliplies  himself, 

To  dearer  selves,  to  the  lov’d  tender  fair, 

To  ihose  whose  bliss,  whose  beings  hung  upon 
him, 

To  helpless  children!— then,  oh  then  ! he  feeli 
The  point  of  misery  fest’ring  in  his  heart, 

And  weakly  weeps' his  fortune  like  a coward. 
Such,  such  am  I ! undone  !” 

Thomson’s  Edward  and  Eleanora . 

Farewell,  old  Scotia’s  bleak  domains 
Far  dearer  than  the  torrid  plains 
Where  rich  ananas  blow ! 

Farewell,  a mother’s  blessing  dear ! 

A brother’s  sigh  ! a sister’s  tear  ! 

My  Jean’s  heart-rending  throe  ! 
Farewell,  my  Bess ! tho’  thou’rt  bereft 
Of  my  parental  care : 

A faithful  brother  I have  left. 

My  part  in  him  thou’lt  share ! 

Adieu  too,  to  you  too. 

My  Smith,  my  bosom  frien'j 
When  kindly  you  mmd  me. 

Oh  then  befriend  my  Jean! 

What  bursting  anguish  tears  my  heart! 
From  thee,  my  J eany,  must  1 part ! 

Thou,  weeping,  answ’rest  “NolM 
Alas  ! misfortune  stares  my  face. 

And  points  to  ruin  and  disgrace, 

I for  thy  sake  must  go  ! 

Thee,  Hamilton,  and  Aiken  deas^ 

A grateful,  warm  adieu ! 

I,  with  a much  indebted  tear. 

Shall  still  remember  you  ? 

All-hail  then,  the  gale  then. 

Wafts  me  from  thee,  dear  shoitt! 

It  rustles,  and  whistles — 

I’ll  never  see  thee  more! 


fa  a Saggia.  (i9i) 

Fair  fa’  your  honest,  sonsie  face. 
Great  chieftain  o’  the  puddin’-race ! 
Aboon  them  a’  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  tha'jrci 
Weel  are  ye  wordy  of  a grace 

As  lang’s  my  arm. 

The  groaning  trencher  there  ye  fi3. 
Your  hurdies  like  a distant  hill, 


BUENS’S  POETICAL  WOBKS. 


x)ur  pin  wac’  frrlp  to  mend  a mill 
In  ti  me  o’  need. 

While  thro’  jour  pores  the  dews  distil 
Like  amber  bead. 

His  knife  see  rustic  labour  diglit, 

And  cut  you  ujrwi’  ready  slight. 

Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright 
Like  orvy  ditch  ; 

And  then,  oh  what  a glorious  sight. 
Warm-reekin’,  rich  ! 

Then  horn  for  liorn  they  stretch  and  strive, 
Beil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive. 

Till  a’  their  weel-swall’d  kytes  belyve 
\ Are  bent  like  drums  ; 

Then  auld  guid  man,  maist  like  to  rive, 
Bethankit  hums. 

Is  there  that  o’er  his  French  ragout 
Or  Olio  that  wad  staw  a sow, 

Or  fricassee  wad  make  her  spew 

Wi’  perfect  scunner. 

Looks  down  wi’  sneering,  scornfu’  view 
On  sic  a dinner  ! 

Poor  devil ! see  him  owre  his  trash. 

As  feckless  as  a wither’d  rash. 

His  spindle  shank  a guid  whip-lash. 

His  nieve  a nit ; 

Thro’  bloody  flood  or  held  to  dash. 

Oh  how  unfit ! 

But  mark  the  rustic,  haggis-fed. 

The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread. 
Clap  in  his  walie  nieve  a blade. 

He’ll  mak  it  wliissle ; 

And  legs,  and  arms,  and  heads  will  sned. 
Like  taps  o’  thnssle. 

Ye  pow’rs  wha  mak  mankind  your  care, 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o’  fare, 

Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware 
That  jaups  in  luggies ; 

But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu’  pray’r, 

Gie  her  a Haggis  1 


Ed  3Hfes  ICfigait,  tnitl;  taitirt  ^dhiis, 

AS  A NEW  YEAR’S  GIFT,  JAN.  1.  1787. 
(192) 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  annual  round  have  driv’n. 

And  you,  tho’  scarce  in  maiden  prime, 

Are  so  much  nearer  Heav’n. 

No  gifts  have  I from  Indian  coasts 
The  infant  year  to  hail ; 

I send  you  more  turn  India  boasts 
In  Edwin’s  simple  tale. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 
Is  charg’d,  perhaps,  too  true; 

But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 
, An  Edwin  still  to  you  I 


fotrmpnrp  in  t!j?  Cmirt  nf  frishra* 

TUN  E — Cillicrankie. 

LORD  ADVOCATE.  (193) 

He  clench’d  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist. 

He  quoted  and  he  hinted. 

Till  in  a declamation-mist  . 

His  argument  he  tint  it : 

He  gaped  for’t,  he  graiped  for*t. 

He  fand  it  was  awa,  man  ; 

But  what  his  common  sense  came  shorty 
He  eked  out  wi’  law,  man. 

MR.  ERSK1NE.  (194) 

Collected  Harry  stood  a wee. 

Then  open’d  out  his  arm,  man : 

His  lordship  sat  wi’  ruefu’  e’e. 

And  ey’d  the  gathering  storm,  man; 
Like  wind-driv’n  hail,  it  did  assail. 

Or  torrents  owre  a linn,  man  ; 

The  bench  sae  wise  lift  up  their  eyes, 
Half-wauken’d  wi’  the  din,  man. 

®n  tjjE  (SntimifE  of  ttanrljnp?  ftnsf. 

. (195) 

“ My  can  tie,  witty,  rhyming  ploughman, 

I hafflins  doubt  it  is  na’  true,  man, 

That  ye  between  the  stilts  was  bred, 

Wi’  ploughmen  schooled,  wi’  ploughmen  fed 
I doubt  it  sair,  ye’ve  drawn  your  knowledge 
Either  frae  grammar-school  or  college. 

Guid  troth,  your  saul  and  body  baith 
War  better  fed,  I’d  gie  my  aith, 

Than  theirs  who  sup  sour  milk  and  parritch. 
And  bummil  through  the  single  Carritch. 
Whaever  heard  the  ploughman  speak, 

Could  tell  gif  Homer  was  a Greek  J 
He’d  flee  as  soon  upon  a cudgel, 

As  get  a single  line  of  Virgil. 

And  then  sae  slee  ye  crack  your  jokes 
O’  Willie  Pitt  and  Charlie  Fox  : 

Our  great  men  a’  sae  weel  descrive. 

And  how  to  gar  the  nation  thrive, 

Ane  maist  wad  swear  ye  dwelt  amang  them* 
And  as  ye  saw  them  sae  ye  sang  them. 

But  be  ye  ploughman,  be  ye  peer, 

Ye  are  a funny  blade,  I swear  ; 

And  though  the  cauld  I ill  can  bide, 

Yet  twenty  miles  and  mair  I’d  ride 
O’er  moss  and  moor,  and  never  grumble, 
Though  my  auld  yad  should  gie  a stumble^ 

To  crack  a winter  night  wi’  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sangs  and  sonnets  slee. 

Oh  gif  I kenn’d  but  where  ye  baide, 

I’d  send  to  you  a marled  plaid  ; 

’Twad  houd  your  shouthers  warm  and  brair9 
And  douce  at  k.irk  or  market  shaw  ; 

Fra’  south  as  weel  as  north,  my  lad, 

A’  honest  Scotsmen  loe  the  maud.” 

I mind  it  weel  in  early  date. 

When  I was  beardless  young,  ai*4  hlate^ 
And  first  could  thresh  the  bam ; 

Or  baud  a yokin’  at  the  plengh; 

And  tho’  forfoughten  sair  eueug 
Yet  unco  proud  to  learn : 


PROLOGUE. 


163 


When  first  amang  the  yellow  com 

A man  I reckon’d  was, 

And  wi’  the  lave  ilk  merry  mom 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass. 

Still  shearing,  and  clearings 
The  tither  stooked  raw, 

Wi’  claivers,  and  haivers. 

Wearing  the  day  awa. 

E'en  then,  a wish,  I mind  its  pow*r— 
A wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 
Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast— 
That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland’s  sake. 
Some  usefu’  plan  or  beuk  could  make 
Or  sing  a sang  at  least 
The  rough  burr-thissle,  spreading  wide 
Amang  the  bearded  bear, 

I turn’d  the  weeder-clips  aside. 

And  spar’d  the  symbol  dear : 

No  nation,  no  station. 

My  envy  e’er  could  raise, 

A Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 

I knew  nae  higher  praise. 

But  still  the  elements  o’  sang  • 

In  formless  jumble,  right  and  wrang. 
Wild  floated  in  my  brain  ; 

Till  on  that  hur’st  I said  before. 

My  partner  in  the  merry  core. 

She  rous’d  the  forming  strain : 

I see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  quean. 

That  lighted  up  her  jingle. 

Her  witching  smile,  her  pauky  een 
That  gart  my  heart-strings  tingle : 

I fired,  inspired, 

At  every  kindling  keek. 

But  bashing  and  dashing 
I feared  aye  to  speak. 

Health  to  the  sex,  ilk  guid  chiel  says, 
Wi’  merry  dance  in  winter  days. 

And  we  to  share  in  common : 

The  gust  o’  joy,  the  balm  of  woe. 

The  saul  o’  life,  the  heaven  below. 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 

Ye  surly  sumphs,  who  hate  the  name. 
Be  mindfu’  o’  your  mitlier : 

Bhe,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame 
That  ye’re  connected  with  her. 

Ye’re  wae  men,  ye’re  nae  men 
That  slight  the  lovely  dears; 

To  shame  ye,  disclaim  ye. 

Ilk  honest  birkie  swears. 

For  you,  no  bred  to  barn  and  byre, 
Wha  sweetly  tune  the  Scottish  lyre^ 
Thanks  to  you  for  your  line  : 

The  marled  plaid  ye  kindly  spare. 

By  me  should  gratefully  be  ware; 
*Twari  please  me  to  the  nine. 


I’d  be  mair  vauntie  o*  my  hap. 
Douce  hingin’  owre  my  curple^ 
Than  ony  ermine  ever  lap, 

Or  proud  imperial  purple. 

Fareweel  then,  lang  heal  then* 
And  plenty  be  your  fa’. 
May  losses  and  crosses 
Ne’er  at  your  hallan  ca*. 


Vnm 

WRITTEN  UNDER  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  FERGUSSOW, 
THE  POET,  IN  A COPY  OF  THAT  AUTHOR ’M 
WORKS  PRESENTED  TO  A YOUNO  LADY  Ilf 
EDINBURCII,  MARCH  19,  1787. 

Curse  on  ungrateful  man,  that  can  bo 
pleas’d,  [pleasure ! 

And  yet  can  starve  the  author  of  the 
Oh  thou,  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune. 

By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  muses, 

With  tears  I pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ! 

Why  is  the  bard  unpitied  by  the  world, 

Yet  has  so  keen  a relish  of  its  pleasures  ? 


Snstriptinn 

ON  TIIE  HEADSTONE  OF  FERGU8SOW. 
Here  lies 

Robert  Fergusson,  Poet, 

Born,  Sept.  5,  1751. 

Died,  Oct.  15,  1774. 

No  sculptured  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 
“No  storied  urn  nor  animated  bust;” 

This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia’s  way 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o’er  her  poet’s  dust. 


^faring®, 

8POKEN  BY  MR.  WOODS  ON  HIS  BENEFIT 
NIGHT. 

Monday,  1 6th  April,  1787.  (196) 

When  by  a generous  Public’s  kind  acclaim. 
That  dearest  meed  is  granted — honest  fame : 
When  here  your  favour  is  the  actor’s  lot. 
Nor  even  the  man  in  private  life  forgot; 
What  breast  so  dead  to  heav’nly  Virtue’s  glow. 
But  heavesimpassion’dwithtliegrateful  throe. 

Poor  is  the  task  to  please  a barb’rous 
throng,  [song. 

It  needs  no  Siddons*  powers  in  Southern’s 
But  here  an  ancient  nation  fam’d  afar. 

For  genius,  learning  high,  as  great  in  war— 
Hail,  Caledonia,  name  for  ever  dear! 
Before  whose  sous  I’m  honour'd  to  appear  l 


*64 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Where  every  science — every  nobler  art — 
That  can  inform  the  mind,  or  mend  the  heart, 
Is  known ; as  grateful  nations  oft  have  found 
Far  as  the  rude  barbarian  marks  the  bound. 
Philosophy,  no  idle  pedant  dream, 

Here  holds  her  search  by  heaven-taught 
Reason’s  beam; 

Here  history  paints  with  elegance  and  force. 
The  tide  of  Empire’s  fluctuating  course ; 
Here  Douglas  forms  wild  Shakespeare  into 
plan. 

And  Harley  (197)  rouses  all  the  god  in  man, 
When  well-form’d  taste  and  sparkling  wit 
unite 

With  manly  lore,  or  female  beauty  bright 
(Beauty,  where  faultless  symmetry  and 
grace. 

Can  only  charm  us  in  the  second  place). 
Witness  my  heart,  how  oft  with  panting 
fear 

As  on  this  night,  I’ve  met  these  judges  here ! 
But  still  the  hope  Experience  taught  to 
live. 

Equal  to  judge — you’re  candid  to  forgive. 

No  hundred-headed  Riot  here  we  meet. 
With  decency  and  law  beneath  his  feet ; 

Nor  Insolence  assumes  fair  Freedom’s  name; 
like  Caledonians,  you  applaud  or  blame. 

Oh  thou  dread  Power;  whose  empire- 
giving hand  [land ! 

Has  oft  been  stretch’d  to  shield  the  honour’d 
Strong  may  she  glow  with  all  her  ancient 
fire ! 

May  every  son  be  worthy  of  his  sire! 

Firm  may  she  rise  with  generous  disdain 
At  Tyranny’s,  or  direr  Pleasure’s  chain  ! 

Still  self-dependent  in  her  native  shore. 

Bold  may  she  brave  grim  Danger’s  loudest 
roar,  [no  more. 

Till  fate  the  curtain  drop  on  world’s  to  be 


ta  William  forrjr. 

(198) 

Auld  chuckie  Reekie’s  (199)  sair  distrest, 
Down  droops  her  ance  week  burnish’d  crest, 
Nae  joy  her  bonnie  buskit  nest. 

Can  yield  awa, 

Her  darling  bird  that  she  lo’es  best, 
Willie’s  ava  \ 

Oh  Willie  was  a *itty  wight. 

And  had  o’  thing?  an  unco  slight; 

Auld  Reekie  aye  he  keopit  tight. 

And  trig  and  braw  : 

But  now  they’ll  busk  her  like  a fright— 
Willie’s  awa  l 


The  stillest  o’  them  a’  he  bow’d ; 

The  bauldest  o’  them  a’  he  cow’d ; 

They  durst  nae  mair  than  he  allow’d, 

That  was  a law  : 

We’ve  lost  a birkie  weel  worth  gowd— 
Willie’s  awa ! 

Now  gawkies,  tawpies,  gowks,  and  fools, 
Erae  colleges  and  boarding-schools, 

May  sprout  like  simmer  puddock-stools 
In  glen  or  shaw  ; 

He  wha  could  brush  them  down  to  mods, 
Willie’s  awa ! 

The  brethren  o’  the  Commerce-Chauraw 

(200) 

May  morn  their  loss  wi’  doolfu’  clamour ; 

He  was  a dictionar  and  grammar 
Amang  them  a’ ; 

I fear  they’ll  now  mak  mony  a stammer— 
Willie’s  awa ! 

Nae  mair  we  see  his  levee  door 
Philosophers  and  poets  pour. 

And  toothy  critics  by  the  score. 

In  bloody  raw ! 

The  adjutant  o’  a’  the  core, 

Willie’s  awa ! 

Now  worthy  Gregory’s  Latin  face, 

Tytler’s  and  Greenfield’s  modest  grace; 
Mackenzie,  Stewart,  sic  a brace 

As  Rome  ne’er  saw ; 

They  a’  maim  meet  some  ither  place, 

Willie’s  awa ! 

Poor  Burns  — e’en  Scotch  drink  cacjj  a 
quicken. 

He  cheeps  like  some  bewilder’d  chicken. 
Scar’d  frae  its  minnie  and  the  cleckin 
By  hoodie-craw ! 

Grief’s  gien  his  heart  an  unco  kickin’— 
Willie’s  awa! 

Now  ev’ry  sour-mou’d  girnin’  blellum. 

And  Calvin’s  folk,  are  fit  to  fell  him ; 

And  self-conceited  critic  skellum 

His  qnill  may  draw  ; 

He  wha  could  brawlie  ward  their  belluxn, 
Willie’s  awa! 

Up  wimpling  stately  Tweed  I’ve  sped. 

And  Eden  scenes  on  crystal  Jed, 

And  Ettrick  banks  now  roaring  re  I, 

While  tempests  blaw; 

But  every  joy  and  pleasure’s  fled — 

Willie’s  awa ! 

May  I be  slander’s  common  speech; 

A text  for  infamy  to  preach  ; 

And  lastly,  streekit  out  to  bleach 
In  winter  snaw ; 

When  I forget  thee,  Willie  Creech, 
i Thu’  far  awn  1 


ON  SCARING  SOME  WATER-FOWL  IN  LOCH-TURIT. 


1G5 


May  never  wicked  fortune  touzle  him  ! 

May  never  wicked  men  bamboozle  him! 
Until  a pow  as  auld’s  Methusalem 
He  canty-claw  ! 

Then  to  the  Jessed  New  Jerusalem, 

Fleet  wing  awa ! 

<®n  tjjB  Dcatlj  nf  lit  Sanro  Saater  JSIatr. 

(201) 

The  lamp  of  day,  with  ill-presaging  glare. 
Dim,  cloudy,  sank  beneath  the  western 
wave.  [dark’ning  air, 

TIT  inconstant  blast  howl’d  through  the 
And  hollow  whistled  in  the  rocky  cave. 
Lone  as  I wander’d  by  each  cliff  and  dell. 
Once  the  lov’d  haunts  of  Scotia’s  royal 
train  (202) ; [well  (203), 

Or  mus’d  where  limpid  streams  once  hallow’d 
Or  mould’ring  ruins  mark  the  sacred  fane. 
(204) 

Th’  increasing  blast  roared  round  the  beetling 
rocks,  [starry  sky. 

The  clouds,  swift-wing’d,  flew  o’er  the 
The  groaning  trees  untimely  shed  their  locks. 
And  shooting  meteors  caught  the  startled 
eye. 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  livid  east. 

And  ’mong  the  cliffs  disclos’d  a stately 
form. 

In  weeds  of  woe,  that  frantic  beat  her  breast. 
And  mix’d  her  wailings  with  the  raving 
storm. 

Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow, 

’Twas  Caledonia’s  trophied  shield  I view’d : 
Her  form  majestic-droop’d  in  pensive  woe. 
The  lightning  of  her  eye  in  tears  imbued. 
Revers’d  that  spear,  redoubtable  in  war. 
Reclin’d  that  banner,  erst  in  fields  unfurl’d. 
That  like  a deathful  meteor  gleam’d  afar. 

And  brav’d  the  mighty  monarchs  of  the 
world. 

y My  patriot  son  fills  an  uu timely  grave ! ” 
With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms — she 
cried ; [save, 

* Low  lies  the  hand  that  oft  was  stretch’d  to 
Low  lies  the  heart  that  swell’d  with  honest 
pride. 

A weeping  country  joins  a widow’s  tear ; 

The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  orphan’s 
cry;  ^ [bier; 

The  drooping  arts  surround  their  patron’s 
And  grateful  science  heaves  the  heart-felt 
sigh ! 

I saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire ; 

I saw  fair  freedom’s  blossoms  richly  blow : 
But  ah  ! how  hope  is  born  but  to  expire  ! 
Relentless  fate  has  laid  their  guardian  low. 


My  patriot  falls,  but  shall  he  lie  unsung, 
While  empty  greatness  saves  a worthies* 
name? 

No;  every  muse  shall  join  her  tuneful  tongue 
And  future  ages  hear  his  growing  fame. 

And  I will  join  a mother’s  tender  cares. 

Thro’  future  times  to  make  his  virtue  last ; 
That  distant  years  may  boast  of  other 
Blairs  ! ” — [blast. 

She  said,  and  vanish’d  with  the  sweepirqf 


Iraring  mm  ajTaftr-^nmi  iu  f ar|p 
farit. 

A WILD  SCENE  AMONG  THE  HILLS  OF  OCHTEHTJBE* 

Why  ye  tenants  of  the  lake. 

For  me  your  wat’ry  haunt  forsake? 

Tell  me,  fellow-creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 

Why  disturb  your  social  joys. 

Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties  ? — 

Common  friend  to  you  and  me. 

Nature’s  gifts  to  all  are  free  : 

Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave^ 

Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave ; 

Or  beneath  the  sheltering  rock. 

Bide  the  surging  billows  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race. 

Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I trace. 

Man,  your  proud  usurping  foe, 

Would  be  lord  of  all  below : 

Plumes  himself  in  Freedom’s  prides 
Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 

The  eagle,  from  yon  cliffy  brow. 

Marking  you  his  prey  below. 

In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells. 

Strong  necessity  compels : 

But  man,  to  whom  alone  is  giv’n 
A ray  direct  from  pitying  Heav’n 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane — 

And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  slain. 

In  these  savage,  liquid  plains. 

Only  known  to  wand’ring  swains. 

Where  the  mossy  riv’let  strays. 

Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways; 

All  on  Nature  you  depend. 

And  life’s  poor  season  peaceful  spe&4 

Or,  if  man’s  superior  might 
Dare  invade  your  native  right. 

On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 

Man  with  all  his  pow 'rs  you  scorn ; 

Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings. 

Other  lakes  and  other  springs ; 

And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave. 

Scorn,  at  least,  to  be  his  slave. 


168 


BURNS’S  POETIf  JL  WORKS. 


®jlf  Umit&lt  fSrtitinn  nf  irnar  U'atrr. 

TO  THE  NOBLE  DUKE  OF  ATHOLE.  (305) 
My  Lord,  I know  your  noble  ear 
Woe  ne’er  assails  in  vain  ; 

Embolden’d  thus,  I beg  you’ll  hear 
Your  humble  slave  complain. 

How  saucy  Phoebus’  scorching  beams, 

In  flaming  summer-pride. 

Dry-withering,  waste  my  foamy  streams. 
And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 

The  lightly-jumpin’  glowrin’  trouts. 

That  thro’  my  waters  play. 

If,  in  their  random,  wanton  spouts. 

They  near  the  margin  stray  ; 

If,  hapless  chance ! they  linger  lang, 

I’m  scorching  up  so  shallow, 

They’re  left  the  whitening  stanes  amang, 

In  gasping  death  to  wallow. 

Last  day  I grat  wi’  spite  and  teexr. 

As  poet  Burns  came  by. 

That  to  a bard  I should  be  seen 
Wi’  half  my  channel  dry : 

A panegyric  rhyme,  I ween. 

Even  as  I was  he  shor’d  mej 
But  had  I in  my  glory  been. 

He,  kneeling,  wad  ador’d  me. 

Here,  foaming  down  the  shelvy  rocks, 

In  twisting  strength  I rin ; 

There,  high  my  boiling  torrent  smokes. 

Wild  roaring  o’er  a linn : 

Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well. 

As  nature  gave  them  me, 

I am,  altho’  I say’t  mysel’ 

Worth  gaun  a mile  to  see. 

Would  then  my  noble  master  please 
To  grant  my  highest  wishes, 

He’ll  shade  my  banks  wi’  tow’ring  trees. 

And  bonnie  spreading  bushes. 

Delighted  doubly  then,  my  Lord, 

You’ll  wander  on  my  banks. 

And  listen  mony  a grateful  bird 
Return  you  tuneful  thanks. 

The  sober  laverock,  warbling  wild. 

Shall  to  the  skies  aspire ; 

The  gowdspink,  music’s  gayest  child. 

Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir. 

The  blackbird  strong,  the  lintwhite  clear. 

The  mavis  mild  and  mellow ; 

The  robin  pensive  autumn  cheer. 

In  all  her  locks  of  yellow. 

This,  too,  a '.overt  shall  insure 
To  shield  tnem  from  the  storm; 

And  cows  rd  maukin  sleep  secure^ 

Low  in  her  grassy  form : 


Here  shall  the  shepherd  make  his  se&t^ 
To  weave  his  crown  of  flow’rs : 

Or  find  a shelt’ring  safe  retreat 
From  prone  descending  show’rs. 

And  here,  by  sweet  endearing  stealth. 
Shall  meet  the  loving  pair. 

Despising  worlds  with  all  their  wealth 
As  empty  idle  care. 

The  flow’rs  shall  vie  in  all  their  charm* 
The  hour  of  heav’n  to  grace. 

And  birks  extend  their  fragrant  arms 
To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 

Here,  haply  too,  at  vernal  dawn. 

Some  musing  bard  may  stray. 

And  eye  the  smoking,  dewy  lawn. 

And  misty  mountain  gray ; 

Or,  by  the  reaper’s  nightly  beam, 
Mild-chequering  thro’  the  trees. 
Rave  to  my  darkly-dashing  stream. 
Hoarse  swelling  on  the  breeze. 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool. 

My  lowly  banks  o’erspread. 

And  view,  deep-bending  in  the  pool. 
Their  shadows’  water’y  bed ! 

Let  fragrant  birks  in  woodbines  drest 
My  craggy  cliffs  adorn ; 

And,  for  the  little  songsters  nest. 

The  close  embow’ring  thorn. 

So  may  old  Scotia’s  darling  hope. 

Your  little  angel  band. 

Spring,  like  their  fathers,  up  to  prop 
Their  honour’d  native  land ! 

So  may,  thro’  Albion’s  farthest  ken. 

To  social  flowing  glasses. 

The  grace  be — “ Athole’s  honest  rnent 
And  Athole’s  bonnie  lasses  ! ” 


€Ijb  Sennit. 

WRITTEN  ON  A MARBLE  SIDEBOARD,  IN 

HERMITAGE  BELONGING  TO  THE  DUKE  C9 
ATHOLE,  IN  THE  WOOD  OP  ABERFELDY. 

Whoe’er  thou  art,  these  lines  now  reading, 
Think  not,  though  from  the  world  receding, 
I joy  my  lonely  days  to  lead  in 
This  desert  drear ; 

That  fell  remorse  a conscience  bleeding 
Hath  led  me  here. 

No  thought  of  guilt  my  bosom  sours; 
Free-will’d  I fled  from  courtly  bowers  ; 

For  well  I saw  in  halls  and  towers 
That  lust  and  pride. 

The  arch-fiend’s  dearest,  darkest  powen^ 

In  state  preside. 


ELEGY  ON  I 

J saw  mankind  with  rice  encrusted ; 

I 9uw  that  honour’s  sword  was  rusted; 

That  few  for  aught  but  folly  lusted ; 

That  he  was  still  deceiv’d  who  trusted 
To  love  or  friend ; 

And  hither  came,  with  men  disgusted. 

My  life  to  end. 

In  this  lone  cave,  in  garments  lowly. 

Alike  a fee  to  noisy  folly. 

And  brow-bent  gloomy  melancholy, 

I wear  away 

My  life,  and  in  my  office  holy 

Consume  the  day. 

This  rock  my  shield;  when  storms  are  blowing, 
The  limpid  streamlet  yonder  flowing 
Supplying  drink,  the  earth  bestowing 
My  simple  food ; 

But  few  enjoy  the  calm  I know  in 
This  desert  wood. 

Content  and  comfort  bless  me  more  in 
This  grot,  than  e’er  I felt  before  in 
A palace — and  with  thoughts  still  soaring 
To  God  on  high. 

Each  night  and  morn  with  voice  imploring. 
This  wish  I sigh. 

u Let  me,  oh  Lord  ! from  life  retire. 
Unknown  each  guilty  worldly  lire. 

Remorse’s  throb,  or  loose  desire ; 

And  when  I die. 

Let  me  in  this  belief  expire — ■ 

To  God  i fly.” 

Stranger,  if  full  of  youth  and  riot. 

And  yet  no  grief  has  marr’d  thy  quiet. 

Thou  haply  throw’st  a scornful  eye  at 
The  hermit’s  prayer — 

But  if  thou  hast  good  cause  to  sigh  at 
Thy  fault  or  care ; 

If  thou  hast  known  false  love’s  vexation. 

Or  hast  been  exiled  from  thy  nation. 

Or  guilt  affrights  thy  contemplation. 

And  makes  thee  pine, 

Oh ! how  must  thou  lament  thy  station, 

And  envy  mine  l 


Utrsi J 

WRITTEN  WITH  A PENCIL  OVER  THE  CniMNEY- 
P1ECK,  IN  THE  PARLOUR  OP  THE  INN  AT  KEN- 
MORE,  TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 
VUese  northern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I trace; 
O’er  many  a winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 
Th’  abodes  of  covied  grouse  and  timid  sheep. 
My  savage  journey,  curious,  I pursue. 

Till  fam’d  Breadelbane  opens  to  my  view. 
The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides, 
Vhe  woods,  wild  scatter’d*  clothe  their  ample 
■ des ; 


>PJ)  DUNDAB.  I6T 

Th’  outstretching  lake,  embosom’d  ’mong 
the  hills, 

The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills; 
The  Tay,  meand’ring  sweet  in  infant  pride. 
The  palace,  rising  on  its  verdant  side ; 

The  lawns,  wood- fring’d  in  Nature’s  native 
taste ; [haste ; 

The  hillocks,  dropt  in  Nature’s  careless 
The  arches,  striding  o’er  the  new-born 
stream ; [beam— 

The  village,  glittering  in  the  noontide 

* * « * 

Poetic  ardours  in  my  bosom  swell, 

Lone  wand’ring  by  the  hermit’s  mossy  cell : 
The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods  ; 

Th’  incessant  roar  of  headlong  tumbling 
floods — 

* • * • 

Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  heav’n-taught 
lyre. 

And  look  through  nature  with  creative  fire ; 
Here,  to  the  wrongs  of  fate  half  reconcil’d 
Misfortune’s  lighten’d  steps  might  wander 
' wild ; 

And  disappointment,  in  these  lonely  bounds. 
Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter,  rankling 
wounds : [stretch  her  scan. 

Here  heart-struck  Grief  might  heav’nward 
And  injur’d  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 

* • « • 


(gltgtj  na  tljp  B.atjj  nf  furii 
Bunks.  (206) 

Lone  on  the  bleaky  hills  the  straying  flocks 
Shun  the  fierce  storms  among  the  sheltering 
rocks ; [rains, 

Down  from  the  rivulets,  red  with  dashing 
The  gathering  floods  burst  o’er  the  distant 
plains ; 

Beneath  the  blasts  the  leafless  forests  groar  5 
The  hollow  caves  return  a sullen  moan. 

Ye  hills,  ye  plains,  ye  forests,  and  ye  caves. 
Ye  howling  winds,  and  wintry  swelling  waves! 
Unheard,  unseen,  by  human  ear  or  eye. 

Sad  to  your  sympathetic  scenes  I fly ; 

Where  to  the  whistling  blast  and  waters’  roaf 
Pale  Scotia’s  recent  wound  I may  deplore. 
Oh  heavy  loss,  thy  country  ill  could  bear ! 

A loss  these  evil  days  can  ne’er  repair ! 
Justice,  the  high  vicegerent  of  her  God, 

Her  doubtful  balance  ey’d,  and  sway’d  hef 
rod ; 

Hearing  the  tidings  of  the  fatal  blow 
She  sank,  abandon’d  to  the  wilde  it  woe. 
Wrongs,  injuries,  from  many  a darksome  den, 
Now  gay  in  hope  explore  the  paths  of  mens 


1G8 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


See  from  his  cavern  grim  Oppression  rise. 
And  throw  on  poverty  his  cruel  eyes  ; 

Keen  on  the  helpless  victim  see  him  fly. 

And  stifle,  dark,  the  feebly-bursting  cry. 
Mark  ruffian  Violence,  distained  with  crimes 
Rousing  elate  in  these  degenerate  times ; 
View  unsuspecting  Innoceaj^e  a prey. 

As  guileful  Fraud  points  oitf  the  erring  way : 
While  subtile  Litigation’s  pliant  tongue 
The  life-blood  equal  sucks  of  Right  and 
W rong : [tale, 

Hark,  injur’d  Want  recounts  th’  unlisten’d 
And  much-wrong’d  mis’ry  pours  th’  unpitied 
Wail! 

Ye  dark  waste  hills,  and  brown  unsightly 
plains. 

To  you  I sing  my  grief-inspired  strains : 

Ye  tempests,  rage  ! ye  turbid  torrents,  roll ! 
Ye  suit  the  joyless  tenor  of  my  soul. 

Life’s  social  haunts  and  pleasures  I resign. 
Re  nameless  wilds  and  lonely  wanderings 
mine. 

To  mourn  the  woes  my  country  must  endure, 
That  wound  degenerate  ages  cannot  cure. 


SJcracs 

WRITTEN  WHILE  STANDING  BY  THE  FALL 
OF  FYERS,  NEAR  LOCH-NESS. 

A icon  g the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods ; 
The  foaming  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods. 
Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds. 
Where,  thro’  a shapeless  beach,  his  stream 
resounds, 

A 3 high  in  air  the  bursting  torrents  flow. 

As  deep-recoiling  surges  foam  below. 

Prone  down  the  rock  the  whitening  sheet 
descends. 

And  viewless  Echo’s  ear,  astonished,  rends. 
Dim  seen,  through  rising  mists  and  ceaseless 
show’rs. 

The  hoary  cavern,  wide  surrounding  low’rs; 
Still  thro’  the  gap  the  struggling  river  toils. 
And  still  below,  the  horrid  cauldron  boils — 

♦ * * * 


CN  KEAP'NG  IN  A NEWSPAPER 

fljB  fratfr  nf  M)n  feij., 

BROTHER  TO  A YOUNG  LADY,  A PARTICU- 
LAR FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR’S. 

Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page. 

And  rueful  thy  alarms — 

Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love 
From  Isabella’s  arms. 

Sweetly  deck’d  with  pearly  dew 
The  morning  rose  may  blow, 

Rut  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 
May  lay  its  beauties  low. 


Fair  on  Isabella’s  m<!rn 
The  sun  propitious  smil’d, 

But,  long  ere  noon,  succeeding  clc-Uiib 
Succeeding  hopes  beguil’d. 

Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  cords 
That  Nature  finest  strung ; 

So  Isabella’s  heart  was  form’d. 

And  so  that  heart  was  wrung. 

Were  it  in  the  poet’s  power, 

Strong  as  he  shares  the  grief. 

That  pierces  Isabella’s  heart. 

To  give  that  heart  relief. 

Dread  Omnipotence,  alone. 

Can  heal  the  wound  he  gave— 

Can  point  the  brimful  grief-worn  eyes 
To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

Virtue’s  blossoms  there  shall  blow. 
And  fear  no  with’ring  blast ; 

There  Isabella’s  spotless  worth 
Shall  happy  be  at  last. 


£>it  William  ^tntllit.  (207) 

Shrew’d  Willie  Smellie  to  Crochallan  (208) 
came,  [same ; 

The  old  cock’d  hat,  the  grey  surtout,  th# 
His  bristling  beard  just  rising  in  its  might, 
’Twas  four  long  nights  and  days  to  shaving 
night ; [thatch’d 

His  uncomb’d  grizzly  locks  wild  staring, 
A head  for  thought  profound  and  clear  >in 
match’d ; 

Yet  tho’  his  caustic  wit  was  biting,  rude, 

His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent,  and  good. 


IMnra  in  fflt.  H$illiam  fttj'Irr. 

WITH  THE  PRESENT  OF  THE  BARD’S 
PICTURE.  (209) 

Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 

Of  Stuart  a name  once  respected — 

A name  which  to  love  was  the  mark  of  a true 
heart. 

But  now  ’tis  despised  and  neglected. 

Tho’  something  like  moisture  conglobes  in 
my  eye, 

Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal ; [sigh, 
A poor  friendless  wand’rer  may  well  claim  a 
Still  more,  if  that  wand’rer  were  royal. 

My  fathers  that  name  have  rever’d  on  a 
throne ; 

My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it ; [son. 
Those  fathers  would  spurn  their  degenerate 
That  name  should  he  scoffingly  slignt  it. 


TO  CLAIILNDA. 


16$ 


Still  in  prayers  for  King  George  I most  hear- 
tily join. 

The  Queen,  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry. 

Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of 
mine ; 

Their  title’s  avowed  by  my  country. 

But  why  of  that  epocha  make  such  a fuss* 
That  gave  us  the  Hanover  stem ; 

If  bringing  them  over  was  lucky  for  us, 

I’m  sure  ’twas  as  lucky  for  them. 

But  loyalty,  truce  I we’re  on  dangerous 
ground. 

Who  knows  how  the  fashions  may  alter  ? 
The  doctrine,  to-day,  that  is  loyalty  sound. 
To-morrow  may  bring  us  a halter ! 

I send  you  a trifle,  a head  of  a bard, 

A trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care  ; 

But  accept  it,  good  Sir,  as  a mark  of  regard. 
Sincere  as  a saint’s  dying  prayer. 

Now  life’s  chilly  evening  dim  shades  on  your 
And  ushers  the  long  dreary  night ; [eye. 
But  you  like  the  star  that  athwart  gilds  the 
Your  course  to  the  latest  is  bright,  [sky^ 


1 fkrfrjj.  (210) 

A little,  upright,  pert,  tart  tripping  wight. 
And  still  his  precious  self  his  dear  delight : 
Who  loves  his  own  smart  shadow  in  the 
streets. 

Better  than  e’er  the  fairest  she  he  meets, 

A man  of  fashion  too,  he  made  his  tour. 
Learn’ d vive  la  bagatelle , et  vive  V amour 
So  travelled  monkies  their  grimace  improve, 
Polish  their  grin,  nay,  sigh  for  ladies  love. 
Much  specious  lore,  but  little  understood; 
Veneering  oft  outshines  the  solid  wood: 

His  solid  sense — by  inches  you  must  tell, 
But  mete  his  cunning  by  the  old  Scots  ell ! 
His  meddling  vanity,  a busy  fiend 
Still  making  work  his  selfish  craft  must  mend. 


to  Mis  foitofiattfcs. 

A VERY  YOUNG  LADY.  (211) 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A BOOK  PRE- 
SENTED TO  HER  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

Beauteous  rose-bud,  young  and  gay. 
Blooming  in  thy  early  May, 

Never  may’st  thou,  lovely  flow’r. 

Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  show’r ; 

Never  Boreas’  hoary  path. 

Never  Eurus’  poisonous  breath. 

Never  baleful  stellar  lights, 

Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights  ! 

Never,  never  reptile  thief 
Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf  \ 


Nor  even  Sol  loo  fiercely  view 
Thy  bosom  blushing  still  with  dew! 
May’st  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gen^ 
Richly  deck  thy  native  stem  : 

’Till  some  evening,  sober,  calm. 
Dropping  dews  and  breathing  balm. 
While  all  around  the  woodland  ring^ 
And  every  bird  thy  requiem  sings ; 
Thou,  amid  the  dirgeful  sound. 

Shed  thy  dying  honours  round. 

And  resign  to  parent  earth 

The  loveliest  form  she  e’er  gave  birti. 


lit  fxttrapnK  $ ffnsimt, 

ON  BEING  APPOINTED  TO  THE  EXCISE 
Searching  auld  wives  barrels, 

Och,  hon ! the  day  ! 

That  clarty  barm  should  stain  my  laurels ; 
But — what’ll  ye  say ! 

These  muvin’  things  ca’d  wives  and  wean% 
Wad  muve  the  very  hearts  o*  stanes ! 


fit  (Marinira, 

WITH  A PRESENT  OF  A PAIR  OF  DRINKIN9 

GLASSES.  (212) 

Fair  Empress  of  the  Poet’s  sou^ 

And  Queen  of  Poetesses  ! 

Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon. 

This  humble  pair  of  glasses. 

And  fill  them  high  with  generous  juice^ 

As  generous  as  your  mind ; 

And  pledge  me  in  the  generous  toast— 

“ The  whole  of  human  kind  ! ” 

“ To  those  who  love  us!  ” — second  fill; 

But  not  to  those  whom  we  love  ; 

Lest  us  love  those  who  love  not  us  !— 

A third — “ To  thee  and  me,  love ! ** 


to  Clarinira, 

ON  HIS  LEAVING  EDINBURGH. 

Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul. 

The  measur’d  time  is  run  ! 

The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole 
So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

To  what  dark  cave  of  froz^  night 
Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie  ; 

Depriv’d  of  thee,  his  life  and  lights 
The  sun  of  all  his  joy. 

We  part — but,  by  these  precious  dro £$ 
That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes ! 

No  other  light  shall  guide  my  stcpe 
Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex. 

Has  blest  my  glorious  day ; 

And  shall  a glimmering  planet  fis 
My  worship  to  its  ray  ? 


170 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


tfpistif  In  Siigji  ^arkur.  (213) 

In  this  strange  land,  this  uncouth  clime, 

A land  unknown  to  prose  or  rhyme ; 

Where  words  ne’er  crossed  the  muse’s 
Nor  limpet  in  poetic  shackles  ; [heckles, 
A land  that  prose  did  never  view  it. 

Except  when  drunk  he  stacher’t  thro’  it ; 
Here,  ambush’d  by  the  chimla  cheek. 

Hid  in  an  atmosphere  of  reek, 

I hear  a wheel  thrum  i’  the  neuk, 

I hear  it — for  in  vain  I leuk. 

The  red  peat  gleams,  a fiery  kernel, 
Enhusked  by  a fog  infernal : 

Here  for  my  wonted  rhyming  raptures, 

I sit  and  count  my  sins  by  chapters, 

For  life  and  spunk  like  ither  Christians, 

I’m  dwindled  down  to  mere  existence, 

Wi’  nae  converse  but  Gallo wa’  bodies, 

Wi’  nae-kenn’d  face  but  Jenny  Geddes. 
Jenny,  my  Pegaseon  pride ! 

Howie  she  saunters  down  Nithside, 

And  aye  a westlin  heuk  she  throws. 

While  tears  hap  o’er  her  auld  brown  nose  ! 
Was  it  for  this,  wi’  canny  care, 

Thou  bure  the  Bard  through  many  a shire  ? 
At  howes  or  hillocks  never  stumbled. 

And  late  or  early  never  grumbled  ? 

Oh,  had  I power  like  inclination, 

I'd  lieeze  thee  up  a constellation. 

To  canter  with  the  Sagitarre, 

Or  loup  the  ecliptic  like  a bar  ! 

Or  turn  the  pole  like  any  arrow ; 

Or,  when  auld  Phoebus  bids  good-morrow, 
Hown  the  zodiac  urge  the  race. 

And  cast  dirt  on  his  godship’s  face ; 

For  I could  lay  my  bread  and  kail 
He’d  ne’er  cast  salt  upo’  thy  tail. 

Wi’  a’  this  care  and  a’  this  grief, 

And  sma’,  sma’  prospect  of  relief. 

And  nought  but  peat-reek  i’  my  head 
How  can  I write  what  ye  can  read  ? 
Tarbolton,  twenty-fourth  o’  June, 

Ye’ll  find  me  in  a better  tune ; 

But  till  we  meet  and  weet  our  whistle, 

Tak  this  excuse  for  nae  epistle. 

Robert  Burns. 


ttWitrit 

IJf  friars’  carse  hermitage,  on  the 
BANKS  OF  NITH.  (214). 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead. 

Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed. 

Be  thou  deckt  in  silken  stole, 

Grave  these  maxims  on  thy  soul. 

Life  is  but  a day  at  most, 

Sprung  from  night ; in  darkness  lost ; 
Hay,  how  rapid  in  its  flight — 

Day,  how  few  must  see  the  night; 


Hope  not  sunshine  every  hour. 

Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 
Happiness  is  but  a name. 

Make  content  and  ease  thy  aim. 

Ambition  is  a meteor  gleam ; 

Fame  a restless  idle  dream : 

Pleasures,  insects  on  the  wing 

Round  Peace,  the  tend’rest  flower  of  Spr'ngb 

Those  that  sip  the  dew  alone. 

Make  the  butterflies  thy  own ; 

Those  that  would  the  bloom  devour. 

Crush  the  locusts — save  the  flower. 

For  the  future  be  prepar’d. 

Guard  wherever  thou  can’st  guard; 

But  thy  utmost  duly  done. 

Welcome  what  thou  can’st  not  shua. 
Follies  past,  give  thou  to  air. 

Make  their  consequence  thy  care  s 
Keep  the  name  of  man  in  mind. 

And  dishonour  not  thy  kind. 

Reverence  with  lowly  heart. 

Him  whose  wondrous  work  thou  art$ 

Keep  his  goodness  still  in  view. 

Thy  trust — and  thy  example,  too. 
Strauger,  go ; Heaven  be  thy  guide! 
Quoth,  the  Beadsman  on  Nithside 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead. 

Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed. 

Be  thou  deckt  in  silken  stole. 

Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  souL 

Life  is  but  a day  at  most. 

Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost ; 

Hope  not  sunshine  ev’ry  hour. 

Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 

As  youth  and  love  with  sprightly  dancer 
Beneath  thy  morning  star  advance, 

Pleasure  with  her  siren  air 
May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair ; 

Let  Prudence  bless  Enjoyment’s  cup^ 

Then  raptur’d  sip,  and  sip  it  up, 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high. 

Life’s  meridian  flaming  nigh. 

Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale? 

Life’s  proud  summits  would' st  thou  scafcif 
Check  thy  climbing  step  elate. 

Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait : 

Dangers,  eagle-pinion’d,  bold. 

Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold. 

While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  soog; 
Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

As  the  shades  of  ev’ning  close, 
Beck’ning.thee  to  long  repose. 

As  life  itself  becomes  disease. 

Seek  the  chimney-neuk  of  ease  ; 

There  ruminate  with  sober  thought. 

On  all  thou’st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrought  J 
And  teach  the  spovtive  younkers  round, 
Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 


ELEGY. 


m 


Say,  mm’«  true,  genuine  estiaiatOj 
The  grand  criterion  o*  his  fate. 

Is  not — art  thou  high  or  low  ? 

Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 

Wast  thou  cottager  or  king  ? 

Peer  or  peasant  ? — no  such  thing! 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  ? 

Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 
Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind. 
As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find. 
The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  Heav’n, 
To  virtue  or  to  vice  is  giv’n. 

Say,  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise. 
There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies  ; 

That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways 
Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile  and  base. 
Thus  resign’d  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep  ; 

Sleep,  whence  thou  shalt  ne’er  awake. 
Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break. 
Till  future  life,  future  no  more. 

To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore. 

To  light  and  joy  unknown  before. 
Stranger,  go  ! Heav’n  be  thy  guide! 
Q,uoth,  the  Beadsman  of  Nith-side. 


frfrmprt  tn  Captain  HiiM, 

OF  GLENRIDDLE,  ON  RETURNING  A 
NEWSPAPER.  (215) 

Ellisland,  Monday  Evening. 

Your  news  and  review.  Sir,  I’ve  read  through 
and  through.  Sir, 

"With  little  admiring  or  blaming; 

The  papers  are  barren  of  home-new3  or 
foreign. 

No  murders  or  rapes  worth  the  naming. 

Our  friends,  the  reviewers,  those  chippers 
and  hewers, 

Are  judges  of  mortar  and  stone,  Sir ; 

But  of  meet  or  unmeet,  in  & fabric  complete, 

I’ll  boldly  pronounce  they  are  none.  Sir. 

My  goose-quill  too  rude  is  to  tell  all  your 
goodness 

Bestowed  on  your  servant,  the  Poet ; 

Would  to  God  I had  one  like  a beam  of  the 
sun. 

And  then  all  the  world.  Sir,  should  know  it ! 


1 ffintljrr's  Xantrnt. 

FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SON.  (216) 
Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped. 
And  pierc’d  my  darling’s  heart ! 

And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 
Life  can  to  me  impart. 


By  cruel  hands  the  sapling  dropsy 
In  dust  dishonour’d  laid : 

So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopea^ 

My  age’s  future  shade. 

The  mother  linnet  in  the  brake 
Bewails  her  ravish'd  young ; 

So  I,  for  my  lost  darling’s  sake. 
Lament  the  live -day  long. 

Death,  oft  I’ve  fear’d  thy  fatal  blow. 
Now,  fond  I bare  my  breast. 

Oh,  do  thou  kindly  lay  me  low 
With  him  I love,  at  rest  l 


Clrgn 

Olf  THE  YEAR  1788. 

For  Lords  or  Kings  I dinna  mourn. 

E’en  let  them  die — for  that  they're  bornf 
But  oh  ! prodigious  to  reflec’ ! 

A towmont,  Sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck ! 

Oh  Eighty-eight,  in  thy  sma’  space 
What  dire  events  ha’e  taken  place ! 

Of  what  enjoyments  thou  hast  reft  us! 

In  what  a pickle  thou  hast  left  us  ! 

The  Spanish  empire’s  tint  a head, 

And  my  auld  teethless  Bawtie’s  dead; 

The  tulzie’s  sair  ’tween  Pitt  and  Fox, 

And  our  guidwife’s  wee  birdie  cocks  ; 

The  tane  is  game,  a bluidie  devil. 

But  to  the  hen-birds  unco  civil : 

The  tither’s  something  dear  o’  treadin*. 

But  better  stuff  ne’er  claw’d  a midden. 

Ye  ministers,  come  mount  the  pu’pit* 

And  cry  till  ye  be  hoarse  or  roupit, 

For  Eighty-eight  he  wish’d  you  wee]. 

And  gied  you  a’  baith  gear  and  meal; 

E’en  mony  a plack,  and  mony  a peck. 

Ye  ken  yoursels,  for  little  feck  ! 

Ye  bonnie  lasses’  dight  your  e’en. 

For  some  o’  you  ha’e  tint  a frien’ ; 

In  Eighty-eight,  ye  ken,  was  ta’en. 

What  ye’ll  ne’er  hae  to  gie  again. 

Observe  the  very  nowte  and  sheep. 

How  dowf  and  dowie  now  they  creep  f 
Nay,  even  the  yirtli  itsel’  does  cry. 

For  Embro’  wells  are  grutteu  dry. 

Oh  Eighty-nine,  thou’s  but  a bairn. 

And  no  owre  auld,  I hope,  to  learn ! 

Thou  beardless  boy,  I pray  tak’  care. 

Thou  now  has  got  thy  daddy’s  chair, 

Nae  hand-cuff ’d,  muzzl’d,  hap-shackl’d  Rfri 
But  like  himsel’,  a full  free  agent,  [geojg 
Be  sure  ye  follow  out  the  plan 
Nae  waur  than  he  did,  honest  maul 
As  muckle  better  as  you  can. 


17a 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Sittes  tc  il}E  tetjj-lrlji. 

My  curse  upon  thy  venom’d  stang, 

That  shoots  my  tortur’d  gums  alang ; 
And  thro’  my  lugs  gies  mony  a twang, 
Wi’  gnawing  vengeance ; 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi’  bitter  pang, 
like  racking  engines ! 
When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes. 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  cholic  squeezes  ; 
Our  neighbour’s  sympathy  may  ease  us, 
Wi’  pitying  moan; 

Rut  thee — thou  hell  o’  a’  diseases. 

Aye  mocks  our  groan ! 

A down  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle ! 

I kick  the  wee  stools  o’er  the  mickle. 

As  round  the  tire  the  giglets  keckle. 

To  see  me  loup ; 

While,  raving  mad,  I wish  a heckle 
Were  in  their  doup. 

O’  a’  the  num’rous  human  dools, 

111  har’sts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools. 

Or  worthy  friends  rak’d  i’  the  mools. 
Sad  sight  to  see  ! 

The  tricks  o’  knaves,  or  fash  o’  fools — 
Thou  bear’st  the  gree. 
Where’er  that  place  be  priests  ca’  hell. 
Whence  a’  the  tones  o’  mis’ry  yell. 

And  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell. 
In  dreadfu’  raw. 

Thou,  Toothache,  surely  bear’st  the  bell 
Amang  them  a’ ! 

Oh  thou  grim  mischief-making  chiel. 
That  gars  the  notes  of  discord  squeel. 
Till  daft  mankind  aft  dance  a reel 

In  gore  a shoe-thick ! — 
Gie  a’  the  faes  o’  Scotland’s  weal 

A towmond’s  Toothache ! 


Dif, 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OR  MRS. 
OSWALD.  (217) 

Dy/eller  in  yon  dungeon  dark. 

Hangman  of  creation,  mark ! 

Who  in  widow-weeds  appears. 

Laden  with  unhonoured  years. 

Noosing  with  care  a bursting  purser 
Eaited  with  many  a deadly  curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View  the  wither’d  beldam’s  face — 

Can  thy  keen  inspection  trace 

Aught  of  humanity’s  sweet  melting  grace? 

Note  that  eye,  ’tis  rheum  o’erflows, 

Tity’s  flood  there  never  roste. 

Bee  these  hands,  ne’er  stretch’d  to  save, 
Bands  that  took — but  never  gave. 


Keeper  of  Mammon’s  iron  chest, 

Lo,  there  she  goes,  unpitied  and  urlnest 
She  goes,  but  not  to  realms  of  everlas  ting  restl 

ANTI  STROPHE. 

Plunderer  of  armies,  lift  thine  eyes, 

(Awhile  forbear,  ye  tort’ring  fiends ;) 

Seest  thou  whose  step,  unwilling,  hithei 
bends  ? 

No  fallen  angel,  hurl’d  from  upper  skies; 
’Tis  thy  trusty  quondam  mate. 

Doom’d  to  share  thy  fiery  fate. 

She,  tardy,  hell- ward  plies, 

EPODE. 

And  are  they  of  no  more  avail. 

Ten  thousand  giitt’ring  pounds  a-yeai? 

In  other  words,  can  Mammon  fail. 
Omnipotent  as  he  is  here  ? 

Oh,  bitter  mock’ry  of  the  pompous  bier, 
While  down  the  wretched  vital  part  is  driv*nf 
The  cave-lodg’d  beggar,  with  a conscience 
clear, 

Expires  in  rags,  unknown,  and  goes  to  Heav’n. 


tDrlirr  tn  Saints  tenant, 

OP  GLENCONNER.  (218) 

Auld  comrade  dear,  and  brither  sinner. 
How’s  a’  the  folk  about  Glenconnei  ? 

How  do  you  this  blae,  eastlin  wind. 

That’s  like  to  blaw  a body  blind  ? 

For  me,  my  faculties  are  frozen, 

And  ilka  member  nearly  dozen’d. 

I’ve  sent  you  here,  by  Johnnie  Simson, 

Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on 
Smith,  wi’  his  sympathetic  feeling. 

And  Reid,  to  common  sense  appealing. 
Philosophers  have  fought  and  wrangled. 

And  meikle  Greek  and  Latin  mangled. 

Till  wi’  their  logic-jargon  tir’d. 

And  in  the  depth  of  science  mir’d. 

To  common  sense  they  now  appeal. 

What  wives  and  wabsters  see  and  feel. 

But,  hark  ye,  friend ! I charge  you  strict^ 
Peruse  them,  and  return  them  quickly. 

For  now  I’m  grown  sae  cursed  douce 
I pray  and  ponder  butt  the  house ; 

My  shins,  my  lane,  I there  sit  roastin'. 
Perusing  Bunyan,  Brown,  and  Boston  ) 

’Fill  bye  and  bye,  if  I haud  on. 

I’ll  grunt  a blouset  gospel  groan : 

Already  I begin  to  try  it, 

To  cast  my  e’en  up  like  a pvet. 

When  by  the  gun  she  tumbles  o’er, 
Flutt’ring  and  gasping  in  her  gore: 

Sae  shortly  you  shall  see  me  bright* 

A burning  and  a shining  light. 


ITS 


ON  SEEING  A WOUNDED  IIAEE. 


My  henri-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 

Ths  ace  and  wale  o’  honest  men : 

When  bending  down-wi’  auld  grey  hairs. 
Beneath  the  load  of  years  and  cares, 

May  He  who  made  him  still  support  him. 
And  views  beyond  the  grave  comfort  him. 
His  worthy  fam’ly,  far  and  near 
God  bless  them  a’  wi’  grace  and  gear  ! • 

My  auld  schoolfellow,  preacher  Willie, 

The  manly  tar,  my  mason  Billie, 

And  Auchenbay,  I wish  him  joy; 

If  he’s  a parent,  lass  or  boy. 

May  he  be  dad,  and  Meg  the  mither. 

Just  tive-and-forty  years  thegither  ! 

And  no  forgetting  wabster  Charlie, 

I’m  told  he  offers  very  fairly. 

And,  Lord  remember  singing  Sannock, 

Wi’  hale  breeks,  sexpence,  and  a bapnock; 
And  next  my  auld  acquaintance  Nancy, 
Since  she  is  fitted  to  her  fancy ; 

And  her  kind  stars  hae  airted  till  her 
A good  chiel  wi’  a pickle  siller. 

My  kindest,  best  respects  I sen’  it. 

To  cousin  Kate  and  sister  Janet; 

Tell  them,  frae  me,  wi’  chiels  be  cautious, 
For,  faith,  they'll  aiblins  fin’  them  fashious. 
And  lastly,  Jamie,  for  yoursel, 

May  guardian  angels  tak  a spell. 

And  steer  you  seven  miles  south  o’  hell 
But  first,  before  you  see  heaven’s  glory. 

May  ye.  get  mony  a merry  story, 

Mony  a laugh,  and  mony  a drink. 

And  aye  enough  o’  needfu’  clink. 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  and  joy  be  wi’  you. 

For  my  sake  this  I beg  it  o’  you. 

Assist  poor  Simson  a ’ ye  can. 

Ye’ll  fin’  him  just  an  honest  man : 

Bae  I conclude,  and  quat  my  chanter, 

Your’s,  saint  or  sinner, 

Rob  the  Ranter. 


I /ragntrnt. 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  C.  J.  FOX. 

IIow  wisdom  and  folly  meet,  mix  and  unite  ; 

How  virtue  and  vice  blend  their  black  and 
their  white ; 

How  genius,  th’  illustrious  father  of  fiction, 

Confounds  rule  and  law,  reconciles  contra- 
diction— [bustle, 

I sing : if  these  mortals,  the  critics,  should 

I care  not,  not  I — let  the  critics  go  whistle ! 

But  now  for  a patron,  whose  name  and 
whose  glory 

At  once  may  illustrate  and  honour  my  story. 

Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits  ; 

Yet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem 
mere  lucky  hits ; 


With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment 
so  strong,  [wrong ; 

No  man  with  the  half  of  ’em  e’er  went  far 
With  passions  so  potent,  and  fancies  so  bright. 
No  man  with  the  half  of  ’em  e’er  weut  quite 
right ; — ■ 

A sorry,  poor  misbegot  son  of  the  muses. 
For  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses. 

Good  L — d,  what  is  man  ? for  as  simple  he 
looks ; [crooks. 

Do  but  try  to  develope  his  hooks  and  his 
With  his  depths  and  his  shallows,  his  good 
and  his  evil,  [devil. 

All  in  all  he’s  a problem  must  puzzle  the 

On  his  one  ruling  passion  Sir  Pope  hugely 
labours. 

That,  like  th’  Hebrew  walking-switch,  eats 
up  its  neighbours ; 

Mankind  are  his  show-box — a friend,  would 
you  know  him  ? 

Pull  the  string,  ruling  passion  the  picture 
will  show  him. 

What  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a system.. 
One  trifling,  particular  truth  should  hava 
miss’d  him ; 

For,  spite  of  his  fine  theoretic  positions. 
Mankind  i3  a science  defies  definitions. 

Some  sort  all  our  qualities,  each  to  its  tribe. 
And  think  human  nature  they  truly  describe ; 
Have  you  found  this,  or  t’other ! there’s 
more  in  the  wind,  [you’ll  find. 

As  by  one  drunken  fellow  his  comrades 
But  such  is  the  flaw,  or  the  depth  of  the  plan. 
In  the  make  of  that  wonderful  creature  call’d 
man. 

No  two  virtues,  whatever  relation  they  claim. 
Nor  even  two  different  shades  of  the  same. 
Though  like  as  was  ever  twin  brother  to 
brother,  [other. 

Possessing  the  one  shall  imply  you’ve  the 


$it  Imitg  a -SJmtnMi  2kr? 

LIMP  BY  ME,  WHICH  A FELLOW  HAD  JUST 
SHOT.  (219) 

Inhuman  man  ! curse  on  thy  barb’rous  art. 
And  blasted  be  thy  murdet -aiming  eye ; 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a sigh 
Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart. 

Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  w'ood  and  field! 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains ; 

No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and  ver- 
dant  plains 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  fo  *d,  or  pastime  yield. 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


174 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted 
rest. 

No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed ! 

The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o’er  thy 
head. 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest. 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing,  wait 

The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn ; 

I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o’er  the  dewy  lawn. 

And  curse  the  ruffian’s  aim,  and  mourn  thy 
hapless  fate. 


flit  IRirb’s  Harm. 

A SATIRE.  (220) 

Orthodox,  orthodox, 

Wha  believe  in  John  Knox, 

Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience ; 
There’s  a heretic  blast 
Has  been  blawn  in  the  wast, 

That  what  is  no  sense  must  be  nonsense. 
Dr.  Mac  (221),  Dr.  Mac, 

You  should  stretch  on  a rack. 

To  strike  evil  doers  wi’  terror ; 

To  join  faith  and  sense 
Upon  ony  pretence. 

Is  heretic,  damnable  error.  • 

Town  of  Ayr  (222),  town  of  Ayr, 

It  was  mad,  I declare. 

To  meddle  wi’  mischief  a-brevring ; 

Provost  John  (223)  is  still  deaf 
To  the  church’s  relief. 

And  orator  Bob  (224)  is  its  ruin. 

D’rymple  mild  (225),  D’rymple  mild, 
Tho’  your  heart’s  like  a child. 

And  your  life  like  the  new-driven  snaw. 

Yet  that  winna  save  ye, 

Auld  Satan  must  have  ye. 

For  preaching  that  three’s  ane  and  twa. 
Rumble  John  (226),  Rumble  John, 
Mount  the  steps  wi’  a groan, 

Cry  the  book  is  wi’  heresy  cramm’d ; 

Then  lug  out  your  ladle, 

Deal  brimstone  like  adle. 

And  roar  every  note  of  the  damn’d. 

Simper  James  (227),  Simper  James, 
Leave  the  fair  Killie  dames. 

There’s  a holier  chase  in  your  view ; 

I’ll  lay  on  your  head, 

That  the  pack  ye’ll  soon  lead. 

For  puppies  like  you,  there’s  but  few. 

Singet  Sawney  (228),  Singet  Sawney, 
Are  ye  huirding  the  penny. 
Unconscious  what  evil  await ; 

Wi.  a jump,  yell,  and  howl. 

Alarm  every  soul, 

For  the  foul  thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 


Daddy  Auld  (220),  Daddy  Auld, 
There’s  a tod  in  the  fauld, 

A tod  meikle  waur  than  the  clerk  (230)  » 
Though  ye  do  na  skaith. 

Ye’ll  be  in  at  the  death. 

And  if  ye  canna  bite,  j e may  bark. 

Davie  Bluster  (231),  Davie  Bluster, 

If  for  a saint  ye  do  muster. 

The  corps  is  no  nice  of  recruits ; 

Yet  to  worth  let’s  be  just. 

Royal  blood  ye  might  boast. 

If  the  ass  was  the  king  of  the  brutes. 

Jamy  Goose  (232),  Jamy  Goose, 

Ye  ha’e  made  but  toom  roose. 

In  hunting  the  wicked  lieutenant ; 

But  the  Doctor’s  your  mark. 

For  the  L — d’s  haly  ark ; 

He  has  cooper’d  and  cawt  a wrong  pin 

Poet  Willie  (233),  Poet  Willie, 

Gie  the  Doctor  a volley, 

Wi’  your  Liberty’s  Chain  and  your  wit; 

O’er  Pegasus’  side 
Ye  ne’er  laid  a stride. 

Ye  but  smelt,  man,  the  place  where  he  • 

Andro  Gouk  (234),  Andro  Gouk, 

Ye  may  slander  the  book, 

And  the  book  not  the  waur,  let  me  tell  ye; 
Ye  are  rich,  and  look  big. 

But  lay  by  hat  and  wig, 

A.nd  ye’ll  hae  a calf’s  head  o’  sma’  value. 

Barr  Steenie  (235),  Barr  Steenie, 

What  mean  ye,  what  mean  ye  ? 

If  ye’ll  meddle  nae  mair  wi’  the  matter. 

Ye  may  hae  some  pretence 
To  havins  and  sense, 

Wi’  people  wha  ken  ye  know  better. 

Irvine  side  (236),  Irvine  side, 

Wi’  your  turkey-cock  pride. 

Of  manhood  but  sma’  is  your  share ; 

Ye’ve  the  figure,  ’tis  true. 

Even  your  faes  will  allow. 

And  your  friends  they  dare  grant  you  n&g 
mair. 

Muirland  Jock  (237),  Muirland  Jock, 
When  the  Lord  makes  a rock 
To  crush  Common  Sense  for  her  sins. 

If  ill  manners  were  wit. 

There’s  no  mortal  so  fit 
To  confound  the  poor  Doctor  at  ance. 

Holy  Will  (238),  Holy  Wdl, 

There  was  wit  i’  your  skull. 

When  ye  pilfer’d  the  alms  o’  the  poof; 

The  ti  miner  is  scant. 

When  ye’re  ta’en  for  a saunt, 

Wha  should  swing  in  a rape  for  an  houj 


• SKETCH— NEW  YEARS  DAY. 


17* 


Calvin’s  sons,  Cabin’s  sons. 

Seize  your  spir’tual  guns, 
AiidE/mnitioii  you  never  can  need; 

Your  hearts  are  the  stuff. 

Will  be  powther  enough, 

And  your  skulls  are  storehouses  o’  lead. 

Poet  Burns,  Poet  Burns, 

Wi*  your  priest-skelping  turns, 
\$liy  desert  ye  your  auld  native  shire? 
Your  muse  is  a gipsie  : 

E'en  though  she  were  tipsie, 

She  could  ca’  us  nae  waur  than  we  are. 


IK  ANSWER  ^TO  A LETTER. 

Ellisland,  21st  Oct.  1789. 

Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vauntie  ! 
And  are  ye  hale,  and  weel,  and  cantie  ? 

I kenn’d  it  still  your  wee  bit  jauntie. 

Wad  bring  ye  to  : 

Lord  send  you  aye  as  weel’s  I want  ye. 

And  then  yell  do. 

The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron  south  ! (239) 
And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth ! 

He  tauld  mysel  by  word  o’  mouth. 

He’d  tak  my  letter ; 

I lippen’d  to  the  chield  in  trouth. 

And  bade  (240)  nae  better. 

But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron 
Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one 
To  ware  his  theologic  care  on. 

And  holy  study ; 

And  tir’d  o’  saulg  to  waste  his  lear  on. 

E’en  tried  the  body. 

But  what  d’ye  think,  my  trusty  fier, 

I’m  turned  a gauger — Peace  be  here ! 
Parnassian  queans,  1 fear,  I fear. 

Yell  now  disdain  me  I 
And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a-year 
WTill  little  gain  me. 

Ye  glaiket,  gleesome,  dainty  damies, 

Wlia,  by  Castalia’s  wimplin’  streamies, 

Lowp,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbies. 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken. 

That  strang  necessity  supreme  is 
*Mang  sons  o’  men. 

1 nae  a wife  and  twa  wee  laddies. 

They  maun  hae  brose  and  brats  o’  duddies ; 
Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  right  proud  is — 

I need  na  vaunt, 

But  I’ll  sued  besoms — thraw  saugh  woodies. 
Before  they  want. 


Lord  help  me  thro’  this  warld  o’  carol 

I’m  weary  sick  o’t  late  and  air  ! 

Not  but  I hae  a richer  share 

Than  mony  ithers  ;• 

But  why  should  ae  man  better  fare. 

And  a’  men  britliers  ? 

Come,  firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van. 

Thou  stalk  o’  carl  hemp  in  man  ! 

And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne’er  watt 
A lady  fair : 

Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can. 

Will  whyles  do  mair. 

But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme, 

(I’m  scant  o’  verse,  and  scant  o’  timo^) 

To  make  a happy  fire-side  clime 
To  wreans  and  wife. 

That’s  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life. 

My  compliments  to  sister  Beckie ; 

And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Lucky, 

I wat  she  is  a dainty  chuckie, 

As  e’er  tread  clay  ! 

And  gratefully,  my  guid  auld  cockie, 

I’m  yours  for  aye. 

Robert  Bubka 


Ms.  (241) 

Fair  the  face  of  orient  day. 

Fair  the  tints  of  op’ning  rose; 

But  fairer  still  my<  Delia  dawns, 

More  lovely  far  her  beauty  shows. 

Sweet  the  lark’s  wild  warbled  lay. 

Sweet  the  tinkling  rill  to  hear ; 

But,  Delia,  more  delightful  still. 

Steal  thine  accents  on  mine  ear. 

The  flower-enamoured  busy  bee. 

The  rosy  banquet  loves  to  sip  ; 

Sweet  the  streamlet’s  limpid  iaos© 

To  the  sun-brown’d  Arab’s  lip. 

But,  Delia,  on  thy  balmy  lips 
Let  me,  no  vagrant  insect,  rov©; 

Oh,  let  me  steal  one  liquid  kiss. 

For,  oh  ! my  soul  is  parched  with  lot* 


Kkrfrjr— ! Mm-fm's  ®aq. 

TO  MRS  DUNLOP.  (242) 

This  day.  Time  winds  th’  exhausted  chaia^ 
To  run  the  twelvemonth’s  length  again : 

I see  the  old,  bald-pated  fellow, 

With  ardent  eyes,  complexion  sallow, 
Adjust  the  unimpair’d  machine. 

To  wheel  the  equal,  full  routine. 


176 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  absent  lover,  minor  heir. 

In  vain  assail  him  with  their  prayer ; 

Deaf  as  my  friend,  he  secs  them  press. 

Nor  makes  the  hour  one  moment  less. 

Will  you  (the  Major’s  (243)  with  the  hounds. 
The  happy  tenants  share  his  rounds  ; 

Coila’s  fare  Rachel’-s  (244)  care  to-day, 

And  blooming  Keith’s  engaged  with  Gray) 
From  housewife  cares  a minute  borrow — 
—Thai  grandchild’s  cap  will  do  to-morrow — - 
And  joifl  with  me  a-moralizing : 

This  day’s  propitious  to  be  wise  in. 

First,  what  did  yesternight  deliver? 
u Another  year  is  gone  for  ever.” 

And  what  is  this  day’s  strong  suggestion  ? 

**  The  passing  moment’s  all  we  rest  on  ! ” 
Rest  on — for  what  ? what  do  we  here  ? 

Or  why  regard  the  passing  year  ? 

Will  time,  amus’d  with  proverb’d  lore^ 

Add  to  our  date  one  minute  more  ? 

A few  days  may — a few  years  must— 
Repose  us  in  the  silent  dust. 

Then  is  it  wise  to  damp  our  bliss  ? 

Yes — all  such  reasonings  are  amiss  ! 

The  voice  of  Nature  loudly  cries. 

And  many  a message  from  the  skies, 

That  something  in  us  never  dies : 

That  on  this  frail,  uncertain  state. 

Hang  matters  of  eternal  weight : 

That  future  life  in  worlds  unknown 
Must  take  its  hue  from  this  alone ; 

Whether  as  heavenly  glory  bright. 

Or  dark  as  misery’s  woeful  night. 

Since,  then,  my  honour’d,  first  of  friends. 

On  this  poor  being  all  depends. 

Let  us  th’  important  now  employ. 

And  live  as  those  who  never  die. 

Tho’  you,  with  days  and  honours  crown’d. 
Witness  that  filial  circle  round, 

(A  sight,  life’s  sorrows  to  repulse, 

A sight,  pale  envy  to  convulse,) 

Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard ; 
Yourself,  you  wait  your  bright  reward. 


^rnlngitt, 

8POKEN  AT  THE  THEATRE,  DUMFRIES,  ON 

new-year’s-day  evening.  [I7S0] 

No  song  nor  dance  I bring  from  yon  great 
city 

That  queens  it  o’er  our  taste — the  more’s 
the  pity : 

Tho’,  by-the-bye,  abroad  why  will  you 
roam  ? 

Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here  at 
home : 

But  not  for  panegyric  1 appear, 

J[  come  to  wish  you  all  a good  new  year  I 


Old  Father  lime  deputes  me  here  before  ye^ 
Not  for  to  preach,  but  tell  his  simple  story: 
The  sage  grave  ancient  cough’d,  and  bade 
me  say, 

“ You’re  one  year  older  thi3  important  day* 
If  wiser,  too — he  hinted  some  suggestion, 
But  ’twould  be  rude,  you  know,  to  ask  the 
question ; 

And  with  a would-be  roguish  leer  and  wini. 
He  bade  me  on  you  press  this  one  word— 
“ think ! ” 

Ye  sprightly  youths  quite  flushed  with  hops 
and  spirit. 

Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint  of 
merit. 

To  you  the  dotard  has  a deal  to  say. 

In  his  sly,  dry,  sententious,  proverb  way ; 

He  bids  you  mind,  &mid  your  thoughtless 
rattle. 

That  the  first  blow  is  ever  half  the  battle ; 
That  tho’  some  by  the  skirt  may  try  to 
snatch  him. 

Yet  by  the  forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch  him. 
That  whether  doing,  suffering,,. or  forbearing. 
You  may  do  miracles  by  perseverving. 

Last,  tho’  not  least  in  love,  ye  youthful  fair. 
Angelic  forms,  high  Heaven’s  peculiar  care ! 
To  you  old  Bald-pate  smooths  his  wrinkled 
brow. 

And  humbly  begs  you’ll  mind  the  important 
Now ! 

To  crown  your  happiness  he  asks  your  leaver 
And  offers  bliss  to  give  and  to  receive. 

For  our  sincere,  tho’  haply  weak  endeavours. 
With  grateful  pride  we  own  your  many 
favours ; 

And  howsoe’er  our  tongues  may  ill  reveal  it* 
Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  truly  feel  it. 


'fh'nlnpt, 

FOR  MR.  SUTHERLAND’S  BENEFIT  NIGIIl^ 
DUMFRIES. 

What  needs  this  din  about  the  town  cf 
Lon’on, 

How  this  new  play  and  that  new  sang  if 
cornin’  ? 

Why  is  outlandish  stuff  sae  meikle  courted? 
Docs  nonsense  mend  like  whiskey,  when  i 
ported  ? 

I3  there  nae  poet,  burning  keen  for  fame. 
Will  try  to  gie  us  songs  and  plays  at  hamef 
For  comedy  abroad  he  needna  toil, 

A fool  and  knave  are  plants  of  every  soil ; 
Nor  need  he  hunt  as  far  as  Rome  and  Greece 
To  gather  matter  for  a serious  piece  i 


PEG  NICHOLSON”. 


177 


There’s  th3mes  enough  in  Caledonian  story. 
Would  show  the  tragic  muse  in  a’  her  glory. 

Is  there  no  daring  bard  will  rise,  and  tell 
How  glorious  Wallace  stood,  how  hapless 
fell? 

\\  here  are  the  muses  fled  that  could  produce 
A drama  worthy  o’  the  name  o’  Bruce , 

How'  here,  even  here,  he  first  unsheath’d  the 
sword, 

’Gainst  mighty  England  and  her  guilty  lord; 
And  after  mony  a bloody,  deathless  doing, 

W rench’d  his  dear  country  from  the  jaws  of 
ruin  ? 

Oh  for  a Shakspeare  or  an  Otw’ay  scene 
To  draw  the  lovely,  hapless  Scottish  Queen! 
Vain  all  th’  omnipotence  of  female  charms 
’Gainst  headlong,  ruthless,  mad  Rebellion’* 
arms. 

She  fell,  but  fell  with  spirit  truly  Roman, 
To  glut  the  vengeance  of  a rival  woman  : 

A woman — tho’  the  phrase  may  seem  un- 
civil— 

As.  able  and  as  cruel  as  the  Devil ! 

One  Douglas  lives  in  Home’s  immortal  page, 
But  Douglasses  were  heroes  every  age  : 

And  tho’  your  fathers,  prodigal  of  life, 

A Douglas  followed  to  the  martial  strife. 
Perhaps  if  bowls  row  right,  and  Right  suc- 
ceeds. 

Ye  yet  may  follow  where  a Douglas  leads ! 

As  ye  hae  generous  done,  if  a’  the  land 
Would  take  the  muses’  servants  by  the 
hand; 

Not  only  hear,  but  patronise,  befriend  them. 
And  where  ye  justly  can  commend,  commend 
them ; 

And  aiblins  when  they  winna  stand  the  test, 
Wrink  hard  and  say  the  folks  hae  done  their 
best ! 

Would  a’  the  land  do  this,  then  I’ll  be  cau- 
tion 

Ye’ll  soon  hae  poets  o’  the  Scottish  nation. 
Will  gar  fame  blaw  until  her  trumpet  crack, 
And  warsle  Time,  and  lay  him  on  his  back ! 
For  us  and  for  our  stage  should  ony  spier, 
w Who’s  aught  thae  chiels  maks  a’  this  bus- 
tle here?  ” 

My  best  leg  foremost.  I’ll  set  up  my  brow. 
We  have  the  honour  to  belong  to  you ! 

We’re  your  ao  bairns,  e’en  guide  us  as  ye 
like. 

But  like  gude  mithers,  shore  before  you 
strike. 

And  gratefu’  still  I hope  ye’ll  ever  find  us. 
For  a’  the  patronage  and  meikle  kindness 
We’ve  got  frae  a’  professions,  sets  and  ranks  ; 
God  help  us  ! we  re  but  poor — ye’se  get 
but  thanks. 

K 


tPriflnt 

TO  A OENTLEMAN  WHO  HAT)  SENT  TUT?  POET  A 
NEWSPAPEIt,  AND  O FEKED  TO  CONTINUE  IT 
FJHEE  OF  EXPENSE, 

Kind  Sir,  I’ve  read  your  paper  through. 
And,  faith,  to  me  ’twas  really  new  ! 

How  guessed  ye,  Sir,  what  maist  I wanted  ? 
This  mony  a day  I’ve  grain’d  and  gaunted. 
To  ken  what  French  mischief  was  brewin’. 

Or  what  the  drumlie  Dutch  were  doin’ ; 

That  vile  doup-skelper.  Emperor  Joseph, 

If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  nose  off; 

Or  how  the  collieshangie  works 
Atween  the  Russians  and  the  Turks ; 

Or  if  the  Swede,  before  he  halt, 

Would  play  anither  Charles  the  Twalt: 

If  Denmark,  ony  body  spak  o’t ; 

Or  Poland,  wha  had  now  the  tack  o’t ; 

How  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  were 
liingin  ;> 

How  libbet  Italy  was  singin’  ; 

If  Spaniard,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss, 

Were  sayin’  or  takin’  aught  amiss; 

Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  hame. 

In  Britain’s  court,  kept  up  the  game  : 

How  royal  George,  the  Lord  leuk  f.  ev 
him! 

Was  managing  St  Stephen’s  quorum; 

If  sleekit  Chatham  Will  was  livin’. 

Or  glaikit  Charlie  got  his  nieve  in ; 

How  daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cookin’. 

If  Warren  Hastings’  neck  was  yeukin’; 

How  cesses,  stents,  avid  fees  were  rax’d. 

Or  if  bare yet  were  tax’d  ; 

The  news  o’  princes,  dukes,  and  earls, 

Pimps,  sharpers,  bawds,  and  opera  girls; 

If  that  daft  uuckie,  Geordie  Wales, 

Was  threshin’  still  at  hizzies’  tails; 

Or  if  he  was  grown  ouglitlins  douser. 

And  na  o’  perfect  kintra  cooser. 

A’  this  and  mair  I never  heard  of, 

And  but  for  you  I might  despair’d  of. 

So  gratefu’,  back  your  news  I send  you. 

And  pray,  a’  guid  things  may  attend  you » 
Ellisland,  Monday  Morning. 


|5rg  HirljnlsEn.  (245) 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a good  bay  mare. 
As  ever  trod  on  aim  ; 

But  now  she’s  floating  down  the  Nith, 
And  past  the  mouth  o’  Cairn. 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a good  bay  mare. 
And  rode  thro’  thick  and  thin  ; 
i But  now  she’s  floating  down  the  Nitb, 
\ And  wanting  e’en  the  skin. 


178 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Peg  Nicholson  was  a good  bay  mare. 

And  ance  she  bore  a priest ; 

But  now  she’s  floating  down  the  Nith, 

For  Solway  fish  a feast. 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a good  bay  mare. 

And  the  priest  he  rode  her  sair  ; 

And  much  oppressed  and  bruis’d  she  was. 
As  pnest-rid  cattle  are — 

* • 


fa  ait!  *14.  (246) 

Thou  bed,  in  which  I first  began 
To  be  chat  various  creature — Man! 

And  when  again  the  Fates  decree. 

The  place  where  I must  cease  to  be 
When  sickness  comes,  to  whom  I fly. 

To  soothe  my  pain,  or  close  mine  eye 
When  cares  surround  me,  where  I weep. 

Or  lose  them  all  in  balmy  sleep ; — 

When  sore  with  labour,  whom  I court. 

And  to  thy  downy  breast  resort  — 

Where,  too  ecstatic  joys  I find, 

When  deigns  my  Delia  to  be  kind— 

And  full  of  love,  in  all  her  charms. 

Thou  giv’st  the  fair  one  to  my  arms. 

The  centre  thou — where  grief  and  pain. 
Disease  and  rest,  alternate  reign. 

Oh,  since  within  thy  little  space. 

So  many  various  scenes  take  place ; 

Lessons  as  useful  shalt  thou  teach. 

As  sages  dictate — churchmen  preach; 

And  man,  convinced  by  thee  alone. 

This  great  important  truth  shall  own : 

**  That  thin  'partitions  do  divide 
The  hounds  where  good  and  ill  reside; 

That  nought  is  perfect  here  below : 

But  bliss  still  bordering  upon  WOE.”  (247) 


/irst  Epistle  In  fflr.  (Btaljittt 

OP  FINTRY. 

When  Nature  ner  great  masterpiece  designed. 
And  fram’d  her  last  best  work,  the  human 
mind. 

Her  eye  intent  on  all  the  mazy  plan. 

She  formed  of  various  parts  the  various  man. 
Then  first  she  calls  the  useful  many  forth ; 
Plain  plodding  industry,  and  sober  worth : 
Thence  peasants,  farmers,  native  sons  of 
earth,  [birth:  | 

And  merchandise*  whole  genus  take  their 
Each  prudent  cit  a warm  existence  finds. 

And  all  mechanics’  many-apron’d  kinds. 

Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet. 

The  lead  and  buoy  are  needful  to  the  net ; 
The  caput  mortuum  of  gross  desires  [squires  ; 
Makes  a material  for  mere  knights  and 


The  martial  phosphorus  is  taught  % flow. 
She  kneads  the  lumpish  philosophic  dough, 
Then  marks  th’  unyielding  mass  with  grar® 
designs. 

Law,  physic,  politics,  and  deep  divines : 

Last,  she  sublimes  th’  Aurora  of  the  poles* 
The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls. 

The  order’d  system  fair  before  her  stood. 
Nature,  well-pleas’d,  pronounc’d  it  very  good; 
But  ere  she  gave  creating  labour  o’er. 
Half-jest,  she  cried  one  curious  labour  morfk 
Some  spumy,  fiery,  ignis  fatuus  matter. 

Such  as  the  slightest  breath  of  air  might 
scatter ; 

With  arch  alacrity  and  conscious  glee 
(Nature  may  have  her  whim  as  well  as  we. 
Her  Hogarth-art  perhaps  she  meant  to  show  it) 
She  forms  the  thing,  and  christens  it — a poet. 
Creature,  tho’  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow. 
When  blest  to-day,  unmindful  of  to-morrow, 
A being  form’d  t’amuse  his  graver  friends. 
Admir’d  and  prais’d — and  there  the  homage 
ends: 

A mortal  quite  unfit  for  fortune’s  strife. 

Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life ; 

Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give. 

Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live ; 
Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan. 
Yet  frequently  unheeded  in  his  own. 

But  honest  Nature  is  not  quite  a Turk, 

She  laugh’d  at  first,  then  felt  for  her  poor  work. 
Pitying  the  propless  climber  of  mankind. 

She  cast  about  a standard  tree  to  find ; 

And,  to  support  his  helpless  woodbine  states 
Attach’d  him  to  the  generous  truly  great, 

A title,  and  the  only  one  I claim. 

To  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  bounteoua 
Graham. 

Pity  the  tuneful  muses’  hapless  train, 

Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  life’s  stormy  main! 
Tneir  hearts  no  selfish  stern  absorbent  stuff. 
That  never  gives — tho’  humbly  takes  enough; 
The  little  fate  allows,  they  share  as  soon. 
Unlike  sage  proverb’d  wisdom’s  hard- wrung 
boon. 

The  world  were  blest  did  bliss  on  them  depend. 
Ah,  that  “the  friendly  e'er  should  want  a 
friend!” 

Let  prudence  number  o’er  each  sturdy  son. 
Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun, 
Who  feel  by  reason  and  who  give  by  rule, 
(Instinct’s  a brute,  and  sentiment  a fool!) 
Who  make  poor  will  do  wait  upon  I should— • 
We  own  they’re  prudent,  but  who  feela 
they’re  good! 

Ye  wise  ones,  hence!  ye  hurt  the  social  eye! 
God’s  image  rudely  etch’d  on  base  alloy! 

But,  come,  ye  who  the  godlike  pleasure  know. 

Heaven’s  attribute  distinguished — to  bestow! 


THE  FIVE  CARLINES. 


17S 


Whose  aims  of  love  would  grasp  the  human  j 
race:  ' [grace;  ! 

Come  thou  who  giv’st  with  all  a courtier’s 
Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my  rhymes! 
Prop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future  times. 
Why  shrinks  my  soul  half  blushing, half  afraid. 
Backward,  abash’d,  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid? 

I know'  my  need,  I know  thy  giving  hand, 

I crave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command; 
Biit  there  are ..ch  who  court  the  tuneful  nine — 
Heavens!  should  the  branded  character  be 
mine!  [flows. 

Whose  verse  in  manhood’s  pride  sublimely 
Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 
Mark,  how  their  lofty  independent  spirit 
Soars  on  the  spurning  wing  of  injur’d  merit! 
Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  life  to  find; 
Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind! 

So  to  heaven’s  gates  the  lark’s  shrill  song 
ascends, 

But  grovelling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 

Iu  all  the  clam’rous  cry  of  starving  want. 
They  dun  benevolence  with  shameless  front; 
Oblige  them,  patronise  their  tinsel  lays. 

They  persecute  you  all  your  future  days! 

Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation  stain! 
My  horny  fist  assume  the  plough  again ; 

The  pie-bald  jacket  let  me  patch  once  more; 
On  eighteen-pence  a-week  I’ve  liv’d  before. 
Tho’,  thanks  to  Heaven,  I dare  even  that 
last  shift ! 

I trust,  meantime,  my  boon  is  in  thy  gift: 
That,  plac’d  by  thee  upon  the  wish’d  for 
height, 

Where,  man  and  nature  fairer  in  her  sight. 
My  muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some  sub- 
limer  flight. 


fffre  /itre  foliniJ.  (248) 

There  were  five  carlines  in  the  south. 
They  fell  upon  a scheme. 

To  send  a lad  to  Lon’on  town. 

To  bring  them  tidings  hame. 

Nor  only  bring  them  tidings  hame, 

But  do  their  errands  there, 

And  aiblins  gowd  and  honour  baith 
Might  be  that  laddie’s  share. 

There  was  Maggy  fiy  the  binks  o’  Nith, 
A dame  with  pride  eneugh. 

And  Marjory  o’  the  Monylochs, 

A carliue  auld  and  teugh. 

And  blinkin’  Bess  o’  Annandale, 

That  dwelt  near  Sol  wayside, 

And  whUky  Jean,  that  took  her  gill. 

In  Galloway  sj&e  wide. 


And  black  Joan,  frie  Crichton  Peel, 

O’  gipsy  kith  and  kin — 

Five  wighter  carlines  warna  foun* 

The  south  countra  within. 

To  send  a lad  to  Lon’on  town. 

They  met  upon  a day. 

And  mony  a knight,  and  mony  a laird. 

Their  errand  fain  would  gae. 

O mony  a knight  and  many  a laird. 

This  errand  fain  would  gae  ; 

But  nae  ane  could  their  fancy  please^ 

O ne’er  a ane  but  twae. 

The  first  he  was  a belted  knight  (249), 

Bred  o’  a border  clan. 

And  he  wad  gae  to  Lon’on  town. 

Might  nae  man  him  withstan’. 

And  he  wad  do  their  errands  weel. 

And  meikle  he  wad  say. 

And  ilka  ane  at  Lon’on  court 
Would  bid  to  him  guid  day. 

Then  next  came  in  a sodger  youth  (250)^ 
And  spak  wi’  modest  grace. 

And  he  wad  gae  to  Lon’on  town. 

If  sae  their  pleasure  was. 

He  wadna  heclit  them  courtly  gifti^ 

Nor  meikle  speech  pretend. 

But  he  wad  hecht  an  honest  heart. 

Wad  ne’er  desert  a friend, 

Now,  wham  to  choose,  and  wham  refuse^ 

At  strife  their  carlines  fell ! 

For  some  had  gentle  folks  to  please. 

And  some  would  please  themsel. 

Then  out  spak  mim-mou’d  Meg  o’  Nit^ 

And  she  spak  up  wi’  pride. 

And  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth. 
Whatever  might  betide. 

For  the  auld  guidman  o’  Lon’on  court  (251) 
She  didna  care  a pin  ; 

But  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth 
To  greet  his  eldest  son.  (25 2) 

Then  up  sprang  Bess  o’  Annandale, 

And  a deadly  aith  she’s  ta’en, 

Tfcat  she  wad  vote  the  border  knight, 
Though  she  should  vote  her  lane. 

For  far-aff  fowls  hae  feathers  fair. 

And  fools  o’  change  are  fain ; 

But  I hae  tried  the  border  knight, 

And  I’ll  try  him  yet  again. 

Says  black  Joan  frae  Crichton  Peel, 

A carline  stoor  and  grim. 

The  auld  guidman,  aud  the  young  guidma^ 
For  me  may  smk  or  swim ; 


17 


180 


BURNS  S POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  fools  will  freat  c’  right  or  wrang. 

While  knaves  laugh  them  to  scorn ; 

But  the  sodger’s  friends  hae  blawn  the 
best. 

So  he  shall  bear  the  horn. 

Then  whisky  Jean  spak  owre  her  drink. 

Ye  weel  ken,  kimmers  a’, 

The  auld  guidman  o’  Lon’on  court, 
llis  back’s  been  at  the  wa’; 

And  mony  a friend  that  kiss’d  his  cup. 

Is  now  a fremit  wight: 

But  it’s  ne’er  be  said  o’  whisky  Jean — 

I’ll  send  the  border  knight. 

Then  slow  raise  Marjory  o’  the  Loch, 

And  wrinkled  was  Iter  brow. 

Her  ancient  weed  was  russet  grey. 

Her  auld  Scots  bluid  was  true ; 

There’s  some  great  folks  set  light  by  me — 

I set  as  light  by  them; 

But  I will  seud  to  Lon’on  town 
Wham  I like  best  at  hame. 

Sae  how  this  weighty  plea  may  end, 

Nae  mortal  wight  can  tell : 

God  grant  the  king  and  ilka  man 
May  look  weel  to  himsel. 


$Ernnfr  tn  2Er-  ©raliara, 

OF  FINTRY.  (253). 

Fintry,  my  stay  in  worldly  strife. 
Friend  o’  my  muse,  friend  o’  my  life, 

Are  ye  as  idle’s  I am  ? 

Come  then,  wi’  uncouth,  kintra  fleg. 

O’er  Pegasus  I’ll  fling  my  leg. 

And  ye  shall  see  me  try  him. 

I’ll  sing  the  zeal  Drumlanrig  bears, 

Who  left  the  all-important  cares 
Of  princes  and  their  darlings  ; 

And  bent  on  winning  borough  towns. 
Came  shaking  hands  wi’  wabster  louns. 
And  kissing  barefit  carlins. 

Combustion  through  our  boroughs  rode 
Whistling  his  roaring  pack  abroad. 

Of  mad,  unmuzzled  lions  ; 

As  Queensberry  buff  and  blue  unfurl’d. 
And  Westerha’  and  Hopeton  hurl’d 
To  every  Whig  defiance. 

But  Queen sbc  rry,  cautious,  left  the  war, 
The  unmannei ’d  dust  might  soil  his  star. 
Besides,  he  hated  bleeding ; 

But  left  behind  him  heroes  bright. 
Heroes  ill  Caesarean  tight 
Or  Ciceronian  pleading. 


O for  a throat  like  huge  Mons-meg  (25T4J^ 

To  muster  e’er  each  ardent  Whig 
Beneath  Drumlanrig’s  banners  ; 

Heroes  and  heroines  (©mmix 
All  in  the  field  of  politics. 

To  win  immortal  honours. 

MMurdo  and  his  lovely  spouse, 

(Til’  enamour’d  laurels  kiss  her  browsQf 
Led  on  the  loves  and  graces  ; 

She  won  each  gaping  burgess’  heart 
While  he,  all  conquering,  play’d  his  part 
Among  their  wives  and  lasses. 

Craigdarrocli  led  a light-arm’d  corps; 
Tropes,  metaphors,  and  figures  pour. 

Like  Ilecla  streaming  thunder ; 
Glenriddel,  skill’d  in  rusty  coins. 

Blew  up  each  Tory’s  dark  designs. 

And  bar’d  the  treason  under. 

In  either  wing  two  champions  fought, 
Redoubted  Staig,  who  set  at  nought 
The  wildest  savage  Tory. 

And  Welsh,  who  ne’er  yet  flinch’d  his  ground^ 
High  wav’d  his  magnum  bonum  round 
With  Cyclopean  fury. 

Miller  brought  up  the  artillery  ranks, 

The  many  pounders  of  the  Banks, 

Resistless  desolation ; 

While  Maxwelton,  that  baron  bold. 

Mid  Lawson’s  port  entrench’d  his  hold. 

And  threaten’d  worse  damnation. 

To  these,  what  Tory  hosts  oppos’d ; 

With  these,  what  Tory  warriors  clos’d. 
Surpasses  my  descriving : 

Squadrons  extended  long  and  large, 

WTith  furious  speed  rush’d  to  the  charga, 
Like  raging  devils  driving. 

What  verse  can  sing,  what  prose  narrate^ 
The  butcher  deeds  of  bloody  fate 
Amid  this  mighty  tulzie  ? 

Grim  horror  grinn’d ; pale  terror  roar’d 
As  murther  at  his  thrapple  shor’d; 

And  liell  mixt  in  the  bruizie  I 

As  Highland  crags,  by  thunder  cleft. 

When  lightnings  fire  the  stormy  lift. 

Hurl  down  wi’  crashing  rattle ; 

As  flames  amang  a hundred  woods ; 

As  headlong  foam  a hundred  floods ; 

Such  is  the  rage  of  battle. 

The  stubborn  Tories  dare  to  die ; 

As  soon  the  rooted  oaks  would  fly, 

Before  th’  approaching  fellers ; 

The  Whigs  come  on  like  ocean’s  riar 
When  all  his  wintry  billows  pour 

Agamsrt  the  Buchan  Buller*  (25$ 


CAPTAIN  GROSE’S  PEREGRINATIONS. 


m 


Lo,  from  the  shades  of  death’s  deep  night. 
Departed  Whigs  enjoy  the  fight. 

And  think  on  former  daring; 

The  muffled  murtherer  of  Charles  (256), 

The  Magna  Charta  flag  unfurls, 

All  deadly  gules  its  bearing. 

Nor  wanting  ghosts  of  Tory  fame ; 

Bold  Scrimgeour  (257)  follows  gallant  Gra- 
hame — (258) 

Auld  Covenanters  shiver  — 

(Forgive,  forgive,  much-wrong’d  Montrose ! 
While  death  and  hell  engulf  thy  foes. 

Thou  liv’st  on  high  for  ever  ! ) 

Still  o’er  the  field  the  combat  burns ; 

The  Tories,  Whigs,  give  way  by  turns ; 

But  fate  the  word  has  spoken — 

For  woman’s  wit,  or  strength  of  man, 

Alas  ! can  do  but  what  they  can — 

The  Tory  ranks  are  broken  ! 

Oh  that  my  e’en  were  flowing  burns  l 
My  voice  a lioness  that  mourns 
Her  darling  cub’s  undoing ! 

That  I might  greet,  that  I might  cry. 

While  Tories  fall,  while  Tories  fly, 

And  furious  Whigs  pursuing  ! 

What  Whig  but  wails  the  good  Sir  James ; 
Dear  to  his  country  by  the  names 
Friend,  Patron,  Benefactor  ? 

Not  Pulteny’s  wealth  can  Pulteny  save! 

And  Hopeton  falls,  the  generous  brave ! 

And  Stuart  bold  as  Hector ! 

Thou,  Pitt,  shaH  rue  this  overthrow. 

And  Thurlow  growl  a curse  of  woe. 

And  Melville  melt  in  wailing ! 

Now  Fox  and  Sheridan  rejoice  ! 

And  Burke  shall  sing,  “ Oh  prince,  arise ! 
Thy  power  is  all-prevailing ! ” 

For  your  poor  friend,  the  Bard  afar. 

He  hears,  and  only  hears  the  war, 

A cool  spectator  purely ; 

So  when  the  storm  the  forest  rends. 

The  robin  in  the  hedge  descends 
And  sober  chirps  securely. 


(faptain  frast’s  ^irrgrinaiians 

THROUGH  SCOTLAND,  COLLECTING  THE 
ANTIQUITIES  OF  THAT  KINGDOM.  (259) 
Hear,  land  o’  Cakes,  and  brither  Scots, 

Frae  Maidenkirk  (260)  to  Johnny  Groats; 

If  there’s  a hole  in  a’  your  coats, 

I rede  you  tent  it : 

A chieLd’s  amang  you  taking  notes. 

And,  faith,  he’ll  prent  & i 


If  in  your  bounds  ye  chance  to  light 
Upon  a fine,  fat  fodgel  wight, 

O’  stature  short,  but  genius  bright. 

That’s  he,  mark  weel—* 

And  wow ! he  has  an  unco  slight 
O’  cauk  and  keel. 

By  some  auld  houlet-haunted  biggie 
Or  kirk  deserted  by  its  riggin. 

It’s  ten  to  ane  ye’ll  find  him  snug  in 
Some  eldritch  part, 

Wri’  deils,  they  say.  Lord  save’s  ! colleaguin1 
At  some  black  art. 

Ilk  ghaist  that  haunts  auld  ha’  or  chaumer. 
Ye  gipsey-gang  that  deal  in  glamour. 

And  you,  deep-read  in  hell’s  black  gramme^ 
Warlocks  and  witches ; 

Ye’ll  quake  at  his  conjuring  hammer. 

Ye  midnight  bitches. 

It’s  tauld  he  was  a sodger  bred. 

And  ane  wad  rather  fa’n  than  fled ; 

But  now  he’s  quat  the  spurtle  blades 
And  dog  skin  wallet. 

And  ta’en  the — Antiquarian  trade, 

I think  they  call  it. 

He  has  a fouth  o’  auld  nick-nackets. 

Rusty  aird  caps  and  jinglin’  jackets. 

Wad  haud  the  Lothians  three  in  tacket% 

A towmont  guid ; 

And  parritch-pats,  and  auld  saut-backets. 
Before  the  Flood. 

Of  Eve’s  first  fire  he  has  a cinder  ; 

Auld  Tubalcain’s  fire-shool  and  fender  f 
That  which  distinguished  the  gender 
O’  Balaam’s  ass ; 

A broom-stick  o’  the  witch  of  Endor, 

Weel  shod  wi’  brass. 

Forbye,  he’ll  shape  you  aff,  fu’  gleg; 

The  cut  of  Adam’s  philabeg ; 

The  knife  that  nicket  Abel’s  craig. 

He’ll  prove  you  fully. 

It  was  a faulding  jocteleg, 

Or  lang-kail  gully. 

But  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee. 

For  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  he. 

Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 
Guid  fellows  wi’  him. 

And  port.  Oh  port ! shine  thou  a wee. 

And  then  ye’ll  see  him ; 

Now,  by  the  pow’rs  o’  verse  and  prose! 

Thou  art  a dainty  chiel,  oh  Grose  ! — 
Whae’er  o’  thee  shall  ill  suppose. 

They  sair  misca’  thee; 

I’d  take  the  rascal  by  the  nose, 

Wrad  say,  sluice  fa’  the^ 


its 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


•JXMtfru  in  an  fnnslnp, 

ENCLOSING  A LETTER  TO  CAPTAIN 
GROSE.  (261) 

Ken  ye  ought  o’  Captain  Grose? 

Igo  and  ago, 

If  he’s  amang  his  friends  or  foes  ? 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  south  or  is  he  north  ? 

Igo  and  ago. 

Dr  drowned  in  the  river  Forth  ? 

Iram,  coram,  da  g<h 
la  he  skin  by  High  Ian’  bodies  ? 

Igo  and  ago. 

And  eaten  like  a wether  haggis  * 

Iram,  coram,  dago, 
la  he  to  Abram’s  bosom  gane  ? 

Igo  and  ago, 

Or  haudin  Sarah  by  the  wame  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Where’er  he  be,  the  Lord  be  near  him  5 
Igo  and  ago. 

As  for  the  deil,  he  daurna  steer  him. 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

But  please  transmit  the  enclosed  letter, 
Igo  and  ago, 

Which  will  oblige  your  humble  debtor, 
Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  hae  auld  stanes  in  stor% 

Igo  and  ago. 

The  very  stanes  that  Adam  bore, 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  get  in  glad  possession, 

Igo  and  ago. 

The  coins  o’  Satan’s  coronation ! 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 


jUtirrrss  nf  Swlfrlrck 

TO  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  HI  Gil  LANE 
SOCIETY.  (262) 

Long  life,  my  Lord,  and  health  be  yours, 
Unscaith’d  by  hunger’d  Highland  boors; 
Lord  grant  nae  duddie  desperate  beggar, 
Wi’  dirk,  claymore,  or  rusty  trigger. 

May  twin  auld  Scotland  o’  a life 
She  likes — as  lambkins  like  a knife. 

Faith,  you  and  A s were  right 

To  keep  the  Highland  hounds  in  sight; 

I doubt  na  ! they  wad  bid  nae  better 
Than  let  them  ance  out  owre  the  water; 
Then  up  amang  thrae  lakes  and  seas 
They’ll  mak  what  rules  and  laws  they  please ; 
Some  daring  Hancock,  or  a Franklin, 

"May  set  their  Highland  bluid  a-ranklin’ ; 
Some  Washington  again  may  head  them. 

Or  some  Montgomery,  fearless,  lead  them, 
Till  God  knows  what  may  be  effected 
When  by  such  heads  and  hearts  directed- — 


Poor  dunghill  sons  of  dirt  and  mire 
May  to  Patrician  rights  aspire  ! 

Nae  sage  North,  now,  nor  *ager  Sackville, 
To  watch  and  premier  o’er  the  pack  vile, 

< And  whare  will  ye  get  Howes  and  Ciintom 
To  bring  them  to  a right  repentance. 

To  cowe  the  rebel  generation, 

And  save  the  honour  o’  the  nation  ? 

They  and  be  d d ! what  right  hae  they 

To  meat  or  sleep,  or  lisrht  o’  day  ? 

Far  less  to  riches,  pow’r  or  freedom. 

But  what  your  lordship  likes  to  gie  them  ? 

But  hear,  my  lord  ! Glengarry,  hear ! 

Your  hand’s  owre  light  on  them,  I fear ; 
Your  factors,  grieves,  trustees,  and  bailiea, 

I canna  say  but  they  do  g^ylies ; 

They  lay  aside  a’  tender  mercies. 

And  tirl  the  hallions  to  the  birses  ; 

Yet  while  they’re  only  poind’t  and  herriet. 
They’ll  keep  their  stubborn  Highland  spirit; 
But  smash  them  ! crash  them  a’  to  spails ! 
And  rot  the  dy  vors  i’  the  jails  ! 

The  young  dogs,  swinge  them  to  the  laboui ; 
Let  wark  and  hunger  mak  them  sober ! 

The  hizzies,  if  they’re  aughtlins  fawsont. 

Let  them  in  Drury-lane  be  lesson’d  1 
And  if  the  wives  and  dirty  brats 
E’en  thigger  at  your  doors  and  yetts 
Flaffan  wi’  duds  and  grey  wi’  beas’. 
Frightin’  awa  your  deucks  and  geese. 

Get  out  a horsewhip  or  a jowler. 

The  langest  thong,  the  fiercest  growler, 

And  gar  the  tattered  gypsies’  pack 
Wi’  a’  their  bastards  on  their  back ! 

Go  on,  my  Lord ! I lang  to  meet  you. 

And  in  my  house  at  hame  to  greet  you; 

Wi’  common  lords  ye  shanna  mingle. 

The  ben  most  neuk  beside  the  ingle. 

At  my  right  han’  assigned  your  seat 
’Tween  Herod’s  hip  and  Polycrate— 

Or  if  you  on  your  station  tarrow. 

Between  Aimagro  and  Pizarro, 

A seat,  I’m  sure  ye’re  weel  deservin’t ; 

I And  till  ye  come — Your  humble  servant, 

Beelzebui 

June  1st,  Anno  Mundi,  5790. 


Ismirnt  nf  torn  nf  ?rnfj, 

ON  THE  APPROACH  OF  SPRING. 

Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 
On  every  blooming  tree, 

And  spreads  her  sheet  o’  daises  white 
Out  o’er  the  grassy  Ice : 

Now  Phoebus  cheers  the  crystal  streams, 
And  glads  the  azure  skies  ; * 

But  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 
That  fast  in  durance  Iks. 


THE  WHISTLE. 


183 


Now  fa  v*  rocks  wake  the  merry  morn. 

Aloft  oil  dewy  wing  ; 

The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bow’r 
Makes  woodland  echoes  ring  : 

The  mavis  wild  wi’  mony  a note. 

Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest : 

In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 

"Wi*  care  nor  thrall  opprest. 

Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  bank. 

The  primrose  down  the  brae ; 

The  hawthorn’s  budding  in  the  glen. 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae ; 

The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotland 
May  rove  their  sweets  amang ; 

But  I,  the  Queen  of  a’  Scotland, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  strang  ! 

I was  the  Queen  o’  bonnie  France. 

Where  happy  I hae  been  ; 

Fu’  lightly  rase  I in  the  morn. 

As  blytlie  lay  down  at  e’en  : 

And  I’m  the  sov’reign  of  Scotland, 

And  mony  a traitor  there ; 

Vet  here  I lie  in  foreign  bands. 

And  never-ending  care. 

But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman! 

My  sister  and  my  fae. 

Grim  vengeance  yet  shall  whet  a sword 
That  thro’  thy  soul  shall  gae ! 

The  weeping  blood  in  woman’s  breast 
Was  never  known  to  thee  ; 

Nor  th’  balm  that  draps  on  wounds  of  woe 
Frae  woman’s  pitying  e’e. 

My  son ! my  son ! may  kinder  stars 
Upon  thy  fortune  shine  ! 

And  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy  reign. 
That  ne’er  wad  blink  on  mine ! 

God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother’s  faes. 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee : 

And  where  thou  meet’st  thy  mother’s  friend. 
Remember  him  for  me  ! 

Oh  soon,  to  me,  may  summer-suns 
Nae  mair  light  up  the  morn  ! 

Nae  mair,  to  me,  the  autumn  winds 
Wave  o’er  the  yellow  corn! 

And  in  the  narrow  house  o’  death 
Let  winter  round  me  rave  : 

And  the  next  flow’rs  that  deck  the  spring 
Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave  l 


JCJ*  flBjpjtl*.  (263). 

I sing  of  a whistle,  a whistle  of  worth, 

I sing  of  a whistle,  the  pride  of  the  North, 
Was  brought  to  the  court  of  our  good 
Scottish  king,  [shall  ring. 


Old  Loda,  (264)  still  rueing  the  arm  of 
Fitigal,  [hall— 

The  god  of  the  bottle  sends  down  from  his 
u This  whistle’s  your  challenge — to  Scotland 
get  o’er,  [me  more  1” 

And  drink  them  to  hell,  Sir!  or  ne’er  see 

Old  poets  have  sung,  and  old  chroi/.cles 
tell,  [fell ; 

What  champions  ventur’d,  what  champions 
The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror  still. 
And  blew  on  the  whistle  his  requiem  shrill. 

Till  Robert,  the  lord  of  the  Cairn  and  the 
Scaur,  [war. 

Unmatch’d  at  the  bottle,  unconquer’d  in 
He  drank  his  poor  godship  as  deep  as  the 
sea. 

No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e’er  drunker  than  he. 

Thus  Robert,  victorious,  the  trophy  has 
gain’d,  [remained ; 

Which  now  in  his  house  has  for  ages 
Till  three  noble  chieftains,  and  all  of  his 
blood. 

The  jovial  contest  again  have  renew’d. 

Three  joyous  good  fellows,  with  hearts  clear 
as  flaw ; [law ; 

Craigdarroch,  so  famous  for  wit,  worth,  and 
And  trusty  Glennddel,  so  skill’d  in  old 
coins ; [wines. 

And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep-read  in  old 

Craigdarroch  began,  with  a tongue  smooth 
as  oil. 

Desiring  Glenriddle  to  yield  up  the  spoil ; 
Or  else  he  would  muster  the  heads  of  th® 
clan,  [the  man. 

And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  which  was 

“ By  the  gods  of  the  ancients  !”  Glenriddel 
replies, 

u Before  I surrender  so  glorious  a prize. 

I’ll  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Ron® 
More  (265),  [times  o’er.” 

And  bumper  his  horn  with  him  twenty 

Sir  Robert,  a soldier,  no  speech  would 
pretend,  [or  hi3  friend. 

But  he  ne’er  turned  his  back  on  his  foe — • 
Said,  toss  down  the  whistle,  the  prize  of  the 
field,  [yield. 

And  knee-deep  in  claret,  he’d  die,  or  he’d 

To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes 
repair,  [care ; 

So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and 
But  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more 
known  to  fame  [lovely  dame 

Than  the  sense,  w7it,  and  taste,  of  a sweet 

A bard  was  selected  to  witness  the  fray. 

And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the  day ; 


And  long  with  this  whistle  all  Scotland 

17* 


184 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A bard  who  deteste*  bT  sadness  and  spleen. 
And  wish’d  that  Pa  naasus  a vineyard  had 
been. 

The  dinner  being  o’er  the  claret  they  ply. 
And  ev’ry  new  cork  is  a new  spring  of  joy ; 
In  the  bands  of  old  friendship  and  kindred 
so  set,  [they  were  wet. 

And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more 

Gay  pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o’er ; 
Bright  Phoebus  ne’er  witness’d  so  joyous  a 
core,  [forlorn. 

And  vow’d  that  to  leave  them  he  was  quite 
Till  Cynthia  hinted  he’d  see  them  next  morn. 

Six  bottles  a-piece  had  well  wore  out  the 
night,  [fight. 

When  gallant  Sir  Robert,  to  finish  the 
Turn’d  o’er  in  one  bumper  a bottle  of  red. 
And  swore  ’twas  the  way  that  their  ancestor 
did. 

Then  worthy  Glenriddel,  so  cautious  and 
sage.  [wage ; 

No  longer  the  warfare,  ungodly,  would 
A high  ruling  Elder  to  wallow  in  wine  ! 

He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  divine. 

The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the  end; 
But  who  can  with  fate  and  quart-bumpers 
contend  ? 

Though  fate  said — a hero  shall  perish  in  light ; 
So  up  rose  bright  Phoebus — and  down  fell 
the  knight. 

Next  up  rose  our  bard,  like  a prophet  in 
drink: — [sink; 

m Craigdarroch,thou’ltsoar  when  creation  shall 
But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyme. 
Come — one  bottle  more — and  have  at  the 
sublime! 

Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for  freedom 
w ith  Bruce, 

Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce: 

So  thine  be  the  laurel  and  mine  be  the  bay; 
The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  god 
of  day!” 


ON  MISS  BURNET  OP  MONBODDO. 
Life  ne’er  exulted  in  so  rich  a prize 
As  Burnet,  lovely  from  her  native  skies; 

Nor  envious  death  so  triumph’d  in  a blow. 
As  that  whichlaid  th’  accomplished  Burnet  low. 

Thy  form  and  mind,  swreet  maid,  can  I forget? 
In  richest  ore  the  b lightest  jewel  set ! 

In  thee,  high  Heaven  above  was  truest  shown. 
As  by  his  noblest  work  the  Godhead  best  is 
known. 


In  vain  ye  flaunt  in  summer’s  pride,  ye  groves; 
Thou  crystal  streamlet  with  thy  flowery 
shore. 

Ye  woodland  choir  that  chant  your  idle  loves. 
Ye  cease  to  charm — Eliza  is  no  more ! 

Ye  heathy  wastes,  immix’d  with  reedy  fens; 
Ye  mossy  streams,  with  sedge  and  rushes 
stor’d ; x 

Ye  rugged  cliffs,  o’erhanging  dreary  glens. 
To  you  I fl}r,  ye  with  my  soul  accord. 

Princes,  whose  cumb’rous  pride  was  alHheif 
worth. 

Shall  venal  lays  their  pompous  exit  hail? 
And  thou,  sweet  excellence!  forsake  our  earth. 
And  not  a muse  in  honest  grief  bewail  ? 

Wesawtnee  shine  in  youthand  beauty’s  pride. 
And  virtue’s  light,  that  beams  beyond  the 
spheres ; 

But,  like  the  sun  eclips’d  at  morning  tide. 
Thou  left’st  us  darkling  in  a world  of  tears. 

The  parent’s  heart  that  nestled  fond  in  thee. 
That  heart  how  sunk,  aprey  to  grief  andcare; 
So  deck’d  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree; 
So  from  it  ravish’d,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bare. 


fainint 

FOR  JAMES,  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN  (266.) 

Tiie  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills. 

By  fits  the  sun’s  departing  beam 

Look’d  on  the  fading  yellow  woods 

That  wav’d  o’er  Lugar’s  winding  streams 

Beneath  a craigy  steep,  a bard, 

Laden  with  years  and  meikle  pain. 

In  loud  lament  bewail’d  his  lord. 

Whom  death  had  all  untimely  ta’en. 

He  lean’d  him  to  an  ancient  aik, 

Whose  trunk  was  mo  aid’ ring  down  with 
years ; 

His  locks  were  bleached  white  with  time, 

His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi’  tears ; 

And  as  he  touch’d  his  trembling  harp. 

And  as  he  tun’d  his  doleful  sang. 

The  winds,  lamenting  thro’  their  caves, 

To  echo  bore  the  notes  alang. 

“Ye  scatter’d  birds  that  faintly  sing 
The  reliques  of  the  vernal  quire  ! 

Ye  woods  that  shed  on  a’  the  winds 
The  honours  of  the  aged  year  ! 

A few  short  months,  and  glad  and  gay, 
Again  ye’ll  charm  the  ear  and  e’e ; 

But  nought  in  all  revolving  time 
Can  gladness  bring  again  i } me. 

I am  a bending  aged  tree. 

That  long  has  stood  'die  wind  and  rain 


THIRD  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  GRAHAM. 


185 


But  now  has  come  a cruel  blast, 

Ar.d  my  last  hold  of  earth  is  gane : 

Nae  leaf  o’  mine  shall  greet  the  spring, 

Nae  simmer  sun  exalt  my  bloom; 

But  I maun  lie  before  the  storm, 

And  ithers  plant  them  in  my  room. 

I’ve  seen  sae  mony  changefu’  years. 

On  earth  I am  a stranger  grown; 

I wander  in  the  ways  of  men. 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknown: 

Unheard,  unpitied,  unrelieved, 

I bear  alane  my  lade  o’  care. 

For  silent,  low,  on  beds  of  dust. 

Lie  a that  would  my  sorrows  share. 

And  last  (the  sum  of  a’  my  griefs !) 

My  noble  master  lies  in  clay ; 

The  flow’r  amang  our  barons  bold. 

His  country’s  pride  ! his  country’s  stay — 
In  weary  being  now  I pine, 

For  a’  the  life  of  life  is  dead. 

And  hope  has  left  my  aged  ken, 

On  forward  wing  for  ever  fled. 

Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harp ! 

The  voice  of  woe  and  wild  despair; 

Awake  ! resound  thy  latest  lay — 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair  ! 

And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  friend. 

That  fillest  an  untimely  tomb, 

Accept  this  tribute  from  the  bard 

Thou  brought’st  from  fortune’s  mirkest 
gloom. 

In  poverty’s  low  barren  vale 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involv’d  me  round ; 
Though  oft  I turn’d  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found : 

Thou  found’st  me  like  the  morning  sun. 
That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air, 

The  friendless  bard  and  rustic  song 
Became  alike  thy  fostering  care. 

Oh!  why  has  worth  so  short  a date? 

While  villains  ripen  grey  with  time; 

Must  thou,  the  noble,  gen’rous,  great. 

Fall  in  bold  manhood’s  hardy  prime  1 
Why  did  I live  to  see  that  day? 

A day  to  me  so  full  of  woe!— 

Oh ! had  I met  the  mortal  shaft 
Which  laid  my  benefactor  low! 

The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride. 

Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen: 

The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 
That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been; 

The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee; 

But  I’ll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 

And  a’  that  thou  hast  done  for  me ! * 


finis 

SENT  TO  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFORD,  BART.,  0£ 
WHITEFORD,  WITH  THE  FOREGOING  POEM. 

Thou,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  rever’st^ 
Who,  save  thy  mind’s  reproach,  nought 
earthly  fear’st. 

To  thee  this  votive  offering  I impart. 

The  tearful  tribute  of  a broken  heart. 

The  friend  thou  valued’ st,  I,  the  patron,  lov’d: 
His  worth,  his  honour,  all  the  world  approv’d; 
We’ll  mourn  till  we  too  go  as  he  has  gone. 
And  tread  the  dreary  path  to  that  dark 
world  unknown. 


fjlirir  fpistli  in  ®r.  totiara. 

OF  FINTRY. 

Late  crippl’d  of  an  arm,  and  now  a leg. 
About  to  beg  a pass  for  leave  to  beg  : 

Dull,  listless,  teas’d,  dejected,  and  deprest, 
(Nature  is  adverse  to  a cripple’s  rest) ; 

Will  generous  Graham  list  to  his  Poet’® 
wail  ? [tale), 

(It  soothes  poor  misery,  hearkening  to  her 
And  hear  him  curse  the  light  he  first 
survey’d,  [trade  ? 

And  doubly  curse  the  luckless  rhyming 

Thou,  Nature,  partial  Nature  ! I arraign ; 

Of  thy  caprice  maternal  I complain. 

The  lion  and  the  bull  thy  care  have  found. 
One  shakes  the  forests,  and  one  spurns  the 
ground : 

Thou  givs’t  the  ass  his  hide,  the  snail  his 
shell,  [cell ; 

Th’  envenom’d  wasp,  victorious,  guards  hia 
Thy  minion,  kings,  defend,  control,  devour. 
In  all  th’  omnipotence  of  rule  and  power ; 
Foxes  and  statesmen,  subtile  wiles  insure ; 
The  cit  and  polecat  stink,  and  are  secure ; 
Toads  with  their  poison,  doctors  with  their 
drug,  [snug ; 

The  priest  and  hedgehog  in  their  robes  are 
Ev’n  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts. 

Her  tongue  and  eyes,  her  dreaded  spear  and 
darts  ; — 

But,  oh  ! thou  bitter  stepmother  and  hard. 
To  thy  poor,  fenceless,  naked  child — the 
Bard! 

A thing  unteachable  in  world’s  skill, 

And  half  an  idiot,  too,  more  helpless  still ; 
No  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  op’ning  dun; 
No  claws  to  dig,  his  hated  sight  to  shun ; 
No  horns,  but  those  by  luckless  Hymen 
worn. 

And  those,  alas  ! not  Amalthea’s  horn  : 

No  nerves  olfact’ry,  Mammon’s  trusty  cur. 
Clad  in  rich  dulness’  comfortable  fur > 


186 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  naked  feeling,  and  in  aching  pride, 

He  bears  the  unbroken  blast  from  ev'ry 
side : 

Y’ampyre  booksellers  drain  him  to  the  heart, 
And  scorpion  criiics  cureless  venom  dart. 
Critics  ! — appall’d  I venture  on  the  name. 
Those  cut-throat  bandits  in  the  paths  of 
fame : [(267) 

Bloody  dissectors,  worse  than  ten  Monroes  ! 
lie  hacks  to  teach,  they  mangle  to  expose. 

His  heart  by  causeless  wanton  malice  wrung, 
By  blockhead’s  daring  into  madness  stung ; 
His  well-won  bays,  than  life  itself  more  dear, 
By  miscreants  tom,  who  ne’er  one  sprig 
must  wear : [strife, 

Foil’d,  bleeding,  tortur’d,  in  the  unequal 
The  hapless  poet  flounders  on  through  life ; 
Till  fled  each  hope  that  once  his  bosom  fir’d, 
And  fled  each  muse  that  glorious  once 
inspired. 

Low  sunk  in  squalid,  unprotected  age, 

Dead,  even  resentment,  for  his  injur’d  page, 
He  heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  ruthless 
critic’s  rage ! 

So,  by  some  hedge,  the  generous  steed  de- 
ceased. 

For  half-starv’d  snarling  curs  a dainty  feast : 
By  toil  and  famine  worn  to  skin  and  bone, 
lies  senseless  of  each  tugging  bitch’s  son. 

Oh  dulness  ! portion  of  the  truly  blest ! 

Calm  shelter’d  haven  of  eternal  rest ! 

Thy  sons  ne’er  madden  in  the  fierce  extremes 
Of  fortune’s  polar  frost  or  torrid  beams. 

If  mantling  high  she  fills  the  golden  cup, 
With  sober  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up : 
Conscious  the  bounteous  meed  they  well 
deserve, 

They  only  wonder  “some  folks”  do  not  starve. 
The  grave  sage  hern  thus  easj  picks  his  frog. 
And  thinks  the  mallard  a sad  worthless  dog. 
When  disappointment  snaps  the  clue  of  hope. 
And  thro’  disast’rous  night  they  darkling 
grope, 

With  deaf  endurance  sluggishly  they  bear, 
And  just  conclude  that  “ fools  are  fortune’s 
care.” 

So,  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest’s  shocks, 
Strong  on  the  sign-post  stands  the  stupid  ox. 
Not  so  the  idle  muses’  mad  cap  train, 

Not  such  the  workings  of  their  moon-struck 
brain  ; 

In  equanimity  they  never  dwell, 

By  turns  in  scaling  lieav’n,  or  vaulted  hell. 

I dread  thee  fate,  relentless  and  severe, 

With  all  a poet’s,  husband’s  father’s  fear! 
Already  one  strong  hold  of  hope  is  lost, 
Glencairn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust ; 


(Fled,  like  the  sun  eclips’d  as  noon  appears^ 
And  left  us  darkling  in  a world  of  tears) : 

Oh  ! hear  my  ardent, grateful,  selfish,  pray’r!— • 
Fintry,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and  spare! 
Thro’  a long  life  his  hopes  and  wishes  crown ; 
And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  go 
down ; 

May  bliss  domestic  smooth  his  private  path. 
Give  energy  to  life,  and  soothe  his  latest 
breath,  [death? 

With  many  a filial  tear  circling  the  bed 


ynartjj  Cpistli  In  Blr.  ©ralnrn, 

OF  FINTRY  ON  RECEIVING  A FAVOUR.  (263) 

I call  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 

A fabled  muse  may  suit  a bard  that  feigns; 
Friend  of  my  life  ! my  ardent  spirit  bums. 
And  all  the  tribute  of  ray  heart  returns. 

For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new. 

The  gift  still  dearer,  as  the  giver,  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day  ! thou  other  paler  light ! 
And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night ; 

If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind  efface. 

If  I that  giver’s  bounty  e’er  disgrace ; 

Then  roll  to  me,alang  your  wandering  spheres^ 
Only  to  number  oUt  a villaiu’s  years  1 


®Jji  Higljts  nf  'HJrnnan, 

All  OCCASIONAL  audress  spoken  by  miss 
FONTEiNELLE  ON  HER  BENEFIT  NIGHT. 

[nov.  26,  1792.] 

While  Europe’s  eye  is  fix’d  on  mighty 
things. 

The  fate  of  empires  and  the  fall  of  kings ; 
While  quacks  of  state  must  each  product 
his  plan. 

And  even  children  lisp  the  Rights  of  Man  ; 
Amid  this  mighty  fuss  just  let  me  mention. 
The  Rights  of  Woman  merit  some  attention. 
First,  in  the  sexes’  intermixed  connection. 
One  sacred  Right  of  Woman  is  protection. 
The  tender  flower  that  lifts  its  head,  elate. 
Helpless,  must  fall  before  the  blasts  3f  fate. 
Sunk  on  the  earth,  defac’d  its  lovely  form. 
Unless  your  shelter  ward  th’  impending 
storm. 

Our  second  right — but  needless  here,  is 
caution, 

To  keep  that  right  inviolate’s  the  fashion ; 
Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before  him. 
He’d  die  before  he’d  wrong  it — ’ tis  decorum. 
There  was.  indeed,  in  far  less  polish’d  days, 
A time,  when  rough  rude  man  had  naughty 
ways ; 

Would  swagger,  swear,  get  drunk.  Lick  up  t 
riot. 

Nay  even  thus  invade  a lady’s  quiet. 


TO  MR.  MAXWELL, 


187 


Row,  thank  our  nfcars!  these  Gothic  times 
are  fled  ; [bred — 

Now,  well-bred  men — and  you  are  all  well 
Most  justly  think  (and  we  are  much  the 
gainers)  [ners.  (26*9) 

Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit,  nor  man- 

For  Right  the  third,  our  last,  our  best,  our 
dearest,  [nearest. 

That  right  to  fluttering  female  hearts  the 
Which  even  the  Rights  of  Kings  in  low 
prostration  [tion ! 

Most  humbly  own — ’tis  dear,  dear  admira- 
In  that  blest  sphere  alone  we  live  and  move: 
There  taste  that  life  of  life — immortal  love. 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,  tears,  fits,  flirtations, 
airs, 

*Gains’t  such  an  host  what  flinty  savage 
dares  ? — [charms. 

When  awful  Beauty  joins  with  all  her 
Who  is  so  rash  as  rise  in  rebel  arms  ? 

But  truce  with  kings  and  truce  with  consti- 
tutions. 

With  bloody  armaments  and  revolutions. 

Let  majesty  your  first  attention  summon. 
Ah!  Ca  ira!  the  majesty  of  woman. 


a fisitra. 

As  I stood  by  yon  roofless  tower  (270), 
Where  the  wa’-flower  scents  the  dewy  air. 

Where  th’  owlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower. 
And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care ; 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 

The  stars  they  shot  alang  the  sky ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 

To  the  distant-echoing  glens  reply. 

The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path. 

Was  rushing  by  the  ruin’d  wa’s. 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 

Whose  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa’s. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi’  hissing  eerie  din  ; 

Athwart  the  lift  they  start  and  shift. 

Like  fortune’s  favours,  tint  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I turn’d  mine  eyes. 

And,  by  the  moonbeam,  shook  to  see 

A stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise. 

Attir’d  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

Had  I a statue  been  o’  stane, 

His  darin’  look  had  daunted  me; 

And  o n his  bonnet  grav  d was  plain. 

The  sacred  motto — ■"  Libertie  !” 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow. 

Might  rous’d  the  slumb’ring  dead  to  hear; 

But  oh ! it  was  a tale  of  woe. 

Ad  ever  met  a Briton’s  ear. 


He  sang  wi’  joy  the  former  day, 

He  weeping  wail'd  his  latter  times  j 
But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play— 

I winna  vcntur’t  in  my  rhymes. 


fibril! — 3 /raprnt. 

Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among, 
Thee,  famed  for  martial  deed  and  sacred  song 
To  thee  I turn  with  swimming  eyes! 
Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  fled  ? 
Immingled  wdth  the  mighty  dead  ! [lies! 

Beueath  the  hallow’d  turf  where  Wallace 
Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  bed  of  death  l 
Ye  babbling  winds,  in  silence  sweep ; 
Disturb  not  ye  the  hero’s  sleep. 

Nor  give  the  coward  secret  breath. 

Is  this  the  power  in  freedom’s  war. 

That  wont  to  bid  the  battle  rage  ? 

Behold  that  eye  which  shot  immortal  hate. 
Crushing  the  despot’s  proudest  bearing 
Behold  e’en  grizzly  death’s  majestic  state 
When  Freedom’s  sacred  glance  e’en  deat!| 
is  wearing. 


£n  fflt.  JtanfU, 

OF  TERRAUGHTY,  ON  HIS  BIRTH-DAY, 

Health  to  the  Maxwell’s  vet’ran  chief! 
Health,  aye  unsour’d  by  care  or  grief : 
Inspir’d,  I turn’d  Fate’s  sybil  leaf 
This  natal  morn; 

I see  thy  life  is  stuff  o’  prief. 

Scarce  quite  half  worn. 

This  day  thou  metes’st  three  score  eleven. 
And  1 can  tell  that  bounteous  Heaven 
(The  second  sight,  ye  ken,  is  given 
To  ilka  poet) 

On  thee  a tack  o’  seven  times  seven 
Will  yet  bestow  it. 

If  envious  buckies  view  wi’  sorrow 
Thy  lengthen’d  days  on  this  blest  morrow. 
May  desolation’s  lang  teeth’d  harrow, 

Nine  miles  an  hour. 

Rake  them  like  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 

In  brimstane  shoure — 

But  for  thy  friends,  and  they  are  mony, 
Baith  honest  men  and  lasses  boiiiiie. 

May  couthie  fortune,  kind  and  caunie. 

In  social  glee, 

Wi’  mornings  blythe  and  e’enings  funny. 
Bless  them  and  thee ! 
Fareweel,  auld  birkie ! Lord  be  near  ye. 
And  then  the  deil  he  daurna  steer  ye : 

Your  friends  aye  love,  your  facs  aye  fear  ye 
For  me,  shame  fa’  me. 

If  near’st  my  heart  I dinna  wear  ye 

While  Burns  they  ca’  me! 


183 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


<E>n  ftesforal  $nrtnj.  (271) 

IIail  Poesie  ! tliou  Nymph  reserv’d  ! 

In  chase  0’  thee,  what  crowds  hae  swerv’d 
Erie  common  sense,  or  sunk  unnerv’d 
’Mang  heaps  0’  clavers ; 
And  och ! owre  aft  thy  joes  hae  starv’d. 
Mid  a’  thy  favours ! 

Say,  Lassie,  why  thy  train  amang. 

While  loud, -the  trump’s  heroic  clang. 

And  sock  or  buskin  skelp  alang 

To  death  or  marriage  ; 
Scarce  ane  has  tried  the  sliepherd-sang 
But  wi’  miscarriage  ? 

In  Homer’s  craft  Jock  Milton  thrives; 
Eschylus’  pen  Will  Shakspeare  drives ; 
Wep  Pope,  the  knurlin,  ’till  him  rives 
Horatian  fame ; 

In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barbauld,  survives 
Ev’n  Sappho’s  flame. 

But  thee,  Theocritus,  wha  matches  ? 
They’re  no  herd’s  ballats,  Maro’s  catches ; 
Squire  Pope  but  busks  his  skinklin  patches 
O’  heathen  tatters : 

I pass  by  hundred,  nameless  wretches. 

That  ape  their  betters. 

In  this  braw  age  o’  wit  and  lear. 

Will  nane  the  Shepherd’s  whistle  mair 
Blaw  sweetly  in  its  native  air 

And  rural  grace ; 

And  wi’  the  far  fam’d  Grecian  share 
A rival  place  ? 

Yes  ! there  is  ane ; a Scottish  callan — 
There’s  ane  ; come  forrit,  honest  Allan ! 
Thou  need  na  jouk  behint  the  hallan, 

A chiel  sae  clever ; 

The  teeth  o’,  time  may  gnaw  Tantallan, 

But  thou’s  for  ever ! 

Thou  paints  auld  nature  to  the  nine*. 

In  thy  sweet  Caledonian  lines ; 

Nae  gowden  stream  thro’  myrtles  twines, 
Where  Philomel, 

While  nightly  breezes  sweep  the  vines. 

Her  griefs  will  tell  1 

In  goweny  glens  thy  burnie  strays. 

Where  bonnie  lasses  bleach  their  claes ; 

Or  trots  by  hazelly  shaws  and  braes, 

Wi’  hawthorns  grey, 

’Where  bladcbirds  join  the  shepherd’s  lays 
At  close  0’  day. 

Thy  rural  loves  are  nature’s  sel’ ; 

Nae  bombast  spates  0’  nonsense  swell; 

Nae  snap  conceits,  but  that  sweet  spell 
O’  witchin’  love ; 

That  charm  that  can  the  strongest  quell. 
The  sternest  move. 


fmtitrf, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  25TH  JANUARY  1793,  Til* 
BIRTHDAV  OF  THE  AUTHOR,  ON  HEARING  A 
THRJSH  SING  IN  A MORNING  WALK. 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafles* 
bough. 

Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I listen  to  thy  strain. 
See  aged  Winter,  ’mid  his  surly  reign. 

At  thy*  blythe  carol  clears  his  furrow’d  brow. 

So  in  lone  Poverty’s  dominion  drear. 

Sits  meek  Content  with  light  unanxioua 
heart,  [part. 

Welcomes  the  rapid  moments,  bids  them 
Nor  asks  if  they  bring  ought  ^ hope  or 
fear. 

I thank  thee,  Author  of  this  opening  day ! 
Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  yoa 
orient  skies  ! 

Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys. 
What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  tak* 
away  I 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care. 
The  mite  high  Heaven  bestowed,  that  mit* 
with  thee  I’ll  share. 


CjjE  Cm  nf  f ihrrtq.  (27?) 

Heard  ye  o’  the  tree  0’  France, 

I watna  what’s  the  name  o’t ; 

Around  it  a’  the  patriots  dance, 

Weel  Europe  kens  the  fame  o’t. 

It  stands  where  ance  the  Bastile  stood, 
A prison  built  by  kings,  man. 

When  Superstition’s  hellish  brood 
Kept  France  in  leading  strings,  man. 

Upo’  this  tree  there  grows  sic  fruit. 

Its  virtue’s  a’  can  tell,  man ; 

It  raises  man  aboon  the  brute. 

It  maks  him  ken  himself,  man. 

If  ance  the  peasant  taste  a bit 
He’s  greater  than  a lord,  man. 

And  wi’  the  beggar  shares  a mite 
O’  a’  he  can  afford,  man. 

This  fruit  is  worth  a’  Afric’s  wealth. 

To  comfort  us  ’twas  sent,  man  : 

To  gie  the  sweetest  blush  o’  health. 

And  mak  us  a’  content,  man. 

It  clears  the  een,  it  cheers  the  heart, 
Maks  high  and  low  guid  friends,  maa  5 

And  he  wha  acts  the  traitor’s  part. 

It  to  perdition  sends,  man. 

My  blessings  aye  attend  the  chiel, 

Wha  pitied  Gallia’s  slaves,  man, 

Ar  d staw’d  a branch,  spite  o’  the  dnh 
I'rae  yon’t  the  w jstern  waves,  man? 


MONODY. 


189 


Fair  Virtue  water’d  it  wi’  care. 

And  now  she  sees  wi’  pride,  man 
How  weel  it  buds  and  blossoms  there. 

Its  branches  spreading  wide,  man. 

But  vicious  folk  aye  hate  to  see 
The  works  o'  Virtue  thrive,  man ; 

The  courtly  vermin’s  banned  the  tree. 

And  grat  to  see  it  thrive,  man. 

King  Loui’  thought  to  cut  it  down, 

When  it  was  unco’  sma’,  man ; 

For  this  the  watchman  cracked  his  crown. 
Cut  aff  his  head  and  a’,  man. 

A wicked  crew  syne,  on  a time. 

Did  tak  a solemn  aith,  man. 

It  ne’er  should  flourish  to  its  prime, 

I wat  they  pledged  their  faith,  man  ; 
Aw  a,  they  gaed  wi’  mock  parade. 

Like  beagles  hunting  game,  man. 

But  soon  grew  weary  o’  the  trade. 

And  wished  they’d  been  at  hame,  man. 

For  Freedom,  standing  by  the  tree. 

Her  sons  did  loudly  ca’,  man ; 

6he  sang  a song  o’  liberty. 

Which  pleased  them  ane  and  a’,  man. 
By  her  inspired,  the  new-born  race 
Soon  drew  the  avenging  steel,  man  ; 
The  hirelings  ran — her  foes  gied  chase. 
And  banged  the  despot  weel,  man. 

Let  Britain  boast  her  hardy  oak. 

Her  poplar  and  her  pine,  man, 

Auld  Britain  ance  could  crack  her  joke. 
And  o’er  her  neighbours  shine,  man. 
But  seek  the  forest  round  and  round. 

And  soon  ’twill  be  agreed,  man. 

That  sic  a tree  can  not  be  found, 

’Twixt  London  and  the  Tweed,  man. 

Without  this  tree,  alack  this  life 
Is  but  a vale  o’  woe  man  ; 

A scene  0’  sorrow  mixed  wi’  strife^ 

Nae  real  joys  we  know,  man. 

We  labour  soon,  we  labour  late. 

To  feed  the  titled  knave,  man ; 

And  a’  the  comfort  we’re  to  get. 

Is  that  ayont  the  grave,  man. 

Wi’  plenty  0’  sic  trees,  I trow. 

The  warld  would  live  in  peace,  man ; 
The  sword  would  help  to  mak  a plough. 
The  din  o’  war  wad  cease,  man. 
like  brethren  in  a common  cause, 

WVd  on  each  other  smile,  man; 

And  equal  rights  and  equal  laws 
Wad  gladden  everv  isle,  man. 

Wae  worth  the  loon  wha  wadna  eat 
Sic  wnal  esome,  dainty  cheer,  man ; 

I’d  gie  my  shoon  frae  aff  my  feet. 

To  taste  sic  fruit,  i swear,  man. 


Syne  let  us  pray,  auld  England  may 
Sure  plant  this  far-famed  tree,  man  ; 
And  blythe  we’ll  sing,  and  hail  the  day 
That  gave  us  liberty,  man. 


fmral  Sunnmricr. 

A PARODY  ON  ROBIN  ADAIR.  (2/3J 

You’re  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumouriei ; 
You’re  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier. 
How  does  Dampiere  do  ? 

Ay  and  Bournonville  too? 

Why  did  they  not  come  along  with  you, 
Dumourier? 

I will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier ; 

I will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier 
I will  fight  France  with  you  ; 

I will  take  my  chance  with  you ; 

By  my  soul  I’ll  dance  a dance  with  you, 
Dumourier. 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier  ; 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier; 

Then  let  us  fight  about. 

Till  freedom’s  spark  is  out. 

Then  we’ll  be  damn’d,  no  doubt — Dumourier. 


f ittrs 

SENT  TO  A GENTLEMAN  WHOM  HE  HAD  OFFENDED. 

(274) 

The  friend  whom  wild  from  wisdom’s  way. 
The  fumes  of  wine  infuriate  send 
(Not  moony  madness  more  astray) — 

Who  but  deplores  that  hapless  friend? 

Mine  was  th’  insensate  frenzied  part. 

Ah,  why  should  I such  scenes  outlive  !— 
Scenes  so  abhorrent  to  my  heart  l 
’Tis  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 


fflnnnirij 

ON  A LADY  FAMED  FOR  HER  CAPRICE.  (275) 

How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly  once 
fir’d, 

How  pale  is  that  cheek  where  the  rouge 
lately  glisten’d : [tired. 

How  silent  that  tongue  which  the  echoes  oft 

How  dull  is  that  ear  which  to  flattery  so 
listen’d ! 

If  sorrow  and  anguish  their  exit  await. 

From  friendship  and  dearest  affection 
remov’d ; 

How  doubly  severer.  Eliza,  thy  fate,  [lov’d. 

Thou  diedst  unwept,  as  thou  lived’st  ua* 


190 


BURNS’S  POETTCAL  WORKS. 


Loves  spaces,  and  virtues,  I call  not  on  you ! 
So  shy,  grave,  and  distant,  ye  shed  not  a 
tear : 

But  come,  all  ye  offspring  of  folly  so  true. 
And  flowers  let  us  cull  for  Eliza’s  cold 
bier. 

We’ll  search  through  the  garden  for  each 
silly  flower,  [weed; 

We’ll  roarn  through  the  forest  for  each  idle 

But  chiefly  the  nettle,  so  typical,  shower, 

Tor  none  e’er  approached  her  but  rued 
the  rash  deed. 

We’ll  sculpture  the  marble,  we’ll  measure 

the  lay ; 

Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  lyre  ; 

There  keen  indignation  shall  dart  on  her 
prey. 

Which  spurning  contempt  shall  redeem 
from  his  ire. 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  lies,  now  a prey  to  insulting  neglect. 
What  once  was  a butterfly  gay  in  life’s 
beam : 

Want  only  of  wisdom  denied  her  respect. 
Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her  esteem. 


fpistle  from  fops  fa  JEaria. 

(276) 

From  those  drear  solitudes  and  frowsy  cells. 
Where  infamy  with  sad  repentance  dwells  ; 
Where  turnkeys  make  the  jealous  portal  fast. 
And  deal  from  iron  hands  the  spare  repast. 
Where  truant  ’prentices,  yet  young  in  sin. 
Blush  at  the  curious  stranger  peeping  in  • 
Where  strumpets,  relics  of  the  drunken  roar, 
Resolve  to  drink,  nay,  half  to  whore  no 
more : 

Where  tiny  thieves  not  destin’d  yet  to  swing. 
Beat  hemp  for  others,  riper  for  the  string  : 
Prom  these  dire  scenes  my  wretched  lines 
I date. 

To  tell  Maria  her  Esopus’  fate. 

•Alas!  I feel  I am  no  actor  here  !’* 

*Tis  real  hangmen,  real  scourges  bear 
Prepare,  Maria,  for  a horrid  tale 
Will  turn  thy  very  rouge  to  deadly  pale; 
Will  make  thy  hair,  tho’  erst  from  gipsy 
poll’d. 

By  barber  woven,  and  by  barber  sold. 
Though  twisted  smooth  with  Harry’s  nicest 
care. 

Like  hoary  bristles  to  erect  and  stare. 

The  hero  of  the  mimic  scene,  no  more^ 

JL  start  in  Hamlet,  in  Othello  roar ; 


Or  haughty  chieftain,  mid  the  din  of  arms. 

In  Highland  bonnet  woo  Malvina’s  charms  ; 
While  sans  culottes  stoop  up  the  mountain 
high. 

And  steal  from  me  Maria’s  eye. 

Blest  Highland  bonnet ! once  my  proudest 
dress. 

Now  prouder  still,  Maria’s  temples  press, 

1 see  her  wave  thy  towering  plumes  afar. 
And  call  each  coxcomb  to  the  wordy  war ; 
I see  her  face  the  first  of  Ireland’s  sons  (277), 
And  even  out-Irish  his  Hibernian  bronze ; 
The  crafty  colonel  (278)  leaves  the  tartaned 
lines 

For  other  wars,  where  he  a hero  shines  ; 

The  hopeful  youth,  in  Scottish  senate  bred. 
Who  owns  a Bushby’s  heart  without  the  head. 
Comes  mid  a string  of  coxcombs  to  display. 
That  veni,  vidi,  vici,  is  his  way ; 

The  shrinking  bard  adown  ail  alley  skulks. 
And  dreads  a meeting  worse  than  Woolwich 
hulks ; [state 

Though  there,  his  heresies  in  church  and 
Might  well  award  him  Muir  and  Palmers  fate: 
Still  she  undaunted  reels  and  rattles  on. 

And  dares  the  public  like  a noontide  sun. 
(What  scandal  call’d  Maria’s  jaunty  stagger. 
The  ricket  reeling  of  a crooked  swagger  ; 
Whose  spleen  e’en  worse  than  Burn’s  venom, 
when 

He  dips  in  gall  unmix’d  his  eager  pen. 

And  pours  his  vengeance  in  the  burning  line^ 
Who  christen’d  thus  Maria’s  lyre  divine. 

The  idiot  strum  of  vanity  bemused. 

And  even  th’  abuse  of  poesy  abused  : 

Who  call’d  her  verse  a parish  Workhouse, 
made  [stray’d  ?) 

For  motley,  foundling  fancies,  stolen  or 

A Workhouse ! ah,  that  sound  awakei  my 
woes. 

And  pillows  on  the  thorn  my  rack’d  repose ! 
In  durance  vile  here  must  I wake  and  weep. 
And  all  my  frowsy  couch  in  sorrow  steep  ! 
That  straw  where  many  a rogue  has  lain  of 
yore. 

And  vermin’d  Gipsies  litter’d  heretofore. 
Why  Lonsdale  thus,  tby  wrath  on  vagranti 
pour ; 

Must  earth  no  rascal  save  thyself  endure  ? 
Must  thou  alone  in  guilt  immortal  swell, 

And  make  a vast  monopoly  of  hell  ? 

Thou  know’st  the  virtues  cannot  hate  the® 
worse ; 

The  vices  also,  must  they  club  their  curse? 

Or  must  no  tiny  sin  to  others  fall. 

Because  thy  guilt’s  supreme  enough  for  sdl  ? 

Maria,  send  me  too  tby  griefs;  and  car&s ; 

In  all  of  thee  sure  thy  Esopus  shares 


THE  V 

As  thou  at  afl  mankind  the  flag  unfurls, 

Who  on  my  fair  one  satire’s  vengeance  hurls  ? 
Who  calls  thee,  pert,  affected,  vain  coquette, 
A wit  in  folly,  and  a fool  in  wit? 

Who  says  that  fool  alone  is  not  thy  due. 

And  quotes  thy  treacheries  to  prove  it  true? 
Our  force  united  on  thy  foes  we’ll  turn 
And  dare  the  war  with  all  of  woman  born : 
For  who  can  write  and  speak  as  thou  and  I ? 
My  periods  that  decyphering  defy. 

And  thy  still  matchless  tongue  that  conquers 
all  reply. 


&nmtf 

Off  THE  DEATH  OF  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL  OF 
GLEN  RIDDEL,  APRIL,  1794.  (279) 

No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood — no  more! 
Nor  pour  your  descant,  grating,  on  my 
soul : [dant  stole. 

Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  thy  ver- 

More  welcome  were  to  me  grim  Winter’s 
wildest  roar. 

How  can  ye  charm,  ye  flow’rs,  with  all  your 
dyes  ? [friend ! 

Ye  blow  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my 
Hovv  can  I to  the  tuneful  strain  attend? 

That  strain  flows  round  th’  untimely  tomb 
where  Riddel  lies ! 

Yes,  pour,  ve  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of  woe ! 
And  soothe  the  Virtues  weeping  on  his  bier: 
The  Man  of  Worth,  who  has  not  left  his 
peer, 

Is  in  his  “ narrow  house  ” for  ever  darkly  low. 

Thee,  Spring,  again  with  joy  shall  others 
greet, 

Me,  mem’ry  of  my  loss  will  oidy  meet. 


impromptu 

ON  MRS  riddel’s  birth-day.  (280) 

Old  Winter,  with  his  frosty  beard. 

Thus  once  to  Jove  his  prayer  preferr’d— 

* What  have  I done  of  all  the  year. 

To  bear  this  hated  doom  severe  ? 

My  cheerless  suns  no  pleasure  know ; 
Night’s  horrid  car  drags,  dreary  slow; 

My  dismal  months  no  joys  are  crowning. 
But  spleeny  English,  hanging,  drowning. 

Now,  Jove,  for  once  be  mighty  civil, 

To  counterbalance  all  this  < vil ; 

Give  me,  and  I’ve  no  more  to  say. 

Give  me  Maria’s  natal  day  ! 

That  brilliant  gift  shall  so  enrich  me, 

Spring,  summer,  autumn,  cannot  mat  fli  me.” 


WELS.  191 

“ ’Tis  done !”  says  Jove ; so  ends  my  ate  ry. 
And  Winter  once  rejoic’d  in  glory. 


Jtos  in  ®i05  ©rajiani 

OF  FINTRY.  (281) 

Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  iramortai 
lives,  [join’d. 

In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  numbers 

Accept  the  gift; — tho’  humble  he  who  gives. 
Rich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful  mind. 

So  may  no  ruffian-feeling  in  tby  breast. 
Discordant  jar  thy  bosom-chords  among  ; 

But  peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest. 

Or  love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  song. 

Or  pity’s  notes  in  luxury  of  tears. 

As  modest  want  the  tale  of  woe  reveals  ; 

While  conscious  virtue  all  the  strain  endears. 
And  h°aven-born  piety  her  sanction  seals. 


% franii, 

A TALE. 

’Twas  where  the  birch  and  sounding  thong 
are  plied. 

The  noisy  domicile  of  pedant  pride; 

Where  ignorance  her  dark’ning  vapour 
throws. 

And  cruelty  directs  the  thick’ ning  blows; 
Upon  a time,  Sir  A-be-ce  the  great. 

In  all  his  pedagogic  powers  elate, 

His  awful  chair  of  state  resolves  to  mount. 
And  call  the  trembling  vowels  to  account. 

First  enter’d  A,  a grave,  broad,  solemn  wighe. 
But,  ah  ! deform’d,  dishonest  to  the  sight ! 
His  twisted  head  look’d  backward  on  his  way. 
And  flagrant  from  the  scourge  he  grunted, ait 

Reluctant,  E stalk’d  in  ; with  piteous  race 
The  jostling  tears  ran  down  his  honest  face f 
That  name,  that  well-worn  name,  and  all  his 
own. 

Pale  he  surrenders  at  the  tyrant’s  throne ; 
The  Pedant  stifles  keen  the  Roman  sound 
N ot  all  his  mongrel  diphthongs  can  compound; 
And  next  the  title  following  close  behind. 

He  to  the  nameless,  ghastly  wretch  assign’d 

The  cobweb’d  Gothic  dome  resounded,  Y ? 

In  sullen  vengeance,  I,  disdain’d  reply  : 

The  pedant  swung  his  felon  cudgel  round. 
And  knock’d  the  groaning  vowel  to  the 
ground ! 

In  rueful  apprehension  enter’d  O, 

The  wailing  minstrel  of  despairing  wo ej 


192 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Tli’  Inquisitor  of  Spain  the  most  expert. 
Might  there  have  learnt  new  mysteries  of 
his  art ; 

So  grim,  deform’d,  with  horrors  entering  U, 
His  dearest  friend  and  by-other  scarcely 
knew  ! 

As  trembling  U stood  staring  ill  aghast. 

The  pedant  in  his  left  hand  clutch’d  him  fast. 
In  helpless  infants’  tears  he  dipp’d  his  right, 
Baptiz’d  him  eu,  and  kick’d  him  from  his 
sight. 


Stars  In  Snftit  Sankira, 

Ane  day,  as  Death,  that  grusome  carle. 
Was  driving  to  the  tither  warl’ 

A mixtie-maxtie,  motley  squad. 

And  mony  a guilt-bespotted  lad ; 

Black  gowns  of  each  denomination. 

And  thieves  of  every  rank  and  station, 
Prom  him  that  wears  the  star  and  garter. 
To  him  that  wintles  in  a halter : 

Ashamed  himsel’  to  see  the  wretches. 

He  mutters,  glowrin’  at  the  bitches, 

“ By  G — , I’ll  not  be  seen  behint  them. 
Nor  ’mang  the  sp’ritual  core  present  them. 
Without,  at  least,  ane  honest  man. 

To  grace  this  d — d infernal  clan.” 

By  Adamhill  a glance  he  threw, 

“L — God  !”  quoth  he,  “I  have  it  now. 
There’s  just  the  man  I want,  i’  faith !” 
And  quickly  stoppit  RankineV  breath. 


<^a  finsMittt. 

90  XV  DEAR  AND  MUCH  HONOURED  FBXSND, 
MRS.  DUNLOP,  OF  DUNLOP. 

Sensibility  how  charming. 

Thou,  my  friend,  canst  truly  teU : 

But  distress  with  horrors  arming. 

Thou  hast  also  known  too  well  l 

Fairest  flower,  behold  the  lily. 

Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray  : 

Let  the  blast  sweep  o’er  the  valley. 

See  it  prostrate  on  the  clay. 

Hear  the  wrood-lark  charm  the  forest. 
Telling  o’er  his  little  joys  : 

Hapless  bird ! a prey  the  surest. 

To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought,  the  hidden  treasure, 

Finer  feelings  can  bestow ; 

Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure. 

Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  woe. 


Sifirra 

SPOKEN  BY 'MISS  FONTENELLE  ON  HER  BENEFH 

NIGHT  (282). 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favour. 
And  not  less  anxious,  sure,  this  night,  than 
ever, 

A Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  some  such  matter, 
’Twould  vamp  my  bill,  said  I,  if  nothing 
better ; 

So  sought  a Poet,  roosted  near  the  skies. 
Told  him  I came  to  feast  my  curious  eyes ; 
Said,  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever 
printed ; 

And  last,  my  Prologue-business  sflily  hinted. 
“Ma’am,  let  me  tell  you,”  quoth  my  man  of 
rhymes,  [times : 

u I know  your  bent — these  are  no  laughing 
Can  you — but  Miss,  I own  I have  my 
fears — 

Dissolve  in  sighs — and  sentimental  tears. 
With  laden  breath,  and  solemn-rounded 
sentence,  [Repentance ; 

Rouse  from  his  sluggish  slumbers,  fell 
Paint  Vengeance  as  he  takes  his  horrid  stand. 
Waving  on  high  the  desolating  brand. 
Calling  the  storms  to  bear  him  o’er  a guilty 
land?” 

I could  no  more — askance  the  creature 

eyeing,  . [crying? 

D’ye  think,  said  I,  this  face  was  made  for 
I’ll  laugh,  that’s  poz — nay  more,  the  wo)  Id 
shall  know  it ; 

And  so,  your  servant ! gloomy  Master  Poet  \ 
Firm  as  my  creed,  Sirs,  ’tis  my  fix’d  belief 
That  Misery’s  another  word  for  Grief; 

I also  think — so  may  I be  a bride ! — 

That  so  much  laughter,  so  much  life  enjoy’d. 

Thou  man  of  crazy  care  and  ceaseless  sigh. 
Still  under  bleak  Misfortune’s  blasting  eye; 
Doom’d  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  alive — 
To  make  three  guineas  do  the  work  of  five : 
Laugh  in  Misfortune’s  face — the  beldam 
witch ! — 

Say,  you’ll  be  merry,  tho*  you  can’t  be  rich. 

Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in  love 
Who  long  with  jiltish  arts  and  airs  hast 
strove; 

Who,  as  the  boughs  all  temptingly  project, 
Measur’st  in  desperate  thought — a rope— 
thy  neck — 

Or,  where  the  beetling  cliff  o’erhangs  the  deep, 
Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap : 
Would’st  thou  be  cur’d,  thou  silly,  moping  elf! 
Laugh  at  her  follies — laugh  e’en  at  thyself: 
Learn  to  despise  those  frowns  now  so  terrific, 
And  love  a kinder — that’s  your  grand  specific 
To  sum  up  all,  be  merry,  I advise; 

And  as  we’re  merry,  may  we  still  be  wise. 


THE  ELECTION. 


191 


U Cijlnrk  (283) 

*Tis  Friendship’s  pledge,  my  young,  fair 
Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse,  [friend. 

Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 
The  moralising  muse. 

Since  thou,  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms. 
Must  bid  the  world  adieu, 

(A  world  ’gainst  peace  in  constant  arms) 

To  join  the  friendly  few. 

Since  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o’ercast. 

Chill  came  the  tempest’s  lower; 

(And  ne’er  misfortune  s eastern  blast 
Did  nip  a fairer  llower.) 

Since  life’s  gay  scenes  must  charm  no  more, 
Still  much  is  left  behind; 

Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store— 

The  comforts  of  the  mind! 

Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow. 

On  conscious  honour’s  part; 

And,  dearest  gift  of  heaven  belour. 

Thine  friendship’s  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refin’d  of  sense  and  taster 
"With  every  muse  to  rove: 

And  doubly  were  the  poet  blest. 

These  joys  could  he  improve. 


Sites  in  iju  $jjais  nf  ®jjnmsmt, 

ON  CROWNING  HIS  BUST  AT  EDNAM, 
ROXBURGHSHIRE,  WITH  BAYS. 

While  virgin  spring,  by  Eden’s  flood. 
Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green. 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  mood. 

Or  tunes  Eolian  strains  between: 

While  Summer  with  a matron  grace 
Retreats  to  Dry  burgh’s  cooling  shade, 

Yet  oft,  delighted,  stops  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade: 

While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind. 

By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head. 

And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind. 

Each  creature  on  liis  bounty  fed: 

While  maniac  Winter  rages  o’er 
The  hills  whence  classic  Yarrow  flows. 

Rousing  the  turbid  torrent’s  roar. 

Or  sweeping,  wild,  a waste  of  snows: 

Bo  long,  sweet  Poet  of  the  year! 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well  hast  won ; 

While  Scotia,  with  exulting  tear, 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son* 


fallais  an  Mr.  lafna's  fitrfina*. 

[ballad  first]  (284.) 

Whom  will  you  send  to  London  towi^ 

To  Parliament  and  a’  that  ? 

Or  wha  in  a’  the  o mntry  round 
The  best  deserves  to  fa’  that? 

For  a’  that,  and  a ’ that. 

Thro’  Galloway  and  a’  that ; 

Where  is  the  laird  or  belted  knighS 
That  best  deserves  to  fa’  that? 

Wha  sees  Kerroughtree’s  open  yeti* 

And  wha  is’t  never  saw  that  ? 

Wha  ever  wi’  Kerroughtree  met 
And  has  a doubt  of  a’  that  ? 

For  a ’ that,  and  a’  that, 

Here’s  Heron  yet  for  a’  that! 

The  independent  patriot, 

The  honest  man,  and  a’  that, 

Tho’  wit  and  worth  in  either  sex, 

St.  Mary’s  Isle  can  shaw  that ; 

Wi’  dukes  and  lords  let  Selkirk  mil, 

And  weel  does  Selkirk  fa’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Here’s  Heron  yet  for  a’  that! 

The  independent  commoner 
Shall  be  the  man  for  a’  that. 

But 'why  should  we  to  nobles  jouk? 

And  is’t  against  the  law  that? 

For  why,  a lord  may  be  a gouk, 

Wi’  ribbon,  star,  and  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Here’s  Heron  yet  for  a’  that! 

A lord  may  be  a lousy  loun, 

Wi’  ribbon,  star,  and  a’  that. 

A beardless  boy  comes  o’er  the  hill^ 

Wi’  uncle’s  purse  and  a’  that; 

But  We’!!  hae  ane  frae  ’mang  ourself 
A man  we  ken,  and  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Here’s  Heron  yet  for  a’  that! 

For  we’re  not  to  be  bought  and  sou 
Like  naigs,  and  nowt,  and  a’  that. 

Then  let  us  drink  the  Stewartry, 
Kerroughtree’s  laird,  and  a’  that, 

Our  representative  to  be, 

For  weel  he’s  worthy  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Here’s  Heron  yet  for  a’  that! 

A House  of  Commons  such  as  he. 
They  would  be  blest  that  saw  that 

[ballad  second.] 

$Ijb  (Slrrtimi* 

Fy,  let  us  a’  to  Kirkcudbright, 

For  there  will  be  bickerin’  there; 

For  Murray  ’s  light-horse  are  to  muster. 

And  oh,  how  the  heroes  will  sweai  1 


194 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  there  will  be  Murray  commander. 

And  Gordon  the  battle  to  win ; 

Like  brothers  they’ll  stand  by  each  other, 
Sae  knit  in  alliance  an’  sin. 

And  there  will  be  black  lippit  Johnnie  (285*), 
The  tongue  o’  the  trump  to  them  a’; 

An’  he  get  ua  hell  for  his  haddin’. 

The  deil  gets  na  justice  ava’; 

And  there  will  be  Kempleton’s  birkie^ 

A boy  no  sae  black  at  the  bane, 

B.it,  as  for  his  fine  nabob  fortune. 

We’ll  e’en  let  the  subject  alane.  (286) 

And  there  will  be  Wigton’s  new  sheriff ; 

Dame  Justice  fu’  brawlie  has  sped. 

She’s  gotten  the  heart  of  a Busby, 

But,  Lord,  what’s  become  o’  the  head? 
And  there  will  be  Cardoness  (287),  Esquire, 
Sae  mighty  in  Cardoness’  eyes  ; 

A wight  that  will  weather  damnation. 

For  the  devil  the  prey  will  despise. 

And  there  will  be  Douglasses  doughty  (288), 
New  chris t’ning  towns  far  and  near ; 
Abjuring  their  democrat  doings. 

By  kissing  the  — o’  a peer ; 

And  there  will  be  Kenmure  sae  gen’rous. 
Whose  honour  is  proof  to  the  storm. 

To  save  them  from  stark  reprobation. 

He  lent  then  his  name  to  the  firm. 

But  we  winna  mention  Redcastle, 

The  body,  e’en  let  him  escape  1 
He’d  venture  the  gallows  for  siller. 

An’  ’twere  na  the  cost  o’  the  rape. 

And  where  is  our  king’s  lord  lieutenant, 

Sae  fam’d  for  his  gratefu’  return? 

The  billie  is  gettin’  his  questions. 

To  say  in  St.  Stephen’s  the  morn. 

And  there  will  be  lads  o’  the  gospel, 
Muirhead  wha’s  as  guid  as  he’s  true : 

And  there  will  be  Buittle’s  apostle, 

Wha’s  more  o’  the  black  than  the  blue; 
And  there  will  be  folk  from  St.  Mary’s, 

A house  o’  great  merit  and  note. 

The  deil  ane  but  honours  them  highly — • 

The  deil  ane  will  gie  them  his  vote  ! 

And  there  will  be  wealthy  young  Richard,  ; 

Dame  fortune  should  hing  by  the  neck ; 
For  prodigal,  thriftless,  bestowing. 

His  merit  had  won  him  respect : 

And  there  will  be  rich  brother  nabobs, 

T1  o’  nabobs  yet  men  of  the  first. 

And  there  will  be  Collieston’s  whiskers. 

And  Uuintin,  o’  lads  not  the  warst. 

And  there  will  be  stamp-office  Johnnie, 
Tak  tent  how  ye  purchase  gt  dram;  [(289) 
And  there  will  be  gay  Cassencarrie, 

And  there  will  be  gleg  Colonel  Tam ; 


And  there  will  be  trusty  Kerroughtree, 
Whose  honour  was  ever  his  law. 

If  the  virtues  wrere  packed  in  a parcel. 

His  worth  might  be  sample  for  a’. 

And  can  we  forget  the  auld  major, 

Wha’ll  ne’er  be  forgot  in  the  Greys, 

Our  flatt’ry  we’ll  keep  for  some  other. 

Him  only  ’tis  justice  to  praise. 

And  there  will  be  maiden  Kilkerran, 

And  also  Barskimming’s  guid  knight* 

And  there  will  be  roarin’  Birtwhistle, 

Wha,  luckily,  roars  in  the  right. 

And  there  frae  the  Niddesdale  borders. 

Will  mingle  the  Maxwells  in  droves ; 
Teugh  Johnnie,  staunch  Geordie,  and  Wali«t 
That  griens  for  the  fishes  and  loaves; 

And  there  will  be  Logan  Mac  Douall, 
Sculdudd’ry  and  he  will  be  there. 

And  also  the  wild  Scot  of  Galloway, 
Sodgerin’  gunpowder  Blair. 

Then  hey  the  chaste  interest  o’  Broughton, 
And  hey  for  the  blessings  ’twill  bring  1 
It  may  send  Balmaghie  to  the  Commons, 

In  Sodom  ’twould  make  him  a king ; 

And  hey  for  the  sanctified  Murray, 

Our  land  who  wi’  chapels  has  stor’d; 

He  founder’d  his  horse  among  harlots. 

But  gied  the  auld  naig  to  the  Lord. 

[ballad  third.] 

in  firrtat  Jim  lnag, 

Tune — Buy  broom  besoms , 

Wha  will  buy  my  troggin  (290), 

Fine  election  ware ; 

Broken  trade  o’  Broughton, 

A’  in  high  repair. 

Buy  braw  troggin, 

Frae  the  banks  o’  Dee ; 

Who  wants  troggin 
Let  him  come  to  me. 

There’s  a noble  Earl’s 

Fame  and  high  renown  (291), 

For  an  auld  sang — 

It’s  thought  the  gudes  were  strown 
Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here’s  the  worth  o’  Broughton  (29 2), 

In  a needle’s  ee : 

Here’s  a reputation 

Tint  by  Balmaghie.  (293) 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c« 

Here’s  an  honest  conscience 
Might  a prince  adorn  ; 

Frae  the  downs  o’  Tinwald— 

So  was  never  worn.  (294) 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &e. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A FAVOURITE  CHILD. 


m 


Here  its  stuff  and  lining, 
Cardoness’s  head ; 

Fkie  for  a sodger 
A’  the  wale  o’  lead. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here’s  a little  wadset 
Buittle’s  scrap  o’  truth. 

Pawn’d  in  a gin  shop 
Quenching  holy  drouth. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &C. 

Here’s  armorial  bearings, 

Frae  the  manse  o’  Urr ; 

The  crest,  an  auld  crab-apple  (295) 
Rotten  at  the  core. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here  is  Satan’s  picture. 

Like  a bizzard  gled, 

Pouncing  poor  Redcastle 
Sprawlin’  as  a taed. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &C. 

Here’s  the  worth  and  wisdom 
Collieston  can  boast ; 

By  a thievish  midge 

They  had  been  nearly  lost. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here  is  Murray’s  fragments 
O’  the  ten  commands ; 

Gifted  by  black  Jock 

To  get  them  aff  his  hands. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &C. 

Saw  ye  e’er  sic  troggin  ? 

If  to  buy  ye’re  slack, 

Hornie’s  turnin’  chapman— 

He’ll  buy  a’  the  pack. 

Buy  braw  troggin 

Frae  the  banks  o’  Dee ; 

Wha  wants  troggin 
Let  him  come  to  me. 


f iff, 

ADDRESSED  TO  COLONEL  DE  PEYSTEP. 
(296)  DUMFRIES,  1796. 

My  honoured  colonel,  deep  I feel 
Your  interest  in  the  poet’s  weal : 

Ah ! now  sma’  heart  hae  I to  speel 
The  steep  Parnassus, 
Surrounded  thus  by  bolus  pill, 

And  potion  glasses. 

Oh  what  a canty  warld  were  it, 

Would  pain  and  care  and  sickness  spare  it; 
And  fortune  favour  worth  and  merit. 

As  they  deserve ! 

(And  aye  a rowth  roast  beef  and  claret ; 

Syne  wha  wad  starve  ?) 


Dame  Life,  tho’  fiction  out  may  tric'c  her. 
And  in  paste  gems  and  frippery  deck  her; 
Oh ! flickering,  feeble,  and  unsicker 
I’ve  found  her  still 
Aye  wavering  like  the  willow-wicker, 
’Tween  good  and  ill. 

Then  that  curst  carmagnole,  auld  Satan, 
Watches  like  baudrons  by  a rattan. 

Our  sinfu’  saul  to  get  a claut  on 
Wi’  felon  ire ; 

Syne,  whip ! his  tail  ye’ll  ne’er  cast  s&ut 
He’s  aff  like  fire. 

Auld  Nick ! auld  Nick ! it  is  na  fair. 

First  showing  us  the  tempting  ware. 
Bright  wines  and  bonnie  lasses  rare. 

To  put  us  daft ; 

Syne  weave,  unseen,  thy  spider  snare 
O’  hell’s  damn’d  waft. 

Poor  man,  the  flie,  aft  bizzes  by. 

And  aft  as  chance  he  comes  thee  nigh, 
Thy  auld  damn’d  elbow  yeuks  wi’  joy. 

And  hellish  pleasure ; 
Already  in  thy  fancy’s  eye. 

Thy  sicker  treasure ! 

Soon  heel’s-o’er-gowdie  ! in  he  gangs. 

And  like  a sheep-head  on  a tangs. 

Thy  girning  laugh  enjoys  his  pangs 

And  murd’ring  wrestle. 

As,  dangling  in  the  wind,  he  hangs 
A gibbet’s  tassel. 

But  lest  you  think  I am  uncivil. 

To  plague  you  with  this  draunting  drived 
Abjuring  a’  intentions  evil, 

I quat  my  pen  : 

The  Lord  preserve  us  a’  frae  the  devil  1 
Amen!  Amen! 


Susrrijitintt 

FOR  AN  ALTAR  TO  INDEPENDENCE.  (297) 
Thou  of  an  independent  mind. 

With  soul  resolv’d,  with  soul  resign’d; 
Prepar’d  Powers  proudest  frown  to  brave^ 
Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have  a slave; 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere. 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear. 

Approach  this  shrine,  and  worship  here, 


45a  iljp  Dratjj  nf  a /aaaaritf  Cljillr. 

(298) 

Oh  sweet  be  thy  sleep  in  the  land  of  the 
My  dear  little  angel,  for  ever ; [graven 
For  ever — oh  no ! let  not  man  be  a slave. 
His  hopes  from  existence  to  sever. 


196  BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Though  cold  be  tnc  clay  where  thou  pillow’st 
thy  head. 

In  the  dark  silent  mansions  of  sorrow. 

The  spring  shall  return  to  thy  low  narrow 
bed, 

like  the  beam  of  the  day-star  to-morrow. 

The  flower  stem  shall  bloom  like  thy  sweet 
seraph  form, 

Ere  the  spoiler  had  nipt  thee  in  blossom. 

When  thou  shrunk’st  fiae  the  scowl  of  the 
loud  winter  storm. 

And  nestled  thee  close  to  that  bosom 

Oh  still  I behold  thee,  all  lovely  in  death. 

Reclined  on  the  lap  of  thy  mother; 

When  the  tear  trickled  • bright,  when  the 
short  stifled  breath. 

Told  how  dear  ye  were  aye  to  each  other. 

My  child,  .thou  art  gone  to  the  home  of 
thy  rest. 

Where  suffering  no  longer  can  harm  ye. 

Where  the  songs  of  the  good,  where  the 
hymns  of  the  blest. 

Through  an  endless  existence  shall  charm 
thee. 

While  he,  thy  fond  parent,  must  sighing 
sojourn. 

Through  the  dire  desert  regions  of  sorrow. 

O’er  the  hope  and  misfortune  of  being  to 
mourn, 

And  sigh  for  this  life’s  latest  morrow. 


fa  Mu  ffiiiljjrll, 

COLLECTOR  OF  EXCISE,  DUMFRIES,  1796. 

Friend  of  the  Poet,  tried  and  leal, 

Wha,  wanting  thee,  might  beg  or  steal ; 

Alack ! alack ! the  meikle  diel 

Wi’  a’  his  witches 

Are  at  it,  skelpin’  jig  and  reel. 

In  my  poor  pouches ! 

I modestly  fu’  fain  wad  hint  it. 

That  one  pound  one,  I sairly  want  it; 

If  wi’  the  hizzie  down  ye  sent  it. 

It  would  be  kind  ; 

And  while  my  heart  wi’  lif-blood  daunted, 

I’d  bear’t  in  mind. 

So  may  the  auld  year  gang  out  moaning 

To  see  the  new  come  laden,  groaning, 

Wi’  double  plenty  o’er  the  loanin 
To  thee  and  thine ; 

poj  lestic  peace  and  comforts  crowning 
The  hale  design. 


POSTCRIPT. 

Ye’ve  heard  this  while  how  I’ve  been  Lcket* 
And  by  fell  death  was  nearly  nicket ; 

Grim  loan  ! lie  got  me  by  the  fecket, 

And  sair  me  sheuk ; 

But  by  guid  luck  I lap  a wicket, 

And  turn’d  a neuk. 

But  by  that  health,  I’ve  got  a shore  o’t. 
And  by  that  life,  I’m  promised  mair  o’t 
My.  hale  and  weel.  I’ll  tak  a care  o’t, 

A ten  tier  way ; 

Then  farewell  folly,  hide  and  hair  o’t, 

For  ance  and  aye  1 


IRuinpir  Haiti’s  Tarawt. 

Oh,  meikle  do  I rue,  fause  love. 

Oh  sairly  do  I rue. 

That  e’er  I heard  your  flattering  tongu^ 
That  e’er  your  face  I knew. 

Oh,  I hae  tent  my  rosy  cheeks. 

Likewise  my  waist  sae  sma’ ; 

And  I hae  lost  my  lightsome  heart. 

That  little  wist  a fa’. 

Now  I maun  thole  the  scornfu’  sneer 
O’  mony  a saucy  quean ; 

When,  gin  the  truth  were  a’  but  kent. 
Her  life’s  been  warse  than  mine. 

Whene’er  my  father  thinks  on  me. 

He  stares  into  the  wa’ ; 

My  mither,  she  has  taen  the  bed 
Wi’  thinking  on  my  fa’. 

Whene’er  I hear  my  father’s  foot. 

My  heart  wad  burst  wi’  pain ; 

Whene’er  I meet  my  mither’s  ee. 

My  tears  rin  down  like  rain, 

Alas  ! sae  sweet  a tree  as  love 
Sic  bitter  fruit  should  bear ! 

Alas  ! that  e’er  a bonnie  face 
Should  draw  a sauty  tear  I 

• • * * 


file  Dtait  nf  tjje  /arnlhj. 

A NEW  BALLAD.  (299) 

Dire  was  the  hate  at  old  Harlaw, 

That  Scot  to  Scot  did  carry ; 

And  dire  the  discord  Langside  saw. 

For  beauteous  hapless  Mary : 

But  Scot  with  Scot  ne’er  met  so  hot. 

Or  were  more  in  fury  seen.  Sir,  [job-* 
Than  ’twixt  Hal  and  Bob  for  the  famoui 
Who  should  be  Faculty’s  Dean,  Sir, 


19? 


ON  MR.  M’MURDO. 


This  Hal  for  genus,  wit  and  lore. 

Among  the  first  was  number’d ; 

But  pious  Boh,  ’mid  learning’s  store. 
Commandment  ten  remember’d. 

Yet  simple  Bob  the  victory  got. 

And  won  his  heart’s  desire: 

Which  shows  that  Heaven  can  boil  the  pot, 
Though  the  devil’s in  the  fire. 

Squire  Hal  besides  had  in  this  case 
Pretensions  rather  brassy. 

For  talents  to  deserve  a place 
Are  qualifications  saucy  ; 

So  their  worships  of  the  " Faculty* 

Quite  sick  of  merit’s  rudeness. 

Chose  one  who  should  owe  it  all,  d’ye  see. 
To  their  gratis  grace  and  goodness. 

As  once  on  Pisgah  purg’d  was  the  sight 
Of  a son  of  Circumcision, 

So  may  be,  on  this  Pisgah  height, 

Bob’s  purblind,  mental  vision  : 

Nay,  Bobby’s  mouth  may  be  open’d  yet 
Till  for  eloquence  you  hail  him. 

And  swear  he  has  the  Angel  met 
That  met  the  Ass  of  Balaam. 


Verses 

ON  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  WOODS  NEAR 
DRUMLANR1G.  (300) 

As  on  the  banks  o’  wandering  Nith, 

Ane  smiling  simmer-morn  I strayed, 

And  traced  its  bonnie  howes  and  haughs. 
Where  linties  sang  and  lambkins  play’d, 

T sat  me  down  upon  a craig. 

And  drank  my  fill  o’  fancy’s  dream. 

When,  from  the  eddying  deep  below. 

Uprose  the  genius  of  the  stream. 

Dark,  like  the  frowning  rock,  his  brow. 

And  troubled,  like  his  wintry  wave. 

And  deep,  as  sighs  the  boding  wind 
Amang  his  eaves,  the  sigh  he  gave— 

“ And  came  ye  here,  my  son,”  he  cried, 

" To  wander  in  my  birken  shade  ? 

To  muse  some  favourite  Scottish  theme. 

Or  sing  some  favourite  Scottish  maid. 

* There  was  a time,  it’s  nae  lang  syne. 

Ye  might  liae  seen  me  in  my  pride. 

When  a’  my  banks  sae  bravely  saw 
Their  woody  pictures  in  my  tide ; 

When  hanging  beech  and  spreading  elm 
Shaded  my  stream  sae  clear  and  cool ; 
And  stately  oaks  their  twisted  arms 
Threw  broad  and  dark  across  the  pool ! 

u When  glinting,  through  the  trees,  appeared 
The  wee  white  cot  aboon  the  mill. 

And  peacefu’  rose  its  ingle  reek. 

That  slowly  curled  up  the  liilL 


But  now  the  tot  is  bare  andcauld, 

Its  branchy  shelter’s  lost  and  gane^ 

And  scarce  a stinted  birk  is  left 
To  shiver  in  the  blast  is  lane.” 

" Alas ! ” said  I,  " what  ruefu’  chance 
Has  twin’d  ye  o’  your  stately  trees? 

Has  laid  your  rocky  bosom  bare  ? 

Has  stripp’d  the  deeding  o’  your  braes? 
Was  it  the  bitter  eastern  blast. 

That  scatters  blight  in  early  spring  ? 

Or  was’t  the  wil’fire  scorched  their  boughs, 
Or  canker-worm  wi’  secret  sting  ? ” 

"Nae  eastlin  blast,”  the  sprite  replied: 

"It  blew  na  here  sae  fierce  and  fell. 

And  on  my  dry  and  whalesome  bank9 
Nae  canker-worms  get  leave  to  dwell : 
Man  ! cruel  man  1 ” the  geniu3  sigh’d — 

As  through  the  cliffs  he  sank  him  down-^ 
" The  worm  that  gnaw’d  my  bonnie  trees, 
That  reptile  wears  a ducal  crown.” 


$!t  the  into  nf  tewtsfranj.  (soi) 

How  shall  I sing  Drumlanrig’s  Grace- 
Discarded  remnant  of  a race 

Once  great  in  martial  story? 

His  forbears'  virtues  all  contrasted— 

The  very  name  of  Douglas  blasted— 

His  that  inverted  glory. 

Hate,  envy,  oft  the  Douglas  bore; 

But  he  has  superadded  more. 

And  sunk  them  in  contempt; 
Follies  and  crimes  have  stain’d  the  name. 
But,  Queensberry,  thine  the  virgin  claim. 
From  ought  that’s  good  exempt. 


fenrs  in  Mjn  ffl'jlnririr,  fen; 

[with  a present  op  books.]  (302.) 
Oh,  could  I give  thee  India’s  wealth 
As  I this  trifle  send. 

Because  thy  joy  in  both  would  be 
To  share  them  with  a friend. 

But  golden  sands  did  never  grace 
The  Heliconian  stream ; 

Then  take  what  gold  could  never  buy— 
An  honest  Bard’s  esteem. 


<$it  fflr.  -ftfjlliiritir. 

INSCRIBED  ON  A PANE  OP  GLASS  II* 
HIS  HOUSE. 

Blest  be  M'Murdo  to  his  latest  day! 

No  envious  cloud  o’ercast  his  evening  ray; 
No  wrinkle  furrowed  by  the  hand  of  care. 
Nor  ever  sorrow  add  one  silver  hair! 

Oh,  may  no  son  the  father’s  honour  stain. 
Nor  ever  daughter  give  the  mother  painl 


198 


BERKS'S  POETICAL  'WORKS. 


Sntgrnmpln  na  tGillia  ifiraart,  (303) 

You’re  welcome,  Willie  Stewart, 

You’re  welcome,  Willie  Stewart, 

There’s  ne’er  a flower  that  blooms  in  May, 
That’s  half  sae  welcome’s  thou  art. 

Come,  bumpers  high,  express  your  joy. 

The  bowl  we  maun  renew  it; 

The  tap  pit-hen  gae  bring  her  ben. 

To  welcome  Willie  Stewart. 

May  foes*be  strang,  and  friends  be  slack. 
Ilk  action  may  he  rue  it; 

May  woman  on  him  turn  her  back. 

That  wrangs  thee,  Willie  Stewart. 


£n  Mm  %mw,  Trarars. 

(with  a present  of  books.] 
Thine  be  the  volumes,  Jessy  fair. 

And  with  them  take  the  Poet’s  prayer— 
That  Fate  may  in  her  fairest  page. 

With  ev’ry  kindliest,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss  enrol  thy  name : 

With  native  worth,  and  spotless  fame. 
And  wakeful  caution  still  aware 
Of  ill — but  chief,  man’s  felon  snare; 

All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  find. 

And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind — 
These  be  thy  guardian  and  reward; 

So  prays  thy  faithful  friend  the  Bard. 


Cilihir,  % jj8*  sirs  tjii  Satj.  (304) 

Tune — Invercauld’s  Reel. 

Oh  Tibbie,  I h&e  seen  the  day 
Ye  wad  na  been  sae  shy; 

For  lack  o’  gear  ye  slighted  me, 

But,  trowth,  I care  11a  by. 
Yestreen  1 met  you  on  the  moor, 

Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stoure; 

Ye  geek  at  me  because  I’m  poor. 

But  fient  a hair  care  I. 

I doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think. 
Because  ye  hae  the  name  o’clink. 

That  ye  can  please  me  at  a wink, 
VYhene’er  ye  like  to  try. 

But  sorrow  tak  him  that’s  sae  mean, 
Altho’  his  pouch  o’  coin  were  clean, 

Wha  follows  ony  saucy  quean. 

That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

Altho’  a lad  were  e’er  sae  smart, 
if  that  he  want  the  yellow  dirt. 

Ye’ll  cast  your  head  another  airt. 

And  answer  him  fu’  dry. 

But  if  he  hae  the  name  o’  gear. 

Ye’ll  fasten  to  him  like  a brier, 

Tho’  hardly  he,  for  sense  or  lear. 

Be  better  than  the  kye. 


But,  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice. 

Your  daddie’s  gear  maks  you  sae  nicej 
The  deil  a ane  wad  spier  your  price. 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  I. 

There  lives  a lass  in  yonder  park, 

I would  11a  gie  her  in  her  sark. 

For  thee,  wi’  a’  thy  thousari’  mark; 

Ye  need  na  look  sae  high. 


JHantgmnrnfs  ^rgp.  (305) 

Tu  n e — Oalla-  YVater. 

Altho’  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir 
Amang  the  heather,  in  my  plaidie, 

Yet  happy,  happy  would  I be. 

Had  I my  dear  Montgomery’s  Peggy. 

When  o’er  the  hill  beat  surly  storms. 

And  winter  nights  were  dark  and  rainy  j 
I’d  seek  some  dell,  and  in  my  arms 
I’d  shelter  dear  Montgomery’s  Peggy. 

Were  I a baron  proud  and  high. 

And  horse  and  servants  waiting  ready, 
Then  a’  ’twad  gie  o’  joy  to  me. 

The  sharin’ t with  Montgomery’s  Feggy, 


Snmtg  ffoggn  Slismt.  (soe) 

Ttjne — Braes  0 ’ Balquhidder. 
chorus. 

I’ll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet. 

And  I’ll  kiss  thee  o’er  again; 

And  i’ll  kiss  thee,  yet,  yet. 

My  bonuie  Peggy  Alison ; 

Hk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  near, 

I ever  mair  defy  them,  O ; 

Young  kings  upon  their  hansel  throne 
Are  no  sae  blest  as  I am,  O ! 

When  in  my  arms,  wi’  a’  thy  charms, 

I clasp  my  countless  treasure,  O, 

I seek  nae  mair  o’  Heaven  to  share. 
Than  sic  a moment’s  pleasure,  O ! 

And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue, 

I swear  I’m  thine  for  ever,  O I 

And  on  thy  lips  I seal  my  vow. 

And  break  it  shall  I never,  O I 


lira’s  ta  tljij  Hraltjj,  mg  fmnnq  Tasa, 

Tune — Laggan  Burn. 

Here’s  to  thy  health,  my  bonnie  lass. 
Quid  night,  and  joy  be  wi’  t.bee ; 

I’ll  come  nae  mair  to  thy  bow’er-door. 

To  tell  thee  that  I loe  thee ; 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN. 


199 


Oh  dinna  think,  my  pretty  pink. 

But  I can  live  without  thee  : 

I vow  and  swear  I dims  a care 
How  lang  ye  look  about  ye. 

Thou’rt  aye  sue  free  informing  me 
Thou  hast  nae  mind  to  marry; 

I’ll  be  as  free  informing  thee 
Nae  time  hae  I to  tarry. 

I ken  thy  friends  try  ilka  means, 

Frae  wedlock  to  delay  thee ; 

Depending  on  some  higher  chance— 

But  fortune  may  betray  thee. 

I ken  they  scorn  my  low  estate, 

But  that  does  never  grieve  me ; 

But  Fm  as  free  as  any  he, 

Sma’  siller  will  relieve  me. 

I count  my  health  my  greatest  wealth, 

Sae  long  as  I’ll  enjoy  it : 

I’ll  fear  nae  scant.  I’ll  bode  nae  want. 

As  lang’s  I get  employment. 

But  far  off  fowls  hae  feathers  fair. 

And  aye  until  ye  try  them  : 

Tho’  they  seem  fair,  still  have  a care. 

They  may  prove  worse  than  I am. 

But  at  twiiit  night,  when  the  moon  shines 
bright, 

My  dear.  I’ll  come  and  see  thee ; 

For  the  man  that  loes  his  mistress  weel, 

Nae  travel  makes  him  weary. 


^nttng  |5rggtj.  (3°7) 

Tune — Last  time  I came  o'er  the  Mui~. 

Young  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  lass, 
Her  blush  is  like  the  morning. 

The  rosy  dawn,  the  springing  grass. 

With  early  gems  adorning : 

Her  eyes  outshine  the  radiant  beams 
That  gild  the  passing  shower. 

And  glitter  o’er  the  crystal  streams, 

And  cheer  each  fresh’ning  flower. 

Her  lips,  more  than  the  cherries  bright, 

A richer  dye  has  graced  them ; 

They  charm  th’  admiring  gazer’s  sight. 
And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them : 

Her  smile  is,  as  the  evening  mild. 

When  feather’d  tribes  are  courting. 
And  little  lambkins  wanton  wild. 

In  playful  bands  disporting. 

Were  fortune  lovely  Peggy’s  foe. 

Such  sweetness  would  relent  her 
As  blooming  spring  unbends  the  brow 
Of  surly,  savage  winter. 


Detraction’s  eye  no  aim  can  gain. 

Her  winning  powers  to  lessen ; 
And  fretful  envy  grins  in  vain 
The  poison’d  tooth  to  fasten. 

Ye  pow’rs  of  honour,  love  and  truth. 
From  ev’ry  ill  defend  her ; 

Inspire  the  highly-favour’d  youth, 
The  destinies  intend  her  f 
Still  fan  the  sweet  connubial  flame 
Responsive  in  each  bosom. 

And  bless  the  dear  parental  name 
With  many  a filial  blossom. 


faint  Sarlttjcant. 

A BALLAD.  (308) 

There  were  three  kings  into  the  east. 
Three  kings  both  great  and  high ; 

And  they  hae  sworn  a solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

They  took  a plough  and  plough’d  him  dovn^ 
Put  clods  upon  his  head  ; 

And  they  hae  sworn  a solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on 
And  show’rs  began  to  fall ; 

J ohn  Barleycorn  got  up  again. 

And  sore  surpris’d  them  ail. 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came. 

And  he  grew  thick  and  strong ; 

His  head  weel  arm’d  wi’  pointed  spears. 

That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

The  sober  autumn  enter’d  mild, 

When  he  grew  wan  and  pale ; 

His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 
Show’d  he  began  to  fail. 

His  colour  sicken’d  more  and  more. 

He  faded  into  age ; 

And  then  his  enemies  began 
To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

They’ve  taen  a weapon,  long  and  shar^, 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee ! 

They  tied  him  fast  upon  a cart. 

Like  a rogue  for  forgerie. 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back. 

And  cudgell’d  him  full  sore  ; 

They  hung  him  up  before  the  storm. 

And  turn’d  him  o’er  and  o’er. 

They  filled  up  a darksome  pit 
With  water  to  the  bran  ; 

They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 


200 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor 
To  work  him  farther  woe ; 

And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appear’d. 

They  toss’d  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted  o’er  a scorching  flame 
The  marrow  of  his  bones ; 

But  a miller  us’d  him  worst  of  all. 

For  he  crush’d  him  ’tween  two  stones. 

And  they  hae  taen  his  very  heart’s  blood. 
And  drunk  it  round  and  round ; 

And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank. 
Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

John  Barleycorn  was  a hero  bold. 

Of  noble  enterprise ; 

For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood, 

’Twill  make  your  courage  rise. 

*Twill  make  a man  forget  his  woe ; 

’Twill  heighten  all  his  joy: 

'Twill  make  the  widow’s  heart  to  sing, 
Tho’  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 

Each  man  a glass  in  hand ; 

And  may  his  great  posterity 
Ne’er  fail  in  old  Scotland ! 


®|rt  ligs  n'  fkrltg.  (309) 

Tune — Corn  Rigs  are  bonnie . 

It  was  upon  a Lammas  night. 

When  corn  rigs  are  bonnie, 
Beneath  the  moon’s  unclouded  light, 
I heft  awa  to  Annie  : 

The  time  flew  by  wi’  tentless  heed, 
Till  ’tween  the  late  and  early, 

Wi’  sma’  persuasion  she  agreed 
To  see  me  thro’  the  barley. 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was  still. 
The  moon  was  shining  clearly  ; 

I set  her  down  wi’  right  good  will 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley ; 

I ken’t  her  heart  was  a’  my  ain  ; 

I lov’d  her  most  sincerely ; 

I kiss’d  her  owre  and  owre  again, 
Amang  the  rigs  0’  barley. 

I lock’d  her  in  my  fond  embrace ; 

Her  heart  was  beating  rarely : 

My  blessings  on  that  happy  place, 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley  1 
But  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright. 
That  shone  that  hour  so  clearly  I 
6he  aye  shall  bless  that  happy  night, 
Ato£nig  vhe  rigs  o”  barley. 


I hae  been  blythe  wi’  comrades  dear$ 
I hae  been  merry  dunkin’ ; 

I hae  been  joyfu’  gath’rin’  gear; 

I hae  been  happy  thinkin’  ; 

But  a’  the  pleasures  e’er  I saw, 

Tho’  three  times  doubl’d  fairly. 
That  happy  night  was  worth  them 
Amang  the  rigs  0’  barley. 

CHORUS. 

Coni  rigs,  and  barley  rigs. 

And  corn  rigs  are  bonnie  • 

I’ll  ne’er  forget  that  happy  night 
Amang  th^rigs  wi’  Annie. 


flit  f)  Imtgjnmttr, 

Tune — Up  wi}  the  Ploughman* 

The  ploughman  he’s  a bonnie  lad. 

His  mind  is  ever  true,  jo ; 

His  garters  knit  below  his  knee. 

His  bonnet  it  is  blue,  jo. 

Then  up  wi’  my  ploughman  lad. 
And  hey  my  merry  ploughman  1 
Of  a’  the  trades  that  I do  ken. 
Commend  me  to  the  ploughman. 

My  ploughman  he  comes  hame  at  a’en. 
He’s  aften  wat  and  weary  ; 

Cast  off  the  wat,  put  on  the  dry. 

And  gae  to  bed,  my  dearie  1 

I will  wash  my  ploughman’s  hose, 

And  I will  dress  his  o’erlay ; 

I will  mak  my  ploughman’s  bed. 

And  cheer  him  late  and  early. 

I hae  been  east,  I hae  been  west, 

I hae  been  at  Saint  Johnston  ; 

The  bonniest  sight  that  e’er  I saw 
Was  the  ploughman  laddie  dancin'. 

Snaw-white  stockins  on  his  legs. 

And  siller  buckles  glancin’ ; 

A guid  blue  bonnet  on  his  head— 

And  oh,  but  he  was  handsome  l 

Commend  me  to  the  barn-yard. 

And  at  the  corn-mou,  man 

I never  gat  my  coggie  fou. 

Till  I meet  wi’  the  ploughman. 


fnrtg  tntnpffitii  in  Sngnst.  (31°) 

Tune — I had  a horse , 1 had  me  mair. 

Now  westling  winds  and  slaught’ring  guna 
Bring  autumn’s  pleasant  weather; 

The  moorcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings, 
Amang  the  blooming  heather  ; 


201 


m NANNIE,  0. 


Now  waving  grain,  wide  o’er  the  plain, 
Delights  the  weary  fanner  ; [night 

And  the  moon  shines  bright,  when  I rove  at 
To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 

The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fella ; 

The  plover  loves  the  mountains  ; 

The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells  ; 

The  soaring  hern  the  fountains  ; 

Thro’  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves, 

The  path  of  man  to  shun  it ; 

The  hazel  bush  o’erhangs  the  thrush. 

The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet. 

Thus  evVy  kind  their  pleasure  find. 

The  savage  and  the  tender ; 

Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine : 

Some  solitary  wander : 

Avaunt,  away ! the  cruel  sway. 

Tyrannic  man’s  dominion  ; 

The  sportsman’s  joy,  the  murd’ring  cry. 

The  flutt’ring  gory  pinion. 

But  Peggy,  dear,  the  ev’ning’s  clear. 

Thick  flies  the  skimming  swallow  ; 

The  sky  is  blue,  the  fields  in  view. 

All  fading-green  and  yellow ; 

Come,  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way. 

And  view  the  charms  of  nature ; 

The  rustling  corn,  the  fruited  thorn. 

And  every  happy  creature. 

We’ll  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  talk. 

Till  the  silent  moon  shine  clearly ; 

I’ll  grasp  thy  waist,  and,  fondly  prest. 

Swear  how  I love  thee  dearly  : 

Not  vernal  show’rs  to  budding  flow’r^ 

Not  autumn  to  the  farmer. 

Bo  dear  can  be  as  thou  to  me. 

My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer ! 


tiJilir  JHnsstj  fflmratains.  (sii) 

Tune — Yon  wild  mossy  Mountains . 

on  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and 
wide,  [Clyde, 

That  nurse  in  their  bosom  the  youth  o’  the 
Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  thro’  the 
heather  to  feed. 

And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he  pipes 
i on  his  reed. 

I Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  thro’ 
* the  heather  to  feed. 

And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he 
pipes  on  his  reed. 

Not  Gowrie’s  rich  vallies,  nor  Forth’s  sunny 
shores, 

To  me  hae  the  charms  o’  yon  wild,  mossy 
moors ; 


For  there,  by  a lanely  and  sequester’d  stream. 

Resides  a sweet  lassie,  my  thought  and  my 
dream.  [stream. 

For  there,  by  a lanely  and  sequester’d 
Resides  a sweet  lassie,  my  thought  and 
my  dream. 

Amang  thae  wild  mountains  shall  still  be  mj 
path,  [strath : 

’Ilk  stream  foaming  down  its  ain  green  narrow 

For  there  wi’  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  I rove. 

While  o’er  us  unheeded  flee  the  swift  hours  o* 
love.  [rove. 

For  there,  wi’  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  I 
While  o’er  us  unheeded  flee  the  swift  hour* 
o’  love. 

She  is  not  the  fairest,  altho’  she  is  fair  ; 

O’  nice  education  but  sma,  is  her  share ; 

Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be ; 

But  I loe  the  dear  lassie  because  she  loes  me. 
Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be : 
But  1 loe  the  dear  lassie  because  she  loea 
me. 

To  beauty  what  man  but  maun  yield  him  a 
prize,  [sighs ! 

In  her  armour  of  glances,  and  blushes,  and 

And  when  wit  and  refinement  hae  polish’d 
her  darts. 

They  dazzle  our  een,  as  they  flee  to  our  hearts. 
And  when  wit  and  refinement  hae  polish’d 
her  darts,  [hearts. 

They  dazzle  our  een,  as  they  flee  to  our 

But  kindness,  sweet  kindness,  in  the  fond 
sparkling  e’e. 

Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to  me ; 

And  the  heart  beating  love  as  I’m  clasp’d  in 
her  arms,  [charms  I 

Oh,  these,  are  my  lassie’s  all-conquering 
And  the  heart  beating  love  as  I’m  clasp’d 
in  her  arms. 

Oh,  these  are  my  lassie’s  all-conquering 
charms  1 


ffiij  fiamtif,  (D.  (312) 

Tune — My  Nannie,  O. 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows, 
’Mang  moors  and  mosses  many,  O, 
The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  clos’d, 

And  I’ll  awa  to  Nannie,  O. 

The  westlin  wind  blaws  loud  and  shrill ; 

The  night’s  baith  mirk  and  rainy,  O ; 
But  I'll  get  my  plaid,  and  out  I’ll  steal. 
And  owre  tbs  hills  to  Nannie,  O. 


202 


BURNS’ S POETICAL  WORKS. 


My  Nannie’s  charming1,  sweet,  and  young; 
Nae  artfu’  wiles  to  win  ye,  O : 

May  ill  befa’  the  flattering  tongue 
That  wad  beguile  my  Nannie,  O. 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true. 

As  spotless  as  she’s  bonnie,  O: 

The  op’ning  gowan,  wet  wi  dew, 

Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  G. 

A country  lad  is  my  degree. 

And  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  Gj 

But  what  care  I how  few  they  be  ? 

I’m  welcome  aye  to  Nannie,  O. 

My  riches  a’s  my  penny-fee, 

And  I maun  guide  it  cannie,  O; 

But  warl’s  gear  ne’er  troubles  me. 

My  thoughts  are  a’  my  Nannie,  O. 

Our  auld  guidman  delights  to  view 
His  sheep  and  kye  thrive  bonnie,  O ; 

But  I'm  as  blythe  that  hauds  his  pleugh. 
And  has  nae  care  but  Nannie,  O. 

Come  weel,  come  woe,  I care  nae  by. 

I’ll  tak  what  Heav’n  will  sen’  me,  O ; 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I, 

But  live,  and  love  my  Nannie,  O. 


frrtn  £>nnn  ill?  Hasjits.  (313) 

Tune — Green  grow  the  Rashes. 

CHORUS. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O f 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e’er  I spend 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O. 
There’s  nought  but  care  on  ev’ry  han*, 
In  every  hour  that  passes,  O : 

What  signifies  the  life  o’  man. 

An  ’twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O. 

The  warily  race  may  riches  chase. 

And  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O ; 
And  tho’  at  last  they  catch  them  fast. 
Their  hearts  can  ne’er  enjoy  them,  O, 
But  gie  me  a canny  hour  at  e’en. 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 

And  warl’ly  cares,  and  warl’ly  men. 

May  a’  gae  tapsalteerie,  O. 

For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this. 
Ye’re  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O: 
The  wisest  man  the  warl’  e’er  saw. 

He  dearly  lov’d  the  lasses,  O. 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dear* 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O : 

Her  ’prentice  han*  she  tried  on  man. 
And  then  she  made  the  lasses,  Q. 


€jrr  Cttrt  for  all 

Tune — Prepare,  my  dear  Brethren , to  tht 
Tavern  let's  fly. 

No  churchman  am  I for  to  rail  and  to  write. 
No  statesman  nor  soldier  to  plot  or  to  fight. 
No  sly  man  of  business  contriving  a snare — • 
For  a big-bellied  bottle’s  the  whole  of  my 
care. 

The  peer  I don’t  envy,  I give  him  his  bow ; 

I scorn  not  the  peasant,  tho'  ever  so  low ; 
But  a club  of  good  fellows,  like  those  that 
are  here. 

And  a bottle  like  this,  are  my  glory  and  care. 

Here  passes  the  squire  on  his  brother— his 
horse ; 

There  centum  per  centum,  the  cit  with  hi* 
purse ; 

But  see  you  The  Crown,  how  it  waves  in  the 
air  ! 

There  a big-bellied  bottle  still  eases  my  care. 

The  wife  of  my  bosom,  alas ! she  did  die ; 
For  sweet  consolation  to  church  I did  fly ; 

I found  that  old  Solomon  proved  it  fair. 

That  a big-bellied  bottle’s  a cure  for  all  care. 

I once  was  persuaded  a venture  to  make ; 

A letter  inform’d  me  that  all  was  to  wreck ; — » 
But  the  pursy  old  landlord  just  waddled  up 
stairs. 

With  a glorious  bottle  that  ended  my  cares. 

" Life’s  cares  they  are  comforts”  (314) — a 
maxim  laid  down 

By  the  bard,  what  d’ye  call  him,  that  wore 
the  black  gown ; [hair ; 

And,  faith,  I agree  with  th’  old  prig  to  a 
For  a big-bellied  bottle’s  a heav’n  of  care. 

ADDED  IN  A MASON  LODGE. 

Then  fill  up  a bumper  and  make  it  o’erflow. 
And  honours  masonic  prepare  for  to  throw ; 
May  every  true  brother  of  the  compass  and 
square  [care  1 

Have  a big-bellied  bottle  when  harass’d  with 


i£>ir  fennrk  Sanltt, 

Tune — If  he  be  a Butcher  neat  and  trim. 

On  Cessnock  banks  there  lives  a lass. 

Could  I describe  her  shape  and  mien; 
The  graces  of  her  weel-faur’d  face. 

And  the  glancin’  of  her  sparklin’  een ! 

She’s  fresher  than  the  morning  dawn 
When  rising  Phoebus  first  is  seen. 

When  dew-drops  twinkle  o’er  the  lawn ; 
And  she’s  twa  glancin’  sparklin’  een. 


FROM  THEE,  ELIZA. 


203 


Blie’s  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash, 

That  grows  the  cowslip  braes  between. 
And  shoots  its  head  above  each  bush ; 

And  she’s  twa  glancin’  sparklin’  een. 

She’s  spotless  as  the  flow’ring  thorn, 

With  flow’rs  so  white,  and  leaves  so  green. 
When  purest  in  the  dewy  morn  ; 

And  she’s  twa  glancin’  sparklin’  een. 

Her  looks  are  like  the  sportive  lamb 
When  flow’ry  May  adorns  the  scene. 

That  wantons  round  its  bleating  dam ; 

And  she’s  twa  glancin’  sparklin  een. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist 

That  shades  the  mountain -side  at  e’en. 
When  flow’r-reviving  rains  are  past ; 

And  she’s  twa  glancin’  sparklin’  een. 

Her  forehead’s  like  the  show’ry  bow. 

When  shining  sunbeams  intervene. 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain’s  brow ; 

And  she’s  twa  glancin’  sparklin’  een. 

Her  voice  is  like  the  evening  thrush 
That  sings  in  Cessnock  banks  unseen. 
While  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush ; 
And  she’s  twa  glancin'  sparklin’  een. 

Her  lips  are  like  the  cherries  ripe 

That  sunny  walls  from  Boreas  screen— 
They  tempt  the  ta3te  and  charm  the  sight ; 
And  she’s  twa  glancin’  sparklin’  een. 

Her  teeth  are  like  a flock  of  sheep. 

With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean. 

That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep ; 

And  she’s  twa  glancin’  sparklin’  een. 

Her  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossom’d  bean. 
When  Phoebus  sinks  beneath  the  seas ; 

And  she’s  twa  glancin’  sparklin'  een. 

But  it’s  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face, 

Tho’  matching  beauty’s  fabled  queen. 

But  the  mind  that  shines  in  ev’ry  grace. 

And  chiefly  in  her  sparklin’  een. 


fire  Sigfjtanir  (315) 

Tune — The  Deuks  dang  o'er  my  Daddy  l 

Nae  gentle  dames,  tho’  e’er  sae  fair. 

Shall  ever  be  my  muse’s  care : 

Their  titles  a’  are  empty  show  : 

Gie  me  my  highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O, 

Aboon  the  plains  sae  rushy,  O, 

I set  me  down  wi’  right  good  will. 

To  sing  my  highland  lassie,  O. 


Oh,  were  yon  hills  and  vallies  mine. 

Yon  palace  and  yon  gardens  fine  ! 

The  world  then  the  love  should  know 
I bear  my  highland  lassie,  O. 

But  fickle  fortune  frowns  on  me. 

And  I maun  cross  the  raging  sea ; 

But  while  my  crimson  currents  flow. 

I’ll  love  my  highland  lassie,  O. 

Altho’  thro’  foreign  climes  I range, 

I know  her  heart  will  never  change. 

For  her  bosom  burns  with  honour’s  glcw. 
My  faithful  highland  lassie,  O. 

For  her  I’ll  dare  the  billows’  roar. 

For  her  I’ll  trace  a distant  shore. 

That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  throw 
Around  my  highland  lassie,  O.  , 

She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  hand. 

By  sacred  truth  and  honour’s  band ! 

’Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low 
I’m  thine,  my  highland  lassie,  O. 

Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O 5 
Farewell  the  plain  sae  rushy,  0 1 
To  other  lands  I now  must  go. 

To  sing  my  highland  lassie,  O. 


|5nnrers  Ccltstial. 

Tune — Blue  Bonnets. 
Powers  celestial ! whose  protection 
Ever  guards  the  virtuous  fair. 

While  in  distant  climes  l wander. 

Let  my  Mary  be  your  care  : 

Let  her  form  sae  fair  and  faultless^ 

Fair  and  faultless  as  your  own. 

Let  my  Mary’s  kindred  spirit 

Draw  your  choicest  influence  down. 

Make  the  gales  you  waft  around  her 
Soft  and  peaceful  as  her  breast. 
Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her. 
Soothe  her  bosom  into  rest : 

Guardian  angel ! oh  protect  her. 

When  in  distant  lands  I roam ; 

To  realms  unknown  while  fate  exiles  m$ 
Make  her  bosom  still  my  home. 


/ram  tires,  <0tija. 

Tune — Gilderoy,  or  Donald. 

From  thee,  Eliza,  I must  go. 

And  from  my  native  shore. 

The  cruel  Fates  between  us  throw 
A boundkss  ocean’s  roar  • 


19 


204 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  boundless  oceans  roaring  wide, 
Between  my  love  and  me. 

They  never,  never  can  divide 
My  heart  and  soul  from  thee. 

Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear. 

The  maid  that  I adore ! 

A boding  voice  is  in  mine  ear. 

We  part  to  meet  no  more  ! 

The  latest  throb  that  leaves  my  heart, 
While  death  stands  victor  by. 

That  throb,  Eliza,  is  thy  part. 

And  thine  that  latest  sigh I 


fflrttte. 

Tune — Johnny’s  grey  BreeJca, 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees 
Her  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues. 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 

All  freshly  steep’d  in  morning  dews. 

And  maun  I still  on  Menie  doat 
And  bear  the  scorn  that’s  in  her  ee  ? 

For  it’s  jet,  jet  black,  and  like  a hawk. 
And  winna  let  a body  be. 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw. 

In  vain  to  me  the  vi’lets  spring ; 

In  vain  to  me,  in  glen  or  shaw. 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 

Wi’  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks ; 

But  life  to  me’s  a weary  dream, 

A dream  of  ane  that'  never  wauka. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 

Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims. 

And  everything  is  blest  but  I. 

The  shepherd  steeks  his  faulding  slap. 

And  owre  the  moorland  whistles  shrill; 

Wi’  wild,  unequal,  wand’ring  step, 

I meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

And  when  the  lark,  ’tween  light  and  dark, 
Blythe  waukens  by  the  daisy’s  side, 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 
A woe-worn  ghaist  I hameward  glide, 

Come,  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl. 

And  raging  bend  the  naked  tree  : 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul. 
When  nature  all  is  sad  like  me ! 


% /arantll. 

TO  THE  BRETHREN  OF  ST.  JAMES’S  LCDGE» 
TARBOLTON. 

Tune — Good-night , and  joy  he  wi’  yiu  a*/ 

Adieu  ! a heart-warm,  fond  adieu  l 
Dear  brothers  of  the  mystic  tie  1 
Ye  favour’d,  ye  enlighten’d  few. 
Companions  of  my  social  joy; 

Tho’  I to  foreign  lands  must  hie, 

Pursuing  Fortune’s  slipp’ry  ba’. 

With  melting  heart  and  brimful  eye. 

I’ll  mind  you  still,  tho’  far  awa’. 

Oft  have  I met  your  social  band. 

And  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night } 
Oft  honour’d  with  supreme  command. 
Presided  o’er  the  sons  of  light ; 

And  by  that  hieroglyphic  bright. 

Which  none  but  craftsmen  ever  saw  \ 
Strong  mem’ry  on  my  heart  shall  write 
Those  happy  scenes  when  far  awa.’ 

May  freedom,  harmony,  and  love 
Unite  you  in  the  grand  design. 

Beneath  th’  Omniscient  eye  above. 

The  glorious  Architect  divine  ! 

That  you  may  keep  th’  unerring  line. 

Still  rising  by  the  plummet’s  law. 

Till  order  bright  completely  shine. 

Shall  be  my  pray’r  when  far  awa’. 

And  you,  farewell ! whose  merits  claim. 
Justly,  that  highest  badge  to  wear ! 
Heav’n  bless  your  honour’d,  noble  name^ 
To  masonry  and  Scotia  dear; 

A last  request  permit  me  here. 

When  yearly  ye  assemble  a’. 

One  round — I ask  it  with  a tear— 

To  him,  the  Bard  that’s  far  awa’. 


©Ije  SaraEB  n'  fallatlrratjlE.  (31$ 

Tune — The  Braes  o’  Ballochmyle. 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen. 

The  flowers  decay’d  on  Catrine  lea, 

Nae  lav’ rock  sang  on  hillock  green. 

But  nature  sicken’d  on  the  ee. 

Thro’  faded  groves  Maria  sang, 

Hersel  in  beauty’s  bloom  the  while, 

And  aye  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang, 
Fareweel  the  Braes  o’  Ballochmyle ! 

Low  in  your  wintry  beds,  ye  flowers. 

Again  ye’ll  flourish  fresh  and  fair ; 

Ye  birdies  dumb,  in  with’ring  bowers. 

Again  ye’ll  charm  the  vocal  air. 

But,  here,  alas  ! for  me  nae  mair 
Shall  birdie  charm,  or  flow’ret  smile ; 

Fareweel  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr, 

Fare \veel:  fareweel ! sweet  Ballochmyle  I 


THE  BIRKS  OF  ABERFELDT. 


201 


tfjji  fai5  n*  Salim  {jin^lt.  (317) 

Tune — Miss  Forbes's  Farewell  to  Banff. 
*Twas  even — the  dew;  fields  were  green. 
On  every  blade  the  pearlies  hang. 

The  zephyr  wanton’d  round  the  bean. 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang : 

In  ev’ry  glen  the  mavis  sang. 

All  nature  list’ning  seem’d  the  while. 
Except  where  greenwood  echoes  rang, 
Amang  the  braes  o’  Ballochmyle. 

With  careless  step  I onward  stray’d. 

My  heart  rejoiced  in  nature’s  joy. 

When,  musing  in  a lonely  glade, 

A maiden  fair  I chanc’d  to  spy ; 

Her  look  was  like  the  morning’s  eye. 

Her  air  like  nature’s  vernal  smile. 
Perfection  whisper’d  passing  by. 

Behold  the  lass  o’  Ballochmyle  1 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flow’ry  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  autumn  mild ; 
When  roving  thro’  the  garden  gay. 

Or  wand’ring  in  the  lonely  wild  : 

But  woman,  nature’s  darling  child ! 

There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile; 
Ev’n  there  her  other  works  are  foil’d 
By  the  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Oh,  had  she  been  a country  maid. 

And  I the  happy  country  swain, 

Tho’  shelter’d  in  the  lowest  shed 
That  ever  rose  on  Scotland’s  plain. 

Thro’  weary  winter’s  wind  and  rain. 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I would  toil ; 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 
The  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle ! 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slipp’ry  steep, 
Where  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine ; 
And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep. 
Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine ; 

Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine. 

To  tend  the  flocks,  or  till  the  soil. 

And  ev’ry  day  have  joys  divine 

With  the  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 


Ejlf  Higljt  is  fatjjtring  /art. 

(318) 

Tune — Roslin  Castle. 

The  gloomy  night  is  gatli’ring  fast, 

I oud  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast ; 

1 on  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 

I see  it  driving  o’er  the  plain ; 

The  hi. liter  now  has  left  the  moor. 

The  scatter’d  coveys  meet  secure ; 

While  here  I wander,  prest  with  care. 

Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 


The  autumn  mourns  her  rip’ning  corn. 

By  early  winter’s  ravage  torn ; 

Across  her  placid,  azure  sky. 

She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly : 

Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave— » 

I think  upon  the  stormy  wave. 

Where  many  a danger  I must  dare. 

Far  from  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr 
’Tis  not  the  surging  billow’s  roar, 

*Tis  not  that  fatal  deadly  shore ; 

Tho’  death  in  every  shape  appear, 

The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear ! 

But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound. 

That  heart  transpierc’d  with  many  a wound  j 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I tear. 

To  leave  tjie  bonny  banks  of  Ayr. 

Farewell  old  Coila’s  hills  and  dales. 

Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales ; 

The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves. 
Pursuing  past,  unhappy  loves  ! 

Farewell,  my  friends  ! farewell,  my  foes ! 

My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those— 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare ; 
Farewell  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr ! 


ffijjp  Sattte  n'  Itann.  (319) 

Tune — Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight . 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o’  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair ; 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 

And  I sae  weary  fu’  o’  care  ? 

Thou’lt  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird. 
That  wanton’st  thro’  the  flowering  thorn.8 

Thou  minds’st  me  o’  departed  joys. 

Departed — never  to  return  ! 

Aft  hae  I roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o’  its  luve. 

And  fondly  sae  did  I o’  mine. 

Wi’  lightsome  heart  I pu’d  a rose, 

Fu’  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree ; 

And  my  fuse  luver  stole  my  rose. 

But,  ah ! he  left  the  thorn  wi’  me. 


®Iji  Sirks  nf  Skirfflig.  (320) 
Tune — The  Birks  of  Abergeldy. 
CHORUS. 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go, 

Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go ; 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go. 

To  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy  ? 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowry  braes. 
And  o’er  the  crystal  streamlet  plays  ; 
Come,  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 


m 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS). 


The  little  birdies  blythely  sing. 

While  o’er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 
Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  braes  ascend,  like  lofty  wa’s. 

The  foamy  stream  deep-roaring  fa's, 
O’erhung  wi’  fragrant  spreading  shaws. 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crown’d  wi'  flowers. 
White  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours. 
And  rising,  weets  wi’  misty  showers 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Let  fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee. 

They  ne’er  shall  draw  a wish  frae  mo 
Supremely  blest  wi’  love  and  thee, 

In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy, 


M’m  mm  fusing  fn  fflarrg  ^tl. 

Tune — I’m  owre  young  to  marry  yet . 

1 AM  my  mammy’s  ae  bairn, 

Wi’  unco  folk  I weary.  Sir ; 

And  if  I gang  to  your  house, 

I’m  fley’d  ’twill  make  me  eerie,  Sir. 

I’m  owre  young  to  marry  yet  • 

I’m  owre  young  to  marry  yet ; 

I’m  owre  young — 'twad  be  a sin 
To  take  me  frae  my  mammy  yet. 

Hallowmas  is  come  and  gane. 

The  nights  are  lang  in  winter.  Sir  j 
And  you  and  I in  wedlock’s  bands. 

In  troth,  I dare  not  venture.  Sir. 

I’m  owre  young,  &c. 

Fu’  loud  and  shrill  the  frosty  wind 

Blaws  through  the  leafless  timmer.  Sir; 
But  if  ye  come  this  gate  again, 

I’ll  aulder  be  gin  simmer,  Sir. 

Pm  owre  young,  &c. 


ffl'ftysrsnn's  /arrmrll.  (321) 

Tune — M’Pherson’s  Rant. 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong. 
The  wretch’s  destinie : 

Macpherson’s  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows-tree. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he  ; 

He  play’d  a spring,  and  danc’d  it  round. 
Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Oh,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath  ?— 

On  many  a bloody  plain 
I’ve  dar’d  his  face,  and  in  this  place 
I gcom  hun  yet  again ; 


Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  Tumda, 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword  ; 

And  there’s  no  man  in  all  Scotland, 

But  I’ll  brave  him  at  a word. 

I’ve  liv’d  a life  of  sturt  and  strife ; 

I die  by  treacherie : 

It  burns  my  heart  I must  depart, 

And  not  avenged  be. 

Now  farewell  light — thou  sunshine  bright^ 
And  all  beneath  the  sky  ! 

May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die  1 


Trntg  anil  Irrarg  is  {jja  Uigjii 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night 
When  I am  frae  my  dearie  ! 

I sleepless  lie  frae  e’en  to  morn, 

Tho’  I were  ne’er  sae  weary. 

I sleepless  lie  frae  e’en  to  morn, 

Tho’  I were  ne’er  sae  weary. 

When  I think  on  the  happy  days 
I spent  wi’  you,  my  dearie. 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie, 

How  can  I be  but  eerie ! 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie^ 
How  can  I be  but  eerie  ! 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours, 

As  ye  were  wae  and  weary  I 
It  was  ua  sae  ye  glinted  by. 

When  f was  wi’  my  dearie. 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by. 

When  I was  wi’  my  dearie. 


Jte’s  s SSralilj  ta  ijjrm  tljat’s  ams. 

Tune — Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa ; 

And  wha  winna  wish  guid  luck  to  our  cau^v 
May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa’ ! 

It’s  guid  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

It’s  guid  to  be  honest  and  true. 

It’s  guid  to  support  Caledonia’s  cause, 

And  bide  by  the  buff  and  the  blue. 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that's  awa  ; 

Here’s  a health  to  Charlie,  the  chief  o’  the  chm 
Altho’  that  his  band  be  sma’. 

May  liberty  meet  wi’- success  ! 

May  prudence  protect  her  frae  evil ! 

May  tyrants  and  tyranny  tine  in  the  miet, 
And  wander  their  way  to  the  dvvil  l 


MY  PEGGY  S FACE. 


207 


Here's  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa ; [laddie, 
Here’s  a health  to  Tammie,  the  Norland 
That  lives  at  the  lug  o’  the  law ; 

Here’s  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read ! 

Here’s  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write ! 
There’s  nane  ever  fear’d  that  the  truth  should 
be  heard. 

But  they  wham  the  truth  wad  indite. 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa ; 

Here’s  Chieftain  M‘Leod,  a Chieftain  worth 
gow’d, 

Tho’  bred  amang  mountains  o’  snaw  ! 

Here’s  friends  on  both  sides  of  the  Forth, 
And  friends  on  both  sides  of  the  Tweed ; 
And  wha  wad  betray  old  Albion’s  rights. 
May  they  never  eat  of  her  bread. 


Itratljallan’s  farnrnt.  (322) 

Thickest  night,  o’erhang  my  dwelling! 
Howling  tempests,  o’er  me  rave  ! 

Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling. 

Still  surround  my  lonely  cave ! 

Crystal  streamlets  gently  flowing. 

Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind. 

Western  breezes  softly  blowing. 

Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 

In  the  cause  of  right  engaged. 

Wrongs  injurious  to  redress. 

Honour’s  war  we  strongly  waged. 

But  the  heavens  denied  succesa. 

Ruin’s  wheel  has  driven  o’er  us. 

Not  a hope  that  dare  attend : 

The  wide  world  is  all  before  us— 

But  a world  without  a friend. 


Santa  nf  tlja  Drmra.  (323) 

Tune — Bliannerach  dhon  na  chri. 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding 
Devon,  [blooming  fair ! 

With  green  spreading  bushes,  and  flowers 
But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the 
Devon  [Ayr. 

Was  once  a sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the 
Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flower. 
In  the  gay  rosy  morn,  as  it  bathes  in  the 
dew ; 

And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower. 
That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to 
renew. 


Oh  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes. 
With  chill  hoary  wing,  as  ye  usher  the 
dawn;  [seizes 

And  far  bo  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that 
The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and 
lawn ! 

Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  Lilies, 
And  England,  triumphant,  display  her 
proud  Rose  : 

A fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  vallies. 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering 

flows. 


toning  ingrg  -BJintpr’si  finrnts.  (324) 

Tune — Neil  Gow’s  Lamentation  for 
Abercaimy. 

Where,  braving  angry  winter’s  stormy 
The  lofty  Ochils  rise. 

Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy’s  charms 
First  blest  my  wondering  eyes ; 

As  one,  who  by  some  savage  strean\ 

A lonely  gem  surveys. 

Astonish’d,  doubly  marks  its  beam. 

With  art’s  most  polish’d  blaze. 

Blest  be  the  wild  sequester’d  shade. 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour. 

Where  Peggy’s  charms  I first  survey'd. 
When  first  I felt  their  pow’r ! 

The  tyrant  death,  with  grim  control, 

May  seize  my  fleeting  breath ; 

But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 
Must  be  a stronger  death. 


3Eg  ^rggg’n  /arc. 

Tune — My  Peggy’s  Face. 

My  Peggy’s  face,  my  Peggy’s  form. 
The  frost  of  hermit  age  might  warm  ; 
My  Peggy’s  worth,  iny  Peggy’s  mind. 
Might  charm  the  first  of  human  kind, 
I love  my  Peggy’s  angel  air. 

Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair. 

Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art. 

But  I adore  my  Peggy’s  heart. 

The  lily’s  hue,  the  rose’s  dye. 

The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye : 

Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway ! 
Who  but  knows  they  all  decay  ! 

The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear. 

The  gen’rous  purpose,  nobly  dear. 

The  gentle  look,  that  rage  disarm®-  » 
These  are  all  immortal  charms. 


19* 


£08 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SUraiag  Whh  Hrmrait  Jirr  Sinking. 

(325) 

Tune — Macgregor  of  Ruara’s  Lament. 
Having  winds  around  her  blowing, 
Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  s trowing. 

By  a river  hoarsely  roaring, 

Isabella  stray’d  deploring — 

“Farewell  hours  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure; 

Hail,  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow, 
Cheeiless  night  that  knows  no  morrow  I 

O’er  the  past  too  fondly  wandering. 

On  the  hopeless  future  pondering ; 

Chilly  grief  my  life-blood  freezes, 

Bell  despair  my  fancy  seizes. 

Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing. 

Load  to  misery  most  distressing. 

Gladly  how  would  I resign  thee. 

And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee !” 


Sigjjlanlr  Sarrg.  (326) 

My  Harry  was  a gallant  gay, 

Fu’  stately  strode  he  on  the  plain  i 
But  now  he’s  banish’d  far  away, 

I’ll  never  see  him  back  again. 

Oh  for  him  back  again  ; 

Oh  for  him  back  again ! 

I wad  gie  a’  Knockliaspie’s  land 
For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 

When  a’  the  lave  gae  to  their  bed, 

I wanner  dowie  up  the  glen  : 

C .sit  me  down  and  greet  my  fill. 

And  aye  I wish  him  back  again. 

Oh  were  some  villians  hangit  high. 

And  ilka  body  had  their  ain  1 
f hen  I might  see  the  joyfu’  sight, 

My  Highland  Harry  back  again. 


basing  mt  ilre  taring  tontt.  (327) 

Tune — Druimion  Dubh. 

Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean 
Which  divides  my  love  and  me ; 

Wearying  Heaven  in  warm  devotion. 

For  his  weal  where’er  he  be. 

Hope  and  fear’s  alternate  billow 
Yielding  late  to  nature’s  law, 

WYiisp’ring  spirits  round  my  pillow 
Talk  of  him  that’s  far  awa. 

Ye  whom  sorrow  never  wounded. 

Ye  who  never  shed  a tear, 

Care-untroubled,  joy  surrounded. 

Gaudy  day  to  you  is  dear. 


Gentle  night,  do  thou  befriend  me  s 
Downy  sleep,  the  curtain  draw ; 
Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me. 

Talk  of  him  that’s  far  awa ! 


ShjtiiE  mas  iijf.  (328) 
Tune — Andro  and  his  Cutty  Ghttfc, 
CH0RUS. 

Blythe,  blythe  and  merry  was  she^ 
Blythe  was  she  butt  and  ben : 
Blythe  by  the  banks  of  Ern, 

And  blythe  in  Glentwrit  glen. 

By  Auchtertyre  grows  the  aik, 

On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  shaw  ; 
But  Phemie  was  a bonnier  lass 
Than  braes  o’  Yarrow  ever  saw. 

Her  looks  were  like  a flower  in  May, 
Her  smile  was  like  a simmer  mora  ; 
She  tripped  by  the  banks  o’  Ern, 

As  light’s  a bird  upon  a thorn. 

Her  bonnie  face  it  was  as  meek 
As  ony  lamb  upon  a lea  ; 

The  evening  sun  was  ne’er  sae  sweet 
As  was  the  blink  o’  Phemie’s  ee. 

The  Highland  hills  I’ve  wander’d  wi<£i^ 
And  o’er  the  'lowlands  I hae  been  j 
But  Phemie  was  the  blythest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 


©jl t Gallant  "lUratTpr. 

Tune — The  Weaver’s  March. 

Where  Cart  rins  rowin’  to  the  sea. 

By  mony  a flow’r  and  spreading  tre*^ 

There  lives  a lad,  the  lad  for  me. 

He  is  a gallant  weaver. 

Oh,  I had  wooers  aucht  or  nine. 

They  gied  me  rings  and  ribbons  fine; 

And  I was  fear’d  my  heart  would  tine. 

And  I gied  it  to  the  weaver. 

My  daddie  sign’d  my  tocher-band. 

To  gie  the  lad  that  has  the  land ; 

But  to  my  heart  I’ll  add  my  hand. 

And  gie  it  to  the  weaver. 

While  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers ; 

While  bees  delight  in  op’ning  flowers ! 
WTiile  corn  grows  green  in  simmor  showenfe 
I’ll  love  my  gallant  weaver. 


WHEN  JANUAIi’  WIND. 


ffi-jrc  Slnte-rri  3ta  at  fwh  mai]  Slam* 

Tune — To  daunton  me. 

The  blude-red  rose  at  Yule  may  blaw. 

The  simmer  lillies  bloom  in  snaw. 

The  frost  may  freeze  the  deepest  sea; 

But  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

To  daunton  me,  and  me  so  young-, 

Wi’  his  fause  heart  and  flatt’ring  tongue 
That  is  the  thing  you  ne’er  shall  see  : 

For  an  old  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

For  a’  his  meal  and  a’ his  maut. 

For  a’  his  fresh  beef  and  his  saut. 

For  a’  his  gold  and  white  monie. 

An  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

Ilis  gear  may  buy  him  kye  and  yowes. 

His  gear  may  buy  him  glens  and  kriowes; 
But  me  he  shall  not  buy  nor  fee. 

For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

He  hirples  twa-fauld  as  he  dow, 

Wi’  his  teethless  gab  and  his  auld  beld  pow, 
And  the  rain  rains  down  from  his  red  bleer’d 
ee — 

That  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 


1 Ito-kir  bn  imj  (Karhj  UJalk.  (329) 

Tune — The  Rose-hud. 

A rose-bud  by  my  early  walk, 

Adown  a corn -enclosed  bawk, 

Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk. 

All  on  a dewy  morning. 

Ere  twice  the  shades  o*  dawn  are  fled. 

In  a’  its  crimson  glory  spread. 

And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head. 

It  scents  the  early  morning. 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest, 

A little  linnet  fondly  prest. 

The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 
Sae  early  in  the  morning. 

She  soon  shall  see  her  tender  brood. 

The  pride,  the  pleasure  o’  the  wood, 

A mang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew’d. 
Awake  the  early  morning. 

So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jeany  fair! 

Oil  trembling  string  or  vocal  air. 

Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 
That  tends  thy  early  morning. 

So  thou,  sweet  rose-bud,  young  and  ga^, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day. 

And  bless  the  parent’s  evening  ray 
That  watch’d  thy  early  morning. 


Sunni*  foil*  total. 

Tune — Morag. 

Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains. 
Never  bound  by  winter’s  chains ; 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands. 

There  commix’d  with  foulest  stains 
From  tyranny’s  empurpled  bands; 
These,  their  richly  gleaming  waves, 

I leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves; 

Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 
The  banks  by  Castle-Gordon.  - 

Spicy  forests,  ever  gay. 

Shading  from  the  burning  ray 
Hapless  wretches  sold  to  toil, 

Or  the  ruthless  native’s  way. 

Bent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoil; 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 

I leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave : 

Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  bravo 
The  storms  by  Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly  here  without  control. 

Nature  reigns  and  rules  the  whole ; 

In  that  sober  pensive  mood, 

Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 

She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood  | 
life’s  poor  day  I’ll  musing  rave. 

And  find  at  night  a sheltering  cave. 
Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave, 
By  bonnie  Castle-Gordon. 


aUIjtn  Sannar’  -Etinir,  (330) 

Tune — The  Lass  that  made  the  Bed  to  A£& 

When  Januar’  wind  was  blawing  cauld. 

As  to  the  north  I took  my  way. 

The  mirksome  night  did  me  enfauld, 

I knew  na  where  to  lodge  till  day. 

By  my  good  luck  a maid  I met. 

Just  in  the  middle  o’  my  care  ; 

And  kindly  she  did  me  invite 
To  walk  into  a chamber  fair. 

I bow’d  fu’  low  unto  this  maid. 

And  thank’d  her  for  her  courtesie* 

I bowr’d  fu’  low  unto  this  maid, 

And  bade  her  mak  a bed  to  me. 

She  made  the  bed  baith  large  and  wide, 

Wi’  twa  white  hands  she  spread  it  down; 

She  put  the  cup  to  her  rosy  lips. 

And  drank,  “ Young  man,  now  sleep  p* 
soun’.” 

I She  snatch’d  the  candle  in  her  hand. 

And  frae  my  chamber  went  wi’  speed ; 

. But  I call’d  her  quickly  back  again 
j To  lay  some  rnair  below  my  head. 


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BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A cod  she  laid  below  my  head. 

And  served  me  wi’  due  respect; 

And  to  salute  her  wi’  a kiss, 

I put  my  arms  about  her  neck. 

“ Haud  atf  your  hands,  young  man,”  she 
says, 

" And  dinna  sae  uncivil  be : 

If  ye  hae  ony  love  for  me, 

Oh  wrang  na  my  virginitie  1” 

Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o’  gowd. 

Her  teeth  were  like  the  ivorie  ; 

Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipt  in  wine. 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

Her  bosom  was  the  driven  snaw, 

Twa  drifted  heaps  sae  fair  to  see ; 

Her  limbs  the  polish’d  marble  stane, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

I kiss’d  her  owre  and  owre  again. 

And  aye  she  wist  na  what  to  say ; 

C laid  her  ’tween  me  and  the  wa’ — 

The  lassie  thought  na  lang  till  day. 

Upon  the  morrow  when  we  rose, 

I thank’d  he*  for  her  courtesie ; 

But  aye  sin  nlush’d,  and  aye  she  sigh’d. 

And  said,  “ Alas  ! ye’ve  ruin’d  me.” 

I clasp’d  her  wraist,  and  kiss’d  her  syne. 
While  the  tear  stood  twinklin’  in  her  ee ; 

I said,  “ My  lassie,  dinna  cry. 

For  ye  aye  shall  mak  the  bed  to  me.” 
jghe  took  her  mither’s  Holland  sheets. 

And  made  them  a’  in  sarks  to  me : 

Blythe  and  merry  may  she  be, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

The  bonnie  lass  made  the  bed  to  me. 

The  braw  lass  made  the  bed  to  me : 

I’ll  ne’er  forget  till  the  day  I die. 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me ! 


ttjli  f%ttg  ©igjjlanir  Huutr. 

Tune — Morag . 

Loud  blaw  the  frosty  breezes. 

The  snaws  the  mountains  cover ; 
Like  winter  on  me  seizes, 

Since  my  young  Highland  Rover 
Far  wanders  nations  over. 

Where’er  he  go,  where’er  he  stray. 
May  Heaven  be  his  warden. 

Return  him  safe  to  fair  Strathspey, 
And  bonnie  Castle-Gordon  ! 

The  trees  now  naked  groaning. 

Shall  soon  wi’  leaves  be  hinging. 
The  birdies  dowie  moaning. 

Shall  a’  be  blythely  singing. 

And  every  d owei  be  sprn  giug. 


Sae  I’ll  rejoice  the  lee-lang  day. 

When  by  his  mighty  warden 
My  youth’s  returned  to  fair  Strathjpa^ 
And  bonnie  Castle-Gordon. 


®atntir  Situ,  (ssi) 

Air — Ye  gallants  bright. 

Ye  gallants  bright,  I red  ye  right. 
Beware  o’  bonnie  Ann  ; 

Her  comely  face  sae  fu’  of  grace. 

Your  heart  she  will  trepan. 

Her  een  sae  bright,  like  stars  by  night 
Her  skin  is  like  the  swan  ; 

Sae  jimply  lac’d  her  genty  waist. 

That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 

Youth,  grace,  and  love  attendant  mow*. 
And  pleasure  leads  the  van  : 

In  a’  their  charms,  and  conquering  arm% 
They  wait  on  bonnie  Ann. 

The  captive  bands  may  chain  the  handa. 
But  love  enslaves  the  man ; 

Ye  gallants  braw,  I red  you  a’. 

Beware  o’  bonnie  Ann ! 


■ ©Innming  Uilltj. 

Tune — On  a Bank  of  Flowers . 

On  a bank  of  flowers,  in  a summer  day. 
For  summer  lightly  drest. 

The  youthful  blooming  Nelly  lay. 

With  love  and  sleep  opprest ; 

When  Willie,  wand’ring  thro’  the  wood. 
Who  for  her  favour  oft  had  sued, 

He  gaz’d,  he  wish’d,  he  fear’d,  he  blush’d^ 
And  trembled  where  he  stood. 

Her  closed  eyes  like  weapons  sheath’d. 
Were  seal’d  in  soft  repose; 

Her  lips  still  as  she  fragrant  breath’d. 

It  richer  dy’d  the  rose. 

The  springing  lilies  sweetly  prest. 

Wild — wanton,  kiss’d  her  rival  breast ; 

He  gaz’d,  he  wish’d,  he  fear’d,  he  blush’d— 
His  bosom  ill  at  rest. 

Her  robes  light  waving  in  the  breeze, 

Her  tender  limbs  embrace ; 

Her  lovely  form,  her  native  ease. 

All  harmony  and  grace  : 

Tumultuous  tides  his  pulses  roll, 

A faltering,  ardent  kiss  he  stole ; 

He  gaz’d,  he  wish’d,  he  fear’d,  he  blush  3-* 
And  sigh’d  his  very  soul. 

As  flies  the  partridge  from  the  brake. 

On  fear-inspired  wings. 

So  Nelly  starting,  half  awake. 

Away  affrighted  springs : 


OF  A’  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN  BLAW. 


But  Willie  follow’d,  as  he  should. 

He  overtook  her  in  the  wood  ; 

He  vow’d,  he  pray’d,  he  found  the  maid 
Forgiving  all  and  good. 


3Hij  Smntic  Slant.  (332) 

Tune — Go  fetch  to  me  a Pint  o'  Wine. 

Go  fetch  to  me  a pint  o’  wine. 

And  fill  it  in  a silver  tassie ; 

That  I may  drink,  before  I go, 

A service  to  my  bonny  lassie : 

The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o’  Leith, 

Eu’  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  Ferry ; 
The  siftp  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly. 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready ; 
The  shouts  o’  war  are  heard  afar. 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody ; 

But  it’s  not  the  roar  o’  sea  or  shore 
Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor  shouts  o’  war  that’s  heard  afar — 

It’s  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 


lit!  /uni  Ufas.  (333) 

Tune — Rory  Ball's  Port. 

Ane  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever ; 

A ne  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever  ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I’ll  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him. 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu’  twinkle  lights  me; 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I’ll  ne’er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 

Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her ; 

Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 

Had  we  never  lov’d  sae  kindly. 

Had  we  never  lov’d  sae  blindly. 

Never  met — or  never  parted, 

W e aad  ne’er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 

Fare  the  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure ! 

Ane  fond  l^ss,  and  then  we  sever ; 

Ane  fareweel,  alas  ! for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I’ll  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee  l 


m 

fEfrp  Smiling  Spring. 

Tune — The  Bonny  Bell . 

The  smiling  Spring  comes  in  rejoicing. 

And  surly  winter  grimly  flies  ; 

Now  crystal  clear  are  the  falling  waters. 

And  bonnie  blue  are  the  sunny  skies. 
Fresh  o’er  the  mountains  breaks  forth  the 
morning. 

The  ev’ning  gilds  the  ocean’s  swell ; 

All  creatures  joy  in  the  sun’s  returning. 

And  I rejoice  in  my  bonnie  Bell. 

The  flowery  spring  leads  sunny  summer. 
And  yellow  autumn  presses  near. 

Then  in  his  turn  comes  gloomy  winter. 

Till  smiling  spring  again  appear. 

Thus  seasons  dancing,  life  advancing. 

Old  Time  and  Nature  their  changes  tell. 
But  never  ranging,  still  unchanging, 

I adore  my  bonnie  Bell. 


flit  £a;tj  ffist. 

Tune — The  Lazy  Mist. 

The  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  [rill; 

Concealing  the  course  of  the  dark  winding 

How  languid  the  scenes,  late  so  sprightly, 
appear ! 

As  autumn  to  winter  resigns  the  pale  year. 

The  forests  are  leafless,  the  meadows  are 
brown. 

And  all  the  gay  foppery  of  summer  is  flown  : 

Apart  let  me  wander,  apart  let  me  muse. 

How  quick  time  is  flying,  how  keen  fate 
pursues ! 

How  long  I have  liv’d — but  how  much  liv’d 
in  vain ! 

How  little  of  life’s  scanty  span  may  remain ! 

What  aspects  old  Time,  in  his  progress,  has 
worn ! 

What  ties  cruel  fate  in  my  bosom  has  torn ! 

How  foolish,  or  worse,  till  our  summit  ij 
gain’d ! 

And  downward,  how  weaken’d,  how  dark- 
en’d, how  pain’d ! [give— 

This  life’s  not  worth  having  with  all  it  can 

For  something  beyond  it  poor  man  sur* 
must  live. 


a’  i tyt  1 irts  il/e  ‘SJinir  ratr  251am. 

(334) 

Ora*  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I dearly  like  the  west, 

For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives. 

The  lassie  1 loe  best ; 


112 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row. 
And  mony  a liiil  between  ; 

But  day  and  night  my  fancy’s  flight 
Is  ever  wi’  my  Jean. 

I see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I see  her  sweet  and  fair : 

I hear  her  in  the  tunefu’  birds, 

I hear  her  charm  the  air  : 

There’s  not  a bonnie  flower  that  springs 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green. 

There’s  not  a bonnie  bird  that  sings. 
But  minds  me  o’  my  Jean. 

Oh  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saffc 
Amang  the  leafy  trees, 

Wi*  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale 
Bring  name  the  laden  bees ; 

And  bring  the  lassie  bach  to  me 
That’s  aye  sae  neat  and  clean ; 

Ane  smile  o’  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean  ! 

What  sighs  and  vows  amang  the  knowes 
Hae  passed  atween  ns  twa ! 

How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part^ 
That  night  she  gaed  awa ! 

The  powers  aboon  can  only  ken. 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen. 

That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  m® 

As  my  sweet  lovely  JeanJ 


$!i,  mrrt  % mt  Parnassus’  Sill.  (335) 
Tune. — My  Love  is  lost  to  mu. 

Oh,  were  I on  Parnassus’  hill! 

Or  had  of  Helicon  my  fill ; 

That  I might  catch  poetic  skill. 

To  sing  bow  dear  I love  thee. 

But  Nith  maun  be  my  muse’s  well. 

My  muse  maun  be  thy  bonnie  sel* ; 

On  Corsincon  I’ll  glow’r  and  spell. 

And  write  how  dear  I love  thee. 

Then  come,  sweet  muse,  inspire  my  lay  ! 

For  a’  the  lee-lang  simmers  day 
I could  na  sing,  I couldna  say. 

How  much,  how  dear,  I love  thee. 

I see  thee  dancing  o’er  the  green. 

Tty  wa.st  sae  jimp,  thy  limbs  sae  clean, 

Tny  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  een — 

By  heaven  and  earth  I love  thee  ! 

By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame. 

The  thoughts  c’  thee  my  breast  inflame; 
And  aye  I muse  and  sing  thy  name — 

I only  live  to  love  thee. 

Tho’  I were  doom’d  to  wander  on 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun, 

„ Till  my  last  weary  sand  was  run ; * 

Till  then — and  then  I love  thee. 


ftpr  C|)mallttr’0  lament  (333) 

Tune — Captain  O' Kean. 

The  small  birds  rejoice  iu  the  green  leavsa 
returning,  [the  vale  ; 

The  murm’ring  streamlet  winds  clear  thro’ 
The  hawthorn  trees  blow  in  the  dew  of 
the  morning,  [green  dale : 

And  wild  scattered  cowslips  bedeck  the 
But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what  can 
seem  fair,  [by  care? 

While  the  lingering  moments  are  numbered 
No  flowers  gaily  springing,  nor  birds 
sweetly  singing. 

Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless  despair. 

The  deed  that  I dared,  could  it  merit  their 

malice, 

A king  and  a father  to  place  on  his  throne  ? 
His  right  are  these  hills,  and  his  right  are 
these  vallies. 

Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter,  but 
I can  find  none.  [forlorn  ; 

But  ’tis  not  my  sufferings  thus  wretched. 
My  brave  gallant  friends ! ’tis  your  ruin  I 
mourn ! [trial— 

Your  deeds  proved  so  loyal  in  hot  bloody 
Alas  ! I can  make  you  no  sweeter  return  I 


3Htj  Start’s  in  tjjt  Sigjjlantrs. 

Tune — Failte  na  Miosg. 

My  heart’s  iu  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is 
not  here,  [deer ; 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  a chasing  the 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the 
roe — 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I go. 

Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the 
North,  [worth; 

The  birth-place  of  valour,  the  country  of 
Wherever  I wander,  wherever  I rove, 

The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered 
with  snow  ; [below  : 

Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  vallies 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging 
woods;  [floods. 

Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is 
not  here,  [deer : 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  a-ehasing  tho 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the 
roe — 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I go. 


on,  WILLIE  BREW’D. 


213 


Sflljir  Snftmmt. 

Tune — John  Anderson  my  jo* 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  first  acqnent, 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven. 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 
But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

W e clamb  the  hill  thegither. 
And  mony  a canty  day,  John, 
We’ve  had  wi’  ane  anither : 

Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 
But  hand  in  hand  we’ll  go. 

And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 


f#  3Hartf  in  Branrn.  (337) 

Tune — Death  of  Captain  Cook. 

Thou  ling’ring  star,  with  less’ning  ray. 

That  lov’st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 

Again  thou  usher’st  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

On  Mary ! dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

See’st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I forget. 

Can  I forget  the  hallowed  grove. 

Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met. 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love ! 

Eternity  will  not  efface 
Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace. 

Ah  ! little  thought  we  ’twas  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kiss’d  his  pebbled  shore, 
O’erhung  with  wild  woods,  thick’ning 
green ; 

The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar. 
Twin’d  am’rous  round  the  raptur’d  scene ; 
The  flow’rs  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray— 

Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaim’d  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o’er  these  scenes  my  mem’ry  wakes. 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 

Time  but  th’  impression  stronger  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 

Bee’st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear’st  thou  the  £?$ans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 


Surtax 

Tune — Young  Jockey, 

Young  Jockey  was  the  blythest  lad 
In  a’  our  town  or  here  awa  : 

Fu’  blythe  he  whistled  at  the  gaud, 

Fu’  lightly  danced  he  in  the  ha’. 

He  roosed  my  een,  sae  bonnie  blue. 

He  roosed  my  waist  sae  genty  sma% 

And  aye  my  heart  came  to  my  mou’ 

When  ne’er  a body  heard  or  saw. 

My  Jockey  toils  upon  the  plain. 

Thro’  wind  and  weet,  thro’  frost  and  sna\* 
And  o’er  the  lea  I leuk  fu’  fain. 

When  Jockey’s  owsen  hameward  ca* 

And  aye  the  night  comes  round  again. 
When  in  his  arms  he  takes  me  a’. 

And  aye  he  vows  he’ll  be  my  ain. 

As  lang’s  he  has  a breath  to  ch  aw. 


file  Dili;  Heinrra.  (338) 

Tune — Seventh  of  November, 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns. 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet, 

Tho’  winter  wild  in  tempest  toil’d. 

Ne’er  summer-sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 
Than  a’  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide. 

And  crosses  o’er  the  sultry  line ; 

Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and  globes, 
Heav’n  gave  me  more — it  made  thee  mine 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight. 

Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give. 

While  joys  above  my  mind  can  move. 

For  thee,  and  thee  alone,  I live. 

When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 
Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part. 

The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band. 

It  breaks  my  bliss — it  breads  mv  heart ! 


‘tEJilli*  fcm’ir.  (339) 

Tune. — Willie  brew'd  a Peck  o’  Mult, 

Oh,  Willie  brew’d  a peck  o’  maut. 

And  Rob  and  Allan  cam  to  pree  : 

Three  blyther  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night. 
Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christendie. 

We  are  nae  fou’,  we’re  no  that  fou’. 
But  just  a drappie  in  our  ee  ; 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  da-% 
And  aye  we’ll  taste  the  barley  bree. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys. 

Three  merry  boys,  I trow,  are  we ; 

And  mcny  a night  we’ve  merry  been, 

And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be  l 


214 


BUENS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


It  is  tlic  moon,  I ken  her  horn. 

That’s  blinkin’  in  the  lift  sae  hie  ; 
She  shines  sae  bright  to  wile  us  hame. 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she’ll  wait  a wee ! 
Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa’, 

A cuckold,  coward  loon  is  he  ! 

Wha  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa*, 

He  is  the  king  amang  us  three ! 


% gartr  a ttarfu’  fate  $akm.  (340) 

Tune — The  Blue-eyed  Lass . 

I gaed  a waefu’  gate  yestreen, 

A gate,  I fear.  I’ll  dearly  rue ; 

I gat  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o’  bonnie  blue. 

*Twas  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright ; 

Her  lips  like  roses  wet  wi’  dew, 

Iler  heaving  bosom,  lily-white — 

It  was  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 

She  talk’d,  she  smil’d,  my  heart  she  wil’d ; 

She  charm’d  my  soul — I wist  na  how ; 
And  aye  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound. 
Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonnie  blrne. 

Hut  spare  to  speak,  and  spare  to  speed; 

She’ll  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow : 

Should  she  refuse,  I’ll  lay  my  dead 
To  her  twa  een  sae  bonnie  blue 


®{je  Banks  nf  ffiftr. 

Tune — Robie  donna  Gorach. 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea. 
Where  royal  cities  stately  stand ; 

But  sweeter  flows  the  Nitli,  to  me. 

Where  Cummins  ance  had  high  command ; 

When  shall  I see  that  honour’d  land, 

That  winding  stream  I love  so  dear ! 

Must  wayward  fortune’s  adverse  hand 
For  ever,  ever  keep  me  here  ? 

Bow  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  vales,  • 
Where  spreading  hawthorns  gaily  bloom ! 

How  sweetly  wind  thy  sloping  dales, 

Where  lambkins,  wanton  thro’  the  broom ! 

Tho’  wandering,  now,  must  be  my  doom. 

Far  from  thy  bonnie  banks  and  braes. 

May  there  my  latest  hours  consume, 

Amang  the  friends  of  early  days ! 


2Uit  Ijrart  is  a-toakittg,  Drar  ftittit ! 

Tune — Tam  Glen. 

My  heart  is  a-breaking;,  dear  Tittie  * 

Some  counsel  unto  me  come  leiT, 

To  anger  them  a’  is  the  pity. 

But  what  will  I do  wi’  Tam  Glen  ? 


I’m  thinking  wi’  sic  a braw  fellow 
In  poortith  I might  make  a fen* ; 

What  care  I in  riches  to  wallow, 

If  I maunna  marry  Tam  Glen? 

There’s  Lowrie,  the  laird  o’  Drumeller, 
“Guid  day  to  you,  brute!”  he  comes  ben; 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o’  his  siller, 

But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam  Glen  ? 

My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me. 

And  bids  me  beware  o’  young  men ; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me. 

But  wha  can  think  sae  o’  Tam  Glen? 

My  daddie  says,  gin  I’ll  forsake  him. 

He’ll  gie  me  guid  hunder  marks  ten : 

But  if  it’s  ordain’d  I maun  take  him. 

Oh  wha  will  I get  but  Tam  Glen  ? 

Yestreen  at  the  valentine’s  dealing. 

My  heart  to  my  mou’  gied  a sten ; 

For  thrice  I drew  ane  without  failing. 

And  thrice  it  was  written — Tam  Glen. 

The  last  Halloween  I was  waukin 
My  droukit  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken  ; 

His  likeness  cam  up  the  house  staukin, 

And  the  very  grey  breeks  o’  Tam  Glen  1 

Come  counsel,  dear  Tittie ! don’t  tarry — 

I’ll  gie  you  my  bonnie  black  hen. 

Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 
The  lad  I loe  dearly,  Tam  Glen 


Cjtra'U  nrntr  hr 

Tune — There  are  few  guid  fellows  wAm 
Willie's  awa. 

By  yon  castle  wa’,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

I heard  a man  sing,  though  his  head  it  wa» 
grey ; 

And  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  down  came, 
There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 
The  church  is  in  ruins,  the  state  is  in  jars ; 
Delusions,  oppressions,  and  murderous  wars; 
We  darena  weel  say’t,  though  we  ken  wha’9 
to  blame. 

There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

My  seven  braw  sons  for  Jamie  drew  sword, 
A rid  now  I greet  round  their  green  beds  in 
the  yerd.  [dame — • 

It  brak  the  sweet  heart  of  my  faithfu’  auld 
There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 
Now  life  is  a burthen  that  bows  me  down. 
Since  I tint  my  bairns,  and  he  tint  his  crow  n ; 
But  till  my  last  moments  my  words  are  the 
same — 

Th(  re’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hamel 


WIIAT  CAN  A IOUNG  LASSIE. 


2 IS 


Btaltfo  ijiinks  imj  fuse. 

Tune — My  Tocher's  the  Jewel. 

Oh  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o’  my  beauty. 

And  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o’  my  kin ; 

But  little  thinks  my  luve  I ken  brawlie 
My  tocher’s  the  jewel  has  charms  for  him. 

It’s  a ’ for  the  apple  he’ll  nourish  the  tree ; 
It’s  a’  for  the  hiney  he’ll  cherish  the  bee ; 

My  laddie’s  sae  meikle  in  luve  wi’  the  siller. 
He  canna  hae  luve  to  spare  for  me. 

Your  proffer  o’  luve’s  an  arle-penny, 

My  tocher’s  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy ; 

But  an’  ye  be  crafty,  I am  cunnin’, 

Sae  ye  wi’  another  your  fortune  maun  try. 

Ye’re  like  to  the  timmer  o’  yon  rotten  wood. 
Ye’re  like  to  the  bark  o’  yon  rotten  tree. 

Ye’ll  slip  frae  me  like  a knotless  thread. 

And  ye’ll  crack  your  credit  wi’  mae  nor  me. 


fflnni  ran  % hr  SliMr  anil  ©lab. 

Tune — The  honnie  Lad  that's  far  awa. 

Ok  how  can  I be  blythe  and  glad. 

Or  how  can  I gang  brisk  and  braw. 
When  the  bonnie  lad  that  I loe  best 
Is  owre  the  lulls  and  far  awa  ? 

When  the  bonnie  lad  that  I loe  best 
Is  owre  the  hills  and  far  awa  ? 

It’s  no  the  frosty  winter  wind, 

It’s  no  the  driving  drift  and  snaw; 

But  aye  the  tear  comes  in  my  ee. 

To  think  on  him  that’s  far  awa. 

But  aye  the  tear  comes  in  my  ee. 

To  think  on  him  that’s  far  awa. 

My  father  pat  me  frae  his  door, 

My  friends  they  hae  disown’d  me  a*. 
But  I hae  ane  will  tak  my  part, 

The  bonnie  lad  that’s  far  awa. 

But  I hae  ane  will  tak  my  part. 

The  bonnie  lad  that’s  far  awa. 

A pair  o’  gloves  he  gae  to  me, 

And  silken  snoods  he  gae  me  twa ; 
And  I will  wear  them  for  his  sake. 

The  bonnie  lad  that’s  far  awa. 

And  I will  wear  them  for  his  sake. 
The  bonnie  lad  that’s  far  awa. 


$ its  innfp55  iljntt  art  sap  /air.  (3«) 

i do  confess  thou'art  sae  fair, 

1 wad  been  owre  the  lugs  in  love, 

Had  I na  found  the  slightest  prayer 

That  lips  could  speak  thy  heart  could  move. 


I do  confess  thee  sweet,  but  find 
Thou  art  sae  thriftless  o’  thy  sweety 
Thy  favours  are  the  silly  wind. 

That  kisses  ilka  thing  it  meets. 

See  yonder  rose-bud,  rich  in  dew, 

Amang  its  native  briers  sae  coy ; 

How  sune  it  tines  its  scent  and  hue 
When  pou’d  and  worn  a common  toy! 

Sic, fate,  ere  lang,  shall  thee  betide, 

Tho’  thou  may  gaily  bloom  awhile ! 

Yet  sune  thou  shalt  be  thrown  aside 
like  ony  common  weed  and  vile. 

hunting  Imtg. 

Tune— I red  you  beware  at  the  hunting. 

The  heather  was  blooming,  the  meadow* 
were  mawn. 

Our  lads  gaed  a-hunting  ane  day  at  the  dawn. 
Owre  moors  and  owre  mosses  and  mony  a 
glen,  [hen. 

At  length  they  discover’d  a bonnie  moor- 
I red  you  beware  at  the  hunting,  young 
men ; [men ; 

I red  you  beware  at  the  hunting  young 
Tak  some  on  the  wing,  and  some  as  they 
spring, 

But  cannily  steal  on  a bonnie  moor-hen. 
Sweet  brushing  the  dew  from  the  brown  hea- 
ther bells, 

Her  colours  betray’d  her  on  yon  mossy  fells ; 
Her  plumage  out-lustred  the  pride  o’  the 
spring. 

And  oh  ! as  she  wantoned  gay  on  the  wing. 

I red  you  beware,  &c. 

Auld  Phoebus  himsel,  as  he  peep’d  o’er  the 
hill. 

In  spite  at  her  plumage  he  tried  his  skill ; 

He  levell’d  his  rays  where  she  bask’d  on  the 
brae — 

His  rays  were  outshone,  and  but  mark’d 
where  she  lay. 

I red  you  beware,  &c. 

They  hunted  the  valley,  they  hunted  the  hill ; 
The  best  of  our  lads  wi’  the  best  o’  their  skill ; 
But  still  as  the  fairest  she  sat  in  their  sight. 
Then,  whirr ! she  was  over,  a mile  at  a flight. 
I red  you  beware,  &c. 

* * • • 


aUjjat  ran  a fating  TasatP. 

Tune — What  can  a young  lassie  do  wi*  a% 
auld  man. 

What  can  a young  lassie,  what  shall  a young 
lassie,  [man  ? 

What  can  a young  lassie  do  wi’  an  auld 


216  BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Bad  luck  on  the  penny  that  tempted  my 
minnie 

To  sell  her  poor  Jenny  for  siller  and  Ian* ! 

Bad  luck  on  the  penny  that  tempted  my 
minnie  [Ian’ ! 

To  sell  her  poor  Jenny  for  siller  and 

He’3  always  compleenin’  frae  mornin  to 
e’en  in’,  [lang ; 

He  hoasts  and  he  hirples  the  weary  day 

He’s  doyl’t  and  he’s  dozin’,  his  bluid  it  is 
frozen,  [man  ! 

Oh,  dreary’s  the  night  wi’  a crazy  auld 

He’s  doyl’t  and  he’s  dozin’,  his  bluid  it 
is  frozen, 

Oh,  dreary’s  the  night  wi’  a crazy  auld 
man ! 

He  hums  and  he  hankers,  he  frets  and  he 
cankers, 

I never  can  please  him,  do  a’  that  I can  ; 

He’s  peevish  and  jealous  of  a the  young 
fellows : 

Oh,  dool  on  the  day  I met  wi’  amald  man ; 

He’s  peevish  and  jealous  of  a’  the  young 
fellows : 

Oh,  dool  on  the  day  I met  wi’  an 
auld  man  l 

My  auld  auntie  Katie  upon  me  takes  pity. 

I’ll  do  my  endeavour  to  follow  her  plan ; 

I’ll  cross  h;m,  and  wrack  him,  until  I heart- 
break him. 

And  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me  a 
new  pan. 

I’ll  cross  him,  and  wrack  him,  until  I 
heart-break  him, 

And  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me 
a new  pan. 


1C mirlti  fianirs. 

Tune — Miss  Muir » 

0 how  shall  I,  unskilfu’,  try 
The  poet’s  occupation. 

The  tunefu’  powers,  in  happy  hours* 

That  whispers  inspiration  ? 

Even  they  maun  dare  an  effort  mail 
Than  aught  they  ever  gave  us. 

Or  they  rehearse,  in  equal  verse. 

The  charms  o’  lovely  Davies. 

Each  eye  it  cheers,  when  she  appears. 
Like  Phoebus  in  the  morning. 

When  past  the  shower,  j&d  ev’ry  flower 
The  garden  is  adorning. 

As  the  wretch  looks  o’er  Siberia’s  shore, 
When  winter-bound  the  wave  is  ; 

Sae  droops  our  heart  when  we  maun  part 
Frae  charming  lovely  Davies. 

Her  smile’s  a gift,  frae  ’boon  the  lift. 
That  maks  us  mair  than  princes ; 

A scepter’d  hand,  a king’s  command. 

Is  in  her  darting  glances ; 

The  man  in  arms,  ’gainst  female  charms. 
Even  he  her  willing  slave  is ; 

He  hugs  his  chain,  and  owns  the  reign 
Of  conquering,  lovely  Davies. 

My  muse  to  dream  of  such  a theme. 

Her  feeble  powers  surrender ; 

The  eagle’s  gaze  alone  surveys 
The  sun’s  meridian  splendour : 

1 wad  in  vain  essay  the  strain. 

The  deed  too  daring  brave  is  ; 

Pll  drap  the  lyre,  and  mute  admire 
The  charms  0’  lovely  Davies. 


®lli  Snmtir  ftliing. 

Tune — Bonnie  wee  thing . 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing. 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 

I wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom. 

Lest  my  jewel  I should  tine. 

Wishfully  I look  and  languish. 

In  that  bonnie  face  o’  thine ; 

And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi’  anguish. 
Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 

Wit,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  beauty. 
In  ane  constellation  shine ; 

To  adore  thee  is  my  duty. 

Goddess  o’  this  soul  0’  mine ! 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing. 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  nine, 

I wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom. 

Lest  my  jewel  I should  tine  1 


.<%  far  anr-ani-tonlij,  &ara. 

Tune — The  Moudiewort . 

CHORUS. 

And  0I1,  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam, 

And  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tam, 
I’ll  learn  my  kin  a rattlin’  sang 
An’  I saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

They  snool  me  sair,  and  haud  me  down. 

And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,  Tam  ! 

But  three  short  years  will  soon  wheel  roun’— % 
And  then  comes  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

A gleib  0’  Ian’,  a claut  0’  gear. 

Was  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam; 

At  kith  or  kin  I need  na  spier, 

An’  I saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

They’ll  hae  me  wed  a wealthy  coof, 

Tho’  I mysel’  hae  plenty,  Tam; 

But  hear’st  thou,  laddie — there’s  my  loof— • 
I’m  tbine  at  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


IN  SIMMER,  WHEN  THE  HAY  WAS  MAWN. 


217 


'tannin's  irn  anil  Sima.  (342) 

Tune — Oh  Kenmure's  on  and  awa,  Willie . 
Dh  Kenmure’s  on  and  awa,  Willie ! 

Oh  Kenmure’s  on  and  awa! 

And  Kenmure’s  lord’s  the  bravest  lord. 

That  ever  Galloway  saw. 

Success  to  Kenmure’s  band,  Willie  ! 

Success  to  Kenmure’s  band ; 

There’s  na  a heart  that  fears  a Whig, 

That  rides  by  Kenmure’s  hand. 

Here’s  Kenmure’s  health  in  wine ; 

Here’s  Kenmure’s  health  in  wine  ; [blude. 
There  ne’er  was  a coward  o’  Kenmure’s 
Nor  yet  o’  Gordon’s  line. 

Oh  Kenmure’s  lads  are  men,  Willie ! 

Oh  Kenmure’s  lads  are  men ; 

Their  hearts  and  swords  are  metal  time — 
And  that  their  faes  shall  ken. 

They’ll  live  or  die  wi’  fame,  Willie ! 

They’ll  live  or  die  wi’  fame ; 

But  soon,  wi’  sounding  victorie. 

May 'Kenmure’s  lord  come  hame. 

Here’s  him  that’s  far  awa,  Willie  ! 

Here’s  him  that’s  far  awa  ! 

And  here’s  the  flower  that  I love  best— 

The  rose  that’s  like  the  snaw ! 


Sra  anil  jjtr  Spinning  tUjjrrl. 

Tune— The  sweet  lass  that  loes  me. 

On  leeze  me  on  my  spinning-wheel. 

Oh  leeze  me  on  my  rock  and  reel ; 

Frae  tap  to  tae  that  deeds  me  bien. 

And  haps  me  fiel  and  warm  at  e’en ! - 
I’ll  set  me  down  and  sing  and  spin. 
While  laigh  descends  the  simmer  sun. 
Blest  wi’  content,  and  milk  and  meal— 
Oh  leeze  me  on  my  spinning-wheel ! 

On  ilka  hand  the  burnies  trot. 

And  meet  below  my  theekit  cot ; 

The  scented  birk  and  hawthorn  white. 
Across  the  pool  their  arms  unite. 

Alike  to  screen  the  birdies  nest. 

And  little  fishes’  caller  rest : 

The  sun  blinks  kindly  in  the  biel’. 

Where  blythe  I turn  my  spinning-wheel. 
On  lofty  aiks  the  cushats  wail. 

And  echo  cons  the  doolfu’  tale ; 

The  linhvhites  in  the  hazel  braes. 
Delighted,  rival  ither’s  lays : 

The  craik  amang  the  clover  hay. 

The  paitrick  whirrin’  o’er  the  ley. 

The  swallow  jinkin’  round  my  sliiel. 
Amuse  mo  at  my  spinning-wheel. 


| Wi’  sma’  to  sell,  and  less,  to  buy, 

• A boon  distress,  below  envy. 

Oh  wha  wad  leave  this  humble  state. 
For  a’  the  pride  of  a’  the  great  ? 
Amid  their  flaring,  idle  toys, 

Amid  their  cumbrous,  dinsome  joys. 
Can  they  the  peace  and  pleasure  feel 
Of  Bessy  at  her  spinning-wheel  ? 


(Hill  Imre  mill  3Mttri  ia. 

Tune — The  Posie. 

Oh  luve  will  venture  in  where  it  dauraa  well 
be  seen ; [has  been ; 

Oh  luve  will  venture  in  where  wisdom  ance 
But  I will  down  yon  river  rove,  among  the 
wood  sae  green — 

And  a’  to  pu’  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I will  pu’,  the  firstling  o’  the 
year,  [dear. 

And  I will  pu’  the  pink,  the  emblem  o’  my 
For  she’s  the  pink  o’  womankind,  and  blooms 
without  a peer — 

And  a’  to  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I’ll  pu’  the  budding  rose,  when  Phoebus  peeps 
in  view,  [mou’ ; 

For  it’s  like  a baumy  kiss  o’  her  sweet  bonnie 
The  hyacinth  for  constancy,  wi’  its  un- 
changing blue — - 

And  a’  to  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May, 

The  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair, 

And  in  her  lovely  bosom  I’ll  place  the  lily 
there ; [air— 

The  daisy’s  for  simplicity,  and  unaffected 

And  a’  to  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  hawthorn  I will  pu’  wi’  its  locks  o’  siller 
grey,  . [day. 

Where,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands  at  break  ol 
But  the  songster’s  nest  within  the  bush  I 
winna  tak  away — 

And  a’  to  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May, 


S n fintmrr,  mfrrn  ijre  ®atj  mss  JEanra. 

Tune — The,  Country  Lass. 

In  simmer,  when  the  hay  was  mawn, 

And  corn  wav’d  green  in  ilka  field. 

While  claver  blooms  white  o’er  the  lea. 

And  roses  blaw  in  ilka  bield  ; 

Blythe  Bessie  in  the  milking  shiel. 

Says — “ I’ll  be  vred,  come  o’t  what  wiU.* 
Out  spak  a dame  in  wrinkled  eild — 

* O’  guid  advisement  comes  nae  iU. 


218 


MIENS’ S POETICAL  WORKS 


It’s  ye  hae  woods  mony  ane, 

And,  lassie,  ye’re  but  young,  ye  keri; 

Then  wait  a wee,  and  cannie  wale 
A routhie  butt,  a routine  ben  : 

There’s  Johnnie  o’  the  Buskie-glen, 

Fu’  is  his  barn,  fu’  is  his  byre ; 

Tak  this  fra'e  me,  my  bonnie  hen. 

It’s  plenty  feeds  the  luver’s  fire.” 

•’For  Johnnie  o’  the  Buskie-glen, 

I dinna  care  a single  flie ; 

He  loes  sae  weel  his  craps  and  kye. 

He  has  nae  luve  to  spare  for  me  : 

But  blythe’s  the  blink  o’  Robie’s  ee. 

And,  weel  I wat,  he  loes  me  dear : 

Ane  blink  o’  him  I wad  na  gie 
For  Buskie-glen  and  a’  his  gear.” 

• Oh  thoughtless  lassie,  life’s  a faught ; 

The  canniest  gate,  the  strife  is  sair ; 

But  aye  fou  han’t  is  fechtin  best, 

And  hungry  care’s  an  unco  care  : 

But  some  will  spend,  and  some  will  spare. 
And  wilfu’  folk  maun  hae  their  will ; 

Syne  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair. 

Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yill.” 

*Oh,  gear  will  buy  me  rigs  o’  land. 

And  gear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye ; 

But  the  tender  heart  o’  leesome  luve 
The  gowd  and  siller  canna  buy; 

We  may  be  poor — Robie  and  I, 

Light  is  the  burden  luve  lays  on  ; 

Content  and  luve  brings  peace  and  joy — 
What  mair  hae  queens  upon  a throne?” 


®nrn  again  ifimj  /air  (Slija,  (343) 

Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 

Ane  kind  blink  before  we  part, 

Rue  on  thy  despairing  lover  ! 

Canst  thou  break  his  faithfu’  heart  ? 
Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza  ; 

I#  to  love  thy  heart  denies. 

For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence 
Under  friendship’s  kind  disguise ! 

Thee,  dear  maid,  hae  I offended  ? 

The  offence  is  loving  thee  : 

Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  for  ever, 
Wha  for  thine  wad  gladly  die  ? 
While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom. 
Thou  shalt  mix  in  ilka  throe ; 

Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden, 

Ane  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow. 

Kot  the  bee  upon  the  blossom. 

In  the  pride  o’  sunny  noon ; 

N ut  the  little  sporting  fairy. 

All  beneath  the  simmer  moon;  • 


Not  the  poet  in  the  moment 
Fancy  lightens  on  his  ee, 

Kens  the  pleasure,  feels  the  rapture 
That  thy  presence  gies  to  me. 


Willh  axtatlih  (344) 

Tune — The  Eight  Men  of  Moidart. 
Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed, 

The  spot  they  called  it  Linkum-doddie: 
Willie  was  a wabster  guid, 

Cou’d  stown  a clew  wi’  ony  bodie. 

He  had  a wife  was  dour  and  din. 

Oh  Tinkler  Madgie  was  her  mither. 

Sic  a wife  as  Willie  had, 

I wad  na  gie  a button  for  her. 

She  has  an  ee — she  has  but  ane. 

The  cat  has  twa  the  very  colour : 

Five  rusty  teeth,  forbye  a stump, 

A clapper  tongue  wad  deave  a miller ; 

A whiskin’  beard  about  her  mou’. 

Her  nose  and  chin  they  threaten  ither.-^ 
Sic  a wife  as  Willie  had, 

I wad  na  gie  a button  for  her. 

She’s  bough-hough’d,  she’s  hein-shinn’d, 
Ane  limpin’  leg  a hand-breed  shorter ; 
She’s  twisted  right,  she’s  twisted  left. 

To  balance  fair  in  ilka  quarter  : 

She  has  a hump  upon  her  breast. 

The  twin  o’  that  upon  her  shouther. 

Sic  a wife  as  Willie  had, 

I wad  na  gie  a button  for  her, 

Anld  baudrons  by  the  ingle  sit3. 

And  wi’  her  loof  her  face  a-washin’ ; 

But  Willie’s  wife  is  nae  sae  trig, 

She  dights  her  grunzie  wi’  a hushioni 
Her  walie  nieves  like  midden-creels. 

Her  face  wad  fyle  the  Logan-Water. 

Sic  a wife  as  Willie  had, 

I wad  na  gie  a button  for  her 


larlj  a parrrl  nf  Ingnra  in  a Hatira. 

Tune — A parcel  of  rogues  in  a nation* 

Fa  re  we  el  to  a’  our  Scottish  fame, 
Fareweel  our  ancient  glory. 

Fare  weel  even  to  the  Scottish  name, 

Sae  fam’d  in  martial  story. 

Now  Sark  rins  o’er  the  Solway  sands. 

And  Tweed  rins  to  the  ocean. 

To  mark  where  England’s  province  stands:-^ 
Such  a parcel  of  rogues  in  a nation  t 
What  force  or  guile  could  not  subdue^ 

Thro’  many  warlike  ages, 

Is  wrought  now  by  a coward  few. 

For  hireling  traitors’  wages. 


LOVELY  LASS  OF  INVERNESS. 


21$ 


The  English  steel  we  could  disdain. 

Secure  in  valour’s  station  ; 

But  English  gold  has  been  our  bane:— 
Such  a parcel  of  rogues  in  a nation! 

Oh  would  I had  not  seen  the  day 
That  treason  thus  could  fell  us. 

My  auld  grey  head  had  lien  in  clay, 

Wi’  Bruce  and  loyal  Wallace  ! 

But  pith  arid  power,  till  my  last  hour. 

I’ll  mak  this  declaration  ; 

We’re  buught  and  sold  for  English  gold: — 
Such  a parcel  of  rogues  in  a nation  ! 


&nng  nf  Elcaffj.  (345) 

Tune — Oran  an  Diog. 

Scene—A.  field  of  battle.— Time  of  the  day, 

evening.— The  wounded  and  dying  of  the 

victorious  army  are  supposed  to  join  in 

the  following  song : — 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth, 
and  ye  skies. 

Now  g;iy  with  the  bright  setting  sun ; 

Farewell  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear  tender 
ties — 

Our  race  of  existence  is  run ! 

Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  thou  life’s  gloomy 
foe ! 

Go,  frighten  the  coward  and  slave ; 

Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant ! but 
know. 

No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave! 

Thou  strik’st  the  dull  peasant — he  sinks  in 
the  dark,  . 

Nor  saves  e’en  the  wreck  of  a name ; 

Thou  strik’st  the  young  hero — a glorious 
mark ! 

He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame ! 

In  the  field  of  proud  honour — our  swords  in 
our  hands. 

Our  king  and  our  country  to  save — 

While  victory  shines  on  life’s  last  ebbing 
sands. 

Oh ! who  would  not  die  with  the  brave  ! 


IIjb’s  /air  anir  fsm. 

Tune — She’s  fair  and  fause. 

She’s  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my  smart, 

I loed  her  meikle  and  lang ; 

She’s  br  oken  her  vow,  she’s  broken  my  heart. 
And  I may  e’en  gae  hang. 

A coof  cam  in  wi’  routh  o'  gear, 

And  / hae  tint  my  dearest  dear ; 

But  woman  is  but  warld’s  gear, 

Sae  let  the  bonnie  lassie  6ang. 


Whae’er  ye  be  that  woman  love, 

Tb  this  be  never  blind, 

Nae  ferlie  ’tis  tho’  fickle  she  prove, 

A woman  has’t  by  kind. 

Oh  woman,  lovely  woman  fair  ! 

An  angel  form’s  fa’n  to  thy  share, 

’Twad  been  owre  meikle  to  gien  thee  mair-*« 
I mean  an  angel  mind. 


•/Inm  Imwt  Muir.  (315) 

Tune — The  yellow-haired  Laddie. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 
braes. 

Flow  gently.  I’ll  sing  thee  a song  in  thy  praise; 
My  Mary’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her 
dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro* 
the  glen,  [den. 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny 
Thou  green-ci  ested  lapwing  thy  screaming 
forbear, 

I charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring 
bills,  [rills ; 

Far  mark’d  with  the  courses  of  clear  winding 
There  daily  I wander  as  noon  rises  high. 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary’s  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valliea 
below ; [blow; 

Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea. 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary 
and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides. 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave. 
As  gathering  sweet  flow’rets  she  stems  thy 
clear  wave.  # 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  greea 
braes,  [lays ; 

Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my 
My  Mary’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  hse 
dream. 


flu  Inmlq  tm  nf  Snnrriras. 

Tune — Lass  of  Inverness. 

The  lovely  lass  o’  Inverness, 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see; 

For  e’en  and  morn  she  cries,  alas  f 
And  aye  the  saut  tear  blin’s  her  ee  m; 


20* 


220 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Drum  ossie  moor — Drumossie  day— 

A waefu’  day  it  was  to  me ! 

For  there  I lost  my  father  dear, 

My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding  sheet  the  bluidy  clay. 

Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see : 

And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a woman’s  ee  ! 

Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A bluidy  man  I trow  thou  be ; 

For  mony  a heart  thou  hast  made  sair. 
That  ne’er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee.# 


1 riir,  wir  &nst.  (347) 

Tune — Graham’s  Strathspey. 

Oh,  my  luve’s  like  a red,  red  rose 
That’s  newly  sprung  in  June  : 

Oh,  my  luve’s  like  the  melodie. 

That’s  sweetly  play’d  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass. 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 

And  I will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 
Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi’  the  sun ; 

I will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 

While  the  sands  o’  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve ! 
And  fare  thee  weel  a while ! 

And  I will  come  again  my  luve, 

Tho’  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


Itanis  mtiat  rrrk  % Iiij  i{jr t. 

Tune — Louis , what  reck  I by  thee, 

Louis,  what  reck  I by  thee. 

Or  Geordie  on  his  ocean  ? 

Dyvor,  beggar  louns  to  me— 

» I reign  in  Jeanie’s  bosom. 

Let  her  crown  my  love  her  law. 

And  in  her  breast  enthrone  me* 
Kings  and  nations — swith,  awa! 
Reii  randies,  I disown  ye ! 


®Ijb  (giriarataa.  (348) 

Tune — The  deil  cam  fiddling  through 
the  town. 

The  deil  cam  fiddling  through  the  town, 
And  danced  awa  wi’  the  Exciseman, 
And  ilka  wife  cries — “ Auld  Mahoun, 

I wish  you  luck  o’  the  prize  man !” 


The  deil’s  awa,  the  deil’s  awa, 

The  deil’s  awa  wi’  the  Exciseman; 
He’s  danc’d  awa,  he’s  danc’d  awa, 

He’s  danc’d  awa  wi’  the  Exciseman! 

We’ll  mak  our  maut,  we’ll  brew  our  drink. 
We’ll  dance,  and  sing,  and  rejoice,  man  ; 

And  mony  braw  thanks  to  the  meikle  black 
deil 

That  danc’d  awa  wi’  the  Exciseman. 

The  deil’s  awa,  the  deil’s  awa, 

The  deil’s  awa  wi’  the  Exciseman  ; 
He’s  danc’d  awa,  he’s  danc’d  awa, 

He’s  danc’d  awa  wi’  the  Exciseman. 

There’s  threesome  reels,  there’s  foursomt 
reels. 

There’s  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man  ; 

But  the  ae  best  dance  e’er  cam  to  the  land 
Was — the  deil’s  awa  wi’  the  Exciseman. 
The  deil’s  awa,  the  deil’s  awa. 

The  deil’s  awa  wi’  the  Exciseman ; 
He’s  danc’d  awa,  he’s  danc’d  awa, 

He’s  danc’d  awa  wi’  the  Exciseman. 


$amrlin}rt|! 

Tune — Tor  the  sake  of  somebody 

My  heart  is  sair — I dare  na  tell — 

My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody; 

I could  wake  a winter  night 
For  the  sake  of  somebody. 

Oh-ho,  for  somebody  ! 

Oh-hey,  for  somebody ! 

I could  range  the  world  around. 

For  the  sake  o’  somebody ! 

Ye  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love^ 
Oh,  sweetly  smile  on  somebody  l 
Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free. 

And  send  me  safe  my  somebody. 
Oh-ho,  for  somebody ! 

Oh-hey,  for  somebody ! 

I wad  do — what  wad  I not ! 

For  the  sake  o’  somebody ! 


%’\[  atjE  ra’in  Iiij  pa  Saran. 

Tune — Til  gae  nae  mair  to  yon  town. 

I’ll  aye  ea’  in  by  yon  town. 

And  by  yon  garden  green,  again ; 

I’ll  aye  ca’  in  by  yon  town. 

And  see  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 

There’s  nane  sail  ken,  there’s  nane  sail  gueaij 
What  brings  me  back  the  gate  again. 

But  she,  my  fairest  faithfu’  lass. 

And  stownlins  we  sail  meet  again; 


COULD  OUGHT  OF  SONG. 


221 


She’ll  wander  by  the  aiken  tree. 

When  trystin-time  draws  near  again  ; 
And  when  her  lovely  form  I see. 

Oh  haith,  she’s  doubly  dear  again  ! 

I’ll  aye  ca’  iri  by  yon  town, 

And  by  yon  garden  green,  again; 
ru  aye  ca’  in  by  yon  town, 

And  see  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 


•Klilt  tjjmt  lie  mg  Dearie?  (349) 

Air — The  Sutor's  Dochter. 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart. 
Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul. 

That’s  the  love  I bear  thee  ! 

I swear  and  vow  that  only  thou 
Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Only  thou,  I swear  and  vow. 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Lassie,  say  thou  loes  me  ; 

Or  if  thou  wilt  nae  be  my  ain. 

Say  na  tliou’lt  refuse  me : 

If  it  winna,  canna  be. 

Thou,  for  thine  may  choose  me, 

Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die. 

Trusting  that  thou  loes  me. 

Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die. 

Trusting  that  thou  loes  me. 


dJjr,  gc  ttjja's  in  pit  fnrait.  (350) 

Tune — Til  gae  nae  mair  to  yon  town. 

On,  wat  ye  wha’s  in  yon  town. 

Ye  see  the  e’enin’  sun  upon  ? 

The  fairest  dame’s  in  yon  town. 

The  e’enin’  sun  is  shining  on. 

Now  haply  down  yon  gay  green  shaw. 

She  wanders  by  yon  spreading  tree ; 

IIow  blest  ye  flowers  that  round  her  blaw. 
Ye  catch  the  glances  o’  her  ee  ! 

How  blest  ye  birds  that  round  her  sing, 

And  welcome  in  the  blooming  year  l 

And  doubly  welcome  be  the  spring. 

The  season  to  my  Lucy  dear. 

The  sun  blinks  blythe  on  yon  town. 

And  on  yon  bonnie  braes  of  Ayr ; 

But  my  delight  in  yon  town. 

And  dearest  bliss,  is  Lucy  lair. 

Without  my  love,  not  a’  the  charm? 

O’  Paradise  could  yield  me  joy ; 

’But  gie  me  Lucy  in  my  arms. 

And  welcome  Lapland’s  dreary  sky ! 


My  cave  wad  be  a lover’s  bower, 

Tho’  raging  winter  rent  the  air ; 

And  she  a lovely  little  flower, 

That  I wad  tent  and  shelter  there. 

Oh  sweet  is  she  in  yon  town, 

Yon  sinkin’  sun’s  gane  down  upon ; 

A fairer  than’s  in  yon  town 

His  setting  beam  ne’er  shone  upon. 

If  angry  fate  is  sworn  my  foe. 

And  suffering  I am  doom’d  to  bear ; 

I careless  quit  ought  else  below. 

But  spare  me — spare  me,  Lucy  dear  t 

For  while  life’s  dearest  blood  is  warm, 

Ae  thought  frae  her  shall  ne’er  depart, 

And  she — as  fairest  is  her  form  ! 

She  has  the  truest,  kindest  heart 1 


Sat  laftlg  Irra. 

Tune — The  Winter  of  Life. 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green. 

The  woods  rejoiced  the  day  ; 

Thro’  gentle  showers  the  laughing  flowers, 
In  double  pride  were  gay ; 

But  now  our  joys  are  fled 
On  winter  blasts  awa ! 

Yet  maiden  May,  in  rich  array. 

Again  shall  bring  them  a’. 

But  my  white  pow,  nae  kindly  thowe 
Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  age  ; 

My  trunk  of  eild,  but  buss  or  beild. 

Sinks  in  Time’s  wintry  rage. 

Oh!  age  has  weary  days. 

And  nights  o’  sleepless  pain  ! 

Thou  golden  time  o’  youthfu’  prime. 

Why  comes  thou  not  again  ? 


Cnullt  might  if  lung. 

Tune — Could  ought  of  song. 

Could  ought  of  song  declare  my  pains. 
Could  artful  numbers  move  thee. 

The  muse  should  tell,  in  labour’d  strain^ 
Oh  Mary,  how  I love  thee ! 

They  who  but  feign  a wounded  heart 
May  teach  the  lyre  to  languish ; 

But  what  avails  the  pride  of  art. 

When  wastes  the  soul  with  angu'efa? 

Then  let  the  sudden  bursting  sigh 
The  heart-felt  pang  discover ; 

And  in  the  keen,  yet  tender  eye. 

Oh  read  th’  imploring  lover  1 


222 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  well  I know  thy  gentle  mind 
Disdains  art’s  gay  disguising ; 
Beyond  what  fancy  e’«r  refin’d. 
The  voice  of  nature  prizing. 


<%  iirtr  jjrr  tip. 

Tune — Oh  steer  her  up,  and  baud  her  gaun. 

Oh  steer  her  uj  and  hand  her  gaun — ■ 

Her  mother’s  at  the  mill,  jo ; 

And  gif  she  winna  take  a man, 

E’en  let  her  take  her  will,  jo ; 

First  shore  her  wi’  a kindly  kiss. 

And  ca’  another  gill,  jo. 

And  gif  she  take  the  thing  amiss, 

E’ven  let  her  flyte  her  fill,  jo. 

Oh  steer  her  up,  and  be  na  blate. 

And  gif  she  take  it  ill,  jo, 

Then  lea’e  the  lassie  till  her  fate. 

And  time  nae  langer  spill,  jo  : 

Ne’er  break  your  heart  for  ane  rebate. 

But  think  upon  it  still,  jo ; 

Then  gif  the  lassie  winna  do’t. 

Ye’ll  find  anither  will,  jo. 


St  mss  a*  far  nur  TugljtlV  lEing.  (351) 

Tune — It  was  a’  for  our  rightfu*  king. 

It  was  a’  for  our  rightfu’  king 
We  left  fair  Scotland’s  strand; 

It  was  a’  for  our  rightfu’  king 
We  e’er  saw  Irish  land. 

My  dear ; 

We  e’er  saw  Irish  land. 

New  a’  is  done  that  men  can  do* 

And  a’  is  done  in  vain ; 

\Hy  love  and  native  land  farewell. 

For  I maun  cross  the  main. 

My  dear ; 

For  I maun  cross  the  main. 

He  turned  him  right,  and  round  about 
Upon  the  Irish  shore; 

And  gie  his  bridle-reins  a shake. 

With  adieu  for  evermore. 

My  dear; 

With  adieu  for  evermore. 

The  sodger  from  the  wars  return^ 

The  sailor  frae  the  main  ; 

But  I hae  parted  frae  my  lovfy 
Never  to  meet  again. 

My  dear ; 

Never  to  meet  again. 


When  day  is  gane.  and  night  is  coms^ 
And  a’  folk  bound  to  sleep ; 

I think  on  him  that’s  far  awa*. 

The  lee-lang  night  and  weep. 

My  dear ; 

The  lee-lang  night  and  weep. 


<£>!j  aUIra  is  $jjt  tfrat  furs  m?. 

Tune — Morag. 

Oh  wha  is  she  that  loes  me. 

And  has  my  heart  a-keeping  ? 

Oh  sweet  is  she  that  loes  me, 

As  dews  o’  simmer  weeping. 

In  tears  the  rose-buds  steeping ! 

Oh  that’s  the  lassie  o’  my  heart 
My  lassie  ever  dearer  ; 

Oh  that’s  the  queen  o’  womankind 
And  ne’er  a ane  to  peer  her. 

If  thou  shalt  meet  a lassie 
In  grace  and  beauty  charming. 

That  e’en  thy  chosen  lassie. 

Ere  while  thy  breast  sae  warming. 

Had  ne’er  sic  powers  alarming. 

If  thou  hadst  heard  her  talking. 

And  thy  attentions  plighted. 

That  ilka  body  talking, 

But  her  by  thee  is  slighted. 

And  thou  art  all  delighted. 

If  thou  hast  met  this  fair  one ; 

When  frae  her  thou  hast  parted. 

If  every  other  fair  one. 

But  her,  thou  hast  deserted. 

And  thou  art  broken-hearted  ; 

Oh  that’s  the  lassie  o’  my  heart. 
My  lassie  ever  dearer ; 

Oh  that’s  the  queen  o’  womankind^ 
And  ne’er  a ane  to  peer  her. 


felrtmnta. 

Tune — Caledonian  Hunt’s  Delight . 

There  was  once  a day — but  old  Time  then 
was  young — [line. 

That  brave  Caledonia,  the  chief  of  her 
From  some  of  your  northern  deities  sprung, 
(Who  knows  not  that  brave  Caledonia’s 
divine  ?) 

From  Tweed  to  the  Orcades  was  her  domain. 
To  hunt,  or  to  pasture,  or  do  what  she 
would : 

Her  heav’nly  relations  there  fixed  her 
reign. 

And  pledg’d  her  their  godheads  town* 
rant  it  good. 


GLOOMY  DECEMBER. 


221 


A lambkin  in  peace,  but  a Hon  in  war, 

The  pride  of  her  kindred  the  heroine 
grew : 

Her  grandsire  old  Odin,  triumphantly  swore 
“Whoe’er  shall  provoke  thee,  th’  en- 
counter sha)l  rae  ! ” [sport, 

With  tillage  or  pasture  at  times  she  would 
To  feed  her  fair  docks  by  her  green 
rustling  corn ; [resort. 

Bn t chiefly  the  woods  were  her  fav’rite 
resort,  [the  horn. 

Her  darling  amusement  the  hounds  and 
Long  quiet  she  reign’d;  till  thitherward 
steers 

A flight  of  bold  eagles  from  Adria’s  strand : 
Repeated,  successive,  for  many  long  years, 
They  darken’d  the  air,  and  they  plunder’d 
the  land ; [cry. 

Their  pounces  were  murder,  and  terror  their 
They  conquer’d  and  ruin’d  a world  beside; 
Bhe  took  to  her  hills,  and  her  arrows  let 
fly — [died. 

The  daring  invaders  they  fled  or  they 

The  fell  harpy-raven  took  wing  from  the 
north,  [the  shore ; 

The  scourge  of  the  seas,  and  the  dread  of 
The  wild  Scandinavian  boar  issu’d  forth 
To  wanton  in  carnage,  and  wallow  in 
gore : [prevail’d. 

O’er  countries  and  kingdoms  their  fury 
No  arts  could  appease  them,  no  arms 
could  repel ; 

But  brave  Caledonia  in  vain  they  assailed. 
As  Largs  well  can  witness  and  Loncartie 
tell. 

The  Cameleon-savage  disturb’d  her  repose. 
With  tumult,  disquiet,  rebellion,  and 
strife ; 

Provok’d  beyond  bearing,  at  last  she  arose. 
And  robb’d  him  at  once  of  his  hopes  and 
his  life : 

The  Anglian  lion,  the  terror  of  France, 

Oft  prowling,  ensanguin’d  the  Tweed’s 
silver  flood : 

But,  taught  by  the  bright  Caledonian  lance. 
He  learned  to  fear  in  his  own  native  wood. 

Thus  bold,  independent,  unconquer’d,  and 
free,  [run : 

Her  bright  course  of  glory  for  ever  shall 
For  brave  Caledonia  immortal  must  be ; 

I’ll  prove  it  from  Euclid  as  clear  as  the 
sun : 

Kectangle-triangle  the  figure  we’ll  choose, 
The  upright  is  Chance,  and  old  Time  is 
the  base  ; 

But  brave  Caledonia’s  the  hypothenuse ; 
Then  ergo,  she’ll  match  them,  and  match 
them  always. 


iatj  tjjq  Itnnf  in  fflittj,  lass. 

Tune — Cordwainet’s  March . 

On  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass. 

In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass  ; 

And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass* 

That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 

A slave  to  love’s  unbounded  sway. 

He  aft  has  wrought  me  meikle  waej 
But  now  he  is  my  deadly  fae. 

Unless  thou  be  my  ain. 

There’s  mony  a lass  has  broke  my  rest, 
That  for  a blink  I hae  lo’ed  best ; 

But  thou  art  queen  within  my  breast. 

For  ever  to  remain. 

Oh  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass. 

In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass  : 

And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass, 
That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 


Inna,  iljtj  Cjtaim 

Tune — Bonnie  Mary . 

Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire; 

And  waste  my  soul  with  care ; 
But,  ah ! how  bootless  to  admire. 
When  fated  to  despair ! 

Yet  in  thy  presence,  lovely  fair. 

To  hope  may  be  forgiv’n  ; 

For  sure  ’twere  impious  to  despair. 
So  much  in  sight  of  Heav’n. 


DmntliBr. 

Tune — Wandering  Willie. 

Ance  mair  I hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  Decern 
her ! 

Ance  mair  I hail  thee,  wi’  sorrow  and  care  ; 

Sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  re- 
member, 

Parting  wi’  Nancy,  oh ! ne’er  to  raeet  mair. 

Fond  lovers’  parting  is  sweet  painful  plea- 
sure, [hour ; 

Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  parting 

But  the  dire  feeling,  oh  farewell  for  ever. 

Is  anguish  unmingled  and  agony  pure. 

Wild  as  the  winter  nowteari  ig  the  forest. 
Till  the  last  leaf  o’  the  summer  is  flown. 

Such  is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my  bosom. 
Since  my  last  hope  and  last  comfort  m 
gone. 


2*4 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Still  as  I hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December, 
Still  shall  I hail  thee  wi’  sorrow  and  care ; 
For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  makest  me  re- 
member, 

Failing  wi*  Nancy,  oh ! ne’er  to  meet  mair. 


®!j  ffialhfj  tttrrJf,  Ms.\lfs  srarrt. 

Oh  Hally’s  meek,  Mally’s  sweet, 

Hally’s  modest  and  discreet, 

Hally’s  rare,  Hally’s  fair, 

Hally’s  every  way  complete. 

As  I was  walking  up  the  street, 

A barefit  maid  I chanc’d  to  meet  $ 

But  oh  the  road  was  very  hard 
For  that  fair  maiden’s  tender  feet. 

It  were  mair  meet  that  those  fine  feet 
Were  weel  lac’d  up  in  silken  shoon. 

And  ’twere  more  fit  that  she  should  sit 
Within  yon  chariot  gilt  aboon. 

Her  yellow  hair,  beyond  compare. 

Comes  trinkling  down  her  swan- white  neck; 
And  her  two  eyes,  like  stars  in  skies. 

Would  keep  a sinking  ship  frae  wreck. 


fesillis’  Sanks. 

Now  bank  and  brae  are  claith’d  in  green. 
And  scatter’d  cowslips  sweetly  spring ; 

By  Girvan’s  fairy-haunted  stream 
The  birdies  flit  on  wanton  wing. 

To  Cassillis’  banks  when  e’ening  fa’s. 
There  wi’  my  Hary  let  me  flee. 

There  catch  her  ilka  glance  of  love. 

The  bonnie  blink  o’  Hary’s  ee  l 

The  child  wha  boasts  o’  warld’s  wealth 
Is  aften  laird  o’  meikle  care ; 

But  Hary  she  is  a’  my  ain — 

Ah  ! fortune  cannie  gie  me  mair. 

Then  let  me  range  by  Cassillis’  banks, 
Wi’  her,  the  lassie  dear  to  me. 

And  catch  her  ilka  glance  o’  love. 

The  bonnie  blink  o’  Mary’s  ee  1 


IHq  laiiij’s  ten,  tire's  foirs  npnit’t. 

Tune — Gregg's  Pipes. 

My  Lady’s  gown,  there’s  gairs  upon’t. 
And  gowden  flowers  sae  rare  upon’t; 

But  Jenny’s  jimps  and  jirkinet. 

My  lord  thinks  mickle  mair  upon’t. 


Hy  lord  a-hunting  he  is  gane. 

But  hounds  or  hawks  wi’  him  are  nan«| 
By  Colin’s  cottage  lies  his  game. 

If  Colin’s  Jenny  be  at  harne. 

My  lady’s  white,  my  lady’s  red. 

And  kith  and  kin  o’  Cassillis’  bluid; 

But  her  ten-pund  lands  o’  tocher  guid 
Were  a’  the  charms  his  lordship  loed. 

Out  owre  yon  muir,  out  owre  yon  raosa, 
Whare  gor-cocks  thro’  the  heather  pas9. 
There  wons  auld  Colin’s  bonnie  lass, 

A lily  in  a wilderness. 

Sae  sweetly  move  her  gentle  limbs. 

Like  music  notes  o’  lovers’  hymns  : 

The  diamond  dew  is  her  een  sae  blue. 
Where  laughing  love  sae  wanton  swima^ 

My  lady’s  dink,  my  lady’s  drest. 

The  flower  and  fancy  o’  the  west ; 

But  the  lassie  that  a man  loes  best. 

Oh  that’s  the  lass  to  make  him  blest. 


®! it  /rit  (Mjantpfn.  (352) 

Tune — Killicrankie. 

Oil  wha  will  to  Saint  Stephen’s  house. 

To  do  our  errands  there,  man  ? 

Oh  wha  will  to  Saint  Stephen’s  houses 
O’  th’  merry  lads  of  Ayr,  man  ? 

Or  will  we  send  a man-o’-law  ? 

Or  will  we  send  a sodger  ? 

Or  him  wha  led  o’er  Scotland  a’ 

The  meikle  Ursa-Major  ? 

Come,  will  ye  court  a noble  lord. 

Or  buy  a score  o’  lairds,  man  ? 

For  worth  and  honour  pawn  their  word. 
Their  vote  shall  be  Glencaird’s,  man  ? 

Ane  gies  them  coin,  ane  gies  them  wine, 
Anither  gies  them  clatter  ; 

Anbank,  wha  guess’d  the  ladies’  taste. 

He  gies  a Fete  Champetre. 

When  Love  and  Beauty  heard  the  news, 
The  gay  green-woods  amang,  man  ; 

Where, gathering  flowers  and  busking  bowery 
They  heard  the  blackbird’s  sang,  man : 

A vow,  they  seal’d  it  with  a kiss 
Sir  Politics  to  fetter. 

As  theirs  alone,  the  patent-blisa^ 

To  hold  a Fete  Champetre. 

Then  mounted  Mirth,  on  gleesome  wing, 
Owre  hill  and  dale  she  flew,  man ; 

Ilk  wimpling  burn,  ilk  crystal  spring, 

Ilk  glen  and  shaw  she  knew,  man  s 


LOVELY  POLLY  STEW  ALT. 


225 


She  summon’d  every  social  sprite, 

That  sports  by  wood  or  water, 

On  th’  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr  to  meet. 

And  keep  this  Fete  Champetre. 

Cauld  Boreas,  wi’  his  boisterous  crew. 

Were  bound  to  stakes  like  kye,  man : 

And  Cynthia’s  car,  o’  silver  fu’, 

Clamb  up  the  starry  sky,  man  : 

• Reflected  beams  dwell  in  the  streams. 

Or  down  the  current  shatter ; 

The  western  breeze  steals  through  the  trees 
To  view  this  Fete  Champetre. 

How  many  a robe  sae  gaily  floats ! 

What  sparkling  jewels  glance,  man! 

To  Harmony’s  enchanting  notes, 

As  moves  the  mazy  dance,  man. 

The  echoing"  wood,  the  winding  flood. 

Like  Paradise  did  glitter. 

When  angels  met,  at  Adam’s  yett, 

To  hold  their  Fete  Champetre. 

When  Politics  came  there  to  mix 
And  make  his  ether-stane,  man  : 

He  circled  round  the  magic  ground, 

But  entrance  found  he  nane,  man : (353) 
He  blushed  for  shame,  he  quat  his  name. 
Forswore  it,  every  letter, 

Wi’  humble  prayer  to  join  and  share 
This  festive  Fete  Champetre. 


®1jb  Duntfrira  35nlnnfttrj. 

Tune — Push  about  the  Jorum , 

Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat  ? 
Then  let  the  loons  beware.  Sir; 

there’s  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas^ 
And  volunteers  on  shore.  Sir. 

The  Nith  shall  run  to  Corsieon, 

And  Criffel  sink  in  Solway, 

Ere  we  permit  a foreign  foe 
On  British  ground  to  rally ! 

Fal  de  ral,  &c. 

Oh,  let  us  not  like  snarling  tykei 
In  wrangling  be  divided ; 

Till,  slap,  come  in  an  unco  loon. 

And  wi’  a rung  decide  it. 

Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true. 
Among  ours  els  united  ; 

For  never  but  by  British  hands 
Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted 
Fal  de  ral,  &c. 

The  kettle  o’  the  kirk  and  state, 
Perhaps  a claut  may  fail  in’t : 

But  deil  a foreign  tinkler  loon 
Shall  ever  ca’  a nail  in’t. 

u 


Our  father’s  bluid  the  kettle  bought. 

And  wha  wad  dare  to  spoil  it ; 

By  heaven,  the  sacrilegious  dog 
Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it. 

Fal  de  ral,  &c. 

The  wretch  that  wad  a tyrant  own. 

And  the  wretch  his  true-born  brother. 

Who  would  set  the  mob  aboon  the  throne , 
May  they  be  damned  together  ! 

Who  will  not  sing  “ God  save  the  King.” 
Shall  hang  as  high’s  the  steeple  ; 

But  while  we  sing  “ God  save  the  King,” 
We’ll  ne'er  forget  the  PeoDle. 

Fal  de  ral,  &c. 


mjrf  ftljmt  in  tfjr  folir  Slast.  (35$ 

Tune — Lass  o’  Livistone. 

Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 
On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea. 

My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I’d  shelter  thee,  I’d  shelter  thee : 

Or  did  misfortune’s  bitter  storms 
Around  the  blaw,  around  thee  blaw. 

Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom. 

To  share  it  a’,  to  share  it  a’. 

Or  were  I in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare. 
The  desert  were  a Paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there : 

Or  were  I monarch  o’  the  globe, 

Wi’  thee  to  reign,  wi’  thee  to  reign. 

The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 


Innrlt!  |M!ti  firraart. 

Tune — Ye’re  welcome , Charlie  Stew  ait. 
Oil  lovely  Polly  Stewart ! 

Oh  charming  Polly  Stewart  ! 

There’s  not  a flower  that  blooms  in  May 
That’s  half  so  fair  as  thou  art. 

The  flower  it  blaws,  it  fades  and  fa’s. 

And  art  can  ne’er  renew  it ; 

But  worth  and  truth  eternal  youth 
Will  give  to  Polly  Stewart. 

May  he  whose  arms  shall  fauld  thy  chanaa 
Possess  a leal  and  true  heart ; 

To  him  be  given  to  ken  the  heaven 
He  grasps  in  Polly  Stewart. 

Oh  lovely  Polly  Stewart ! 

Oh  charming  Polly  Stew’art ! 

There’s  ne’er  a flower  that  blooms  in  May 
That’j  half  sd  sweet  as  thou  art. 


226 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


f%ftro  S trail  a ^int  nf  Wm. 

Tune — Banks  of  Banna. 

Yestreen  I had  a pint  o’  wine, 

A place  where  body  saw  na’ ; 

Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  o’  mine 
The  gowden  locks  of  Anna. 

The  hungry  Jew  in  wilderness 
Rejoicing  o’er  his  manna. 

Was  naething  to  my  hinny  bliss 
Upon  the  lips  of  Anna. 

Ye  monarch s tak  the  east  and  west, 
Frae  Indus  to  Savannah ! 

Gie  me  within  my  straining  grasp 
The  melting  form  of  Anna. 

There  I’ll  despise  imperial  charms^ 

An  empress  or  sultana. 

While  dying  raptures  in  her  arms 
I give  and  take  with  Anna ! 

Awa,  thou  flaunting  god  o’  day ! 

Awa,  thou  pale  Diana  ! 

Ilk  star  gae  hide  thy  twinkling  ray. 
When  I’m  to  meet  my  Anna. 

Come,  in  thy  raven  plumage,  night ! 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  withdrawn  a* 

And  bring  an  angel  pen  to  write 
My  transports  wi’  my  Anna ! 


(flu  In  fvig. 

Tune — The  Lea  rig. 

When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star 
Tells  bughtin  time  is  near,  my  jo ; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrow’d  field. 
Return  sae  dowf  and  weary  O ; 
Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks 
Wi’  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo, 

I’ll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 

I’d  rove,  and  ne’er  be  eerie  O, 

If  thro’  that  glen  I gaed  to  thee. 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

Altho’  the  night  were  ne’er  sae  wild. 
And  I were  ne’er  sae  wearie  O, 

I’d  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

The  hunter  loes  the  morning  sun. 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo  t 
At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen. 
Along  the  burn  to  steer,  my  jo ; 

Gie  me  the  hour  o’  gloamin  grey. 

It  maks  my  heart  sae  cheery  Q, 

To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 


ffinnni*  Trslrtj.  (355) 

Tune — The  Collier's  Bonnie  Lastfe 

Oh  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley, 

As  she  gaed  owre  the  border  ? 

She’s  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her. 

And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 

For  nature  made  her  what  she  is, 

And  never  made  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a queen,  fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  theej 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 

The  hearts  o’  men  adore  thee. 

The  deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee. 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  the«; 

He’d  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 

And  say  “I  canna  wrang  thee.** 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 
Misfortune  sha’  na  steer  thee ; 

Thou’rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely. 

That  ill  they’ll  ne’er  let  near  the& 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie ! 

That  we  may  brag,  we  hae  a lass 
There’s  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 


t#ill  ip  §a  in  tljr  SnMis,  lmj  JHarij.  (35$ 

Tune — The  Ewe-huchts. 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

And  leave  auld  Scotia’s  shore  ? 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

Across  the  Atlantic’s  roar  ? 

Oh  sweet  grow  the  lime  and  the  orange 
And  the  apple*on  the  pine  ; 

But  a’  the  charms  o’  the  Indies 
Can  never  equal  thine. 

I hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  my  Mary, 

I hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  be  tru®  ; 

And  sae  may  the  Heavens  forget  me. 

When  I forget  my  vow  ! 

Oh  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 

And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand; 

Oh  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 

Before  I leave  Scotia’s  strand. 

We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join  ; 

And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  tail 
The  hour  and  the  moment  o’  time  l 


DUNCAN  GRAY. 


221 


23ij  Gift's  a SBimratm  ©to  j£l;ing. 

Sh  e is  a winsome  wee  thing. 

She  is  a handsome  wee  thing. 

She  is  a bonnie  wee  thing. 

This  sweet  wee  wife  o’  mina, 

I never  saw  a fairer, 

I never  loe’d  a dearer ; 

And  neist  my  heart  I’ll  wear  he* 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

On  leeze  me  on  my  wee  thing. 

My  bonnie  blythesome  wee  thing; 

Sae  lang’s  I hae  my  wee  thing. 

I’ll  think  my  lot  divine. 

Tho’  warld’s  care  we  shave  o'fc. 

And  may  see  meikle  mair  o’t ; 

Wi’  her  I’ll  blythely  bear  it. 

And  ne’er  a word  repine. 


Sigljlanir  fflarg.  (357) 

Tune — Katharine  Ogie. 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 
The  castle  o’  Montgomery, 

Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers. 
Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 

There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes. 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 

For  there  I took  the  last  fareweel 
O’  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk. 
How  rich  the  hawthorn’s  blossom. 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade, 

I clasp’d  her  to  my  bosom ! 

The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings. 

Flew  o’er  me  and  my  dearie ; 

For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life, 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

W i’  mony  a vow,  and  lock’d  embrace. 

Our  parting  was  fu’  tender ; 

And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again. 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 

But  oh  ! fell  death’s  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 

Now  green’s  the  sod,  and  cauld’s  the  clay. 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

Oh  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I aft  hae  kiss’d  sae  fondly  ! 

And  clos’d  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 
That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ; 

And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 
That  heart  that  loe’d  me  dearly ! 

But  still  within  my  bosom’s  core 
Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


Mir  Snli  ffiartis. 

There’s  auld  Rob  Morris  that  won&  in  yon 
glen,  [men ; 

He’s  the  king  o’  guid  fellows  and  wale  o’  auld 
He  has  goud  in  his  coffers,  he  has  owsen  and 
kine. 

And  ane  bonnie  lassie,  his  darling  and  mine. 

She’s  fresh  as  the  morning,  the  fairest  in  May* 
She’s  sweet  as  the  ev’ning  amang  the  new 
hay : [lea. 

As  blythe  and  as  artless  as  the  lambs  on  the 
And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  ee. 

But,  oh ! she’3  an  heiress,  auld  Robin’s  a 
laird,  [and  yard ; 

And  my  daddie  has  naught  but  a oot-house 
A wooer  like  me  maunna  hope  to  come  speed, 
1 he  wounds  I must  hide  that  will  soon  be 
my  dead. 

The  day  comes  to  me,  but  delight  brings  me 
nane;  [gane: 

The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  is 
I wander  my  lane  like  a night-troubled 
ghaist,  [breast. 

And  I sigh  as  my  heart  it  wad  burst  in  my 

Oh  had  she  but  been  of  a lower  degree, 

I then  might  hae  hop’d  she  wad  smil’d  upon 
me ! [bliss, 

Oh,  how  past  describing  had  then  been  my 
As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  expressl 


Dtumm  fratj. 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo^ 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

On  blythe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fti*, 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 

Maggie  coost  her  head  fu’  high. 

Look’d  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 

Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh ; 

Ha,  ha,  the.  wooing  o’t. 

Duncan  fleech’d,  and  Duncan  pray’d; 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Duncan  sigh’d  baith  out  and  in, 

Grat  his  een  baith  bleert  and  blin*9 
Spake  o’  lowpin’  owre  a linn ; 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a tide, 

Ha,  1m,  &c. 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide,  . 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

21 


228 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Shall  I,  like  a fool,  quoth  he. 

For  a haughty  hizzie  die? 

She  may  gae  to — France  for  me  1 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Meg  grew  sick — as  he  grew  heal, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings. 

For  relief  a sigh  she  brings  ; 

And  oh,  her  een,  they  speak  sic  things 
Ha,  ha,  &e. 

Duncan  was  a lad  o’  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Maggie’s  was  a piteous  case, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death. 

Swelling  pity  smoor’d  his  wrath  •, 

Now  they’re  crouse  and  canty  baith; 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 


^5nnrfit|[  Caull 

Tune — I had  a Horse. 

Oh  poortith  cauld,  and  restless  love^ 
Ye  wreck  my  peace  between  ye ; 

Yet  poortith  a’  I could  forgive, 

An  ’twere  na  for  my  Jeanie. 

Oh  why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  havs, 
Life’s  dearest  bands  untwining  ? 

Or  why  sae  sweet  a llower  as  love, 
Depend  on  Fortune’s  shining? 

This  warld’s  wealth  when  I think  or, 
Its  pride,  and  a’  the  lave  o’t ; 

Fie,  fie  on  silly  coward  man. 

That  he  should  be  the  slave  o*fc. 

Oh  why,  &c. 

Etr  een  sae  bonnie  blue  betray 
How  she  repays  my  passion ; 

But  prudence  is  her  o’erword  aye. 

She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion. 

Oh  why,  &c. 

Oh  wha  can  prudence  think  upon. 
And  sic  a lassie  by  him  ? 

Oh  wha  can  prudence  think  upon. 
And  sae  in  love  as  I am  ? 

Oh  why,  &c. 

How  blest  the  humble  cotter’s  fate ! 
He  wooes  his  simple  dearie ; 

The  silly  bogles,  wealth  and  states 
Can  never  make  ihern  eerie. 

Oh  why,  &c. 


$ak  mrtrr.  (358) 

There’s  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes. 
That  wander  thro’  the  blooming  heather 

But  Yarrow  braes,  nor  Ettrick  shaws. 

Can  match  the  lads  o’  Gala  Water. 

But  there  is  ane,  a secret  ane, 

Aboon  them  a’  I loe  him  better; 

And  I’ll  be  his  and  he’ll  be  mine, 

The  bonnie  lad  o’  Gala  Water. 

Altho’  his  daddie  was  nae  laird. 

And  tho’  I hae  na  meikle  tocher ; 

Yet  rich  in  kindness,  truest  love, 

Wre’ll  tent  our  flocks  by  Gala  Water. 

It  ne’er  was  wealth,  it  ne’er  was  wealth. 

That  coft  contentment,  peace,  or  pleasure ; 

The  bands  and  bliss  o’  mutual  love. 

Oh,  that’s  the  chiefest  warld’s  treasure  \ 


fnrli  fognrt}. 

Oh  mirk,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour. 

And  loud  the  tempests  roar  ; 

A waefu’  wanderer  seeks  thy  tower. 

Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door. 

An  exile  frae  her  father’s  ha’. 

And  a’  for  loving  thee ; 

At  least  some  pity  on  me  shaw. 

If  love  it  may  na  be. 

Lord  Gregory,  mind’st  thou  not  the  grove 
By  bonnie  Irwine  side. 

Where  first  I own’d  that  virgin-love 
I lang,  lang  had  denied  ? 

How  aften  didst  thou  pledge  and  vow 
Thou  wad  for  aye  be  mine ; 

And  my  fond  heart,  itsel  sae  true. 

It  ne’er  mistrusted  thine. 

Hard  is  thy  heart,  Lord  Gregory, 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast : 

Thou  dart  of  heaven  that  flashest  by. 

Oh  wilt  thou  give  me  rest ! 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above 
Your  willing  victim  see ; 

But  spare  and  pardon  my  fause  love, 

His  wrangs  to  Heaven  and  me  1 


JHanj  3Hnrimit.  (359> 

Tune — Bide  ye  yet . 

Oh  Mary,  at  thy  window  be 

It  is  the  wish’d,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glanses  let  me  see. 
That  make  the  miser’s  treasure  pooff  3 


T1IE  SOLDIER’S  RETURN. 


223 


How  blytbely  wad  I bide  the  stoure, 

A weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun. 

Could  I the  rich  reward  secure. 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string. 
The  dance  gaed  thro’  the  lighted  ha’, 

Jo  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw. 

Tho’  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw. 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a’  the  town, 

I sigh’d,  and  said  amang  them  a’ 

“ Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.” 

Oh  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 
Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 
Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  11a  gie. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown; 

A thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o’  Mary  Morison. 


tta&rattg  RKIIif. 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie^ 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  haud  awa  hame 

Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ain  only  dearie. 

Tell  me  thou  bring’st  me  my  Willie  the  same. 

Winter-winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our 
parting. 

Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my  ee; 

Welcome  now  simmer  and  welcome  my 
Willie, 

The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  cave  of  your 
slumbers, 

IIow  your  dread  howling  a lover  alarms ! 

Wauken,  ye  breezes!  row  gently,  ye  billows  ! 

And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my 
arms ! 

But  oh,  if  he’s  faithless,  and  minds  na  his 
Nannie, 

Flow  still  between  us  thou  wide-roaring  main! 

May  I never  see  it,  may  I never  trow  it. 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie’s  my  ain ! 


Clje  #0lter'0  Ithtrit.  (3G0) 

Air — The  mill , mill  O. 

When  wild  war’s  deadly  blast  was  blawn. 
And  gentle  peace  returning, 

Wi’  mony  a sweet  baber  fatherless. 

And  mony  a widow  mourning ; 


I left  the  lines  and  tented  field. 

Where  lang  I’d  been  a lodger. 

My  humble  knapsack  a’  my  wealth, 

A poor  but  honest  sodger. 

A leal,  light  heart  was  in  my  breast 
My  hand  unstain’d  wi’  plunder  : 

And  for  fair  Scotia,  hame  again, 

I cheery  on  did  wander. 

I thought  upon  the  banks  o’  Coil, 

I thought  upon  my  Nancy  ; 

I thought  upon  the  witching  smile 
That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 

At  length  I reach’d  the  bonnie  glen 
Where  early  life  I sported  ; 

1 pass’d  the  mill,  and  trysting  thorn, 
Where  Nancy  aft  I courted: 

Wha  spied  I but  my  ain  dear  maid 
Down  by  her  mother’s  dwelling ! 

And  turn’d  me  round  to  hide  the  flood 
That  in  my  een  was  swelling. 

Wi’  alter’d  voice,  quoth  I,  “ Sweet  lass. 
Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn’s  blossom. 

Oh ! happy,  happy  may  he  be. 

That’s  dearest  to  thy  bosom  ! 

My  purse  is  light,  I’ve  far  to  gang. 

And  fain  would  be  thy  lodger  ; 

I’ve  served  my  king  and  country  lang^ 
Take  pity  on  a sodger !” 

Sae  wistfully  she  gaz’d  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever ; 

Quo’  she,  " A sodger  ance  I loe’d. 

Forget  him  shall  I never : 

Our  humble  cot  and  hamely  fare 
Ye  freely  shall  partake  o’t ; 

That  gallant  badge,  the  dear  cockade. 
Ye’re  welcome  for  the  sake  o’t 

She  gaz’d — she  redden’d  like  a rose — 
Syne  pale  like  ony  lily ; 

She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried, 

“ Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  ?”  < 

“ By  Him  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky. 

By  whom  true  love’s  regarded, 

I am  the  man ; and  thus  may  still 
True  lovers  be  rewarded. 

The  wars  are  o’er,  and  I’m  come  liame. 
And  find  thee  still  true-hearted  ! 

Tho’  poor  in  gear,  we’re  rich  in  love. 

And  mair  we’re  ne’er  be  parted.” 

Quo’  she,  “My  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A mailen  plenish’d  fairly ; 

And  come,  my  faithfu’  sodger  lad, 

Thou’rt  welcome  to  it  dearly.” 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  mai% 
The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor; 

But  glory  is  the  sodger ’s  prize. 

The  sodger’s  wealth  is  honour. 


230 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  brave  poor  sodger  ne'er  despise. 
Nor  count  him  as  a stranger  : 
Remember  lie’s  his  co  intry’s  stay 
In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


SSltli&i  fiat  % too  Hit  pit  MU, 

Tune — Liggeram  Cosh. 
Blytiie  hae  I been  on  yon  hill. 

As  the  lambs  before  me ; 

Careless  ilka  thought  and  free. 

As  the  breeze  flew  o’er  me  : 

Now  nae  longer  sport  and  play, 
Alirth  or  sang  ean  please  me  % 
Lesley  is  sae  fair  and  coy, 

Care  and  anguish  seize  ret, 

Heavy,  heavy  is  the  task, 

Hopeless  love  declaring : 
Trembling,  I dow  nocht  but  glow'f^ 
Sighing,  dumb,  despairing  l 
If  she  winna  ease  the  thrawa 
In  my  bosom  swelling. 

Underneath  the  grass-green  sod. 

Soon  maun  be  my  dwelling. 


fngttt  faints.  (36i) 

Tune — Logan  Water. 

Oh  Logan.,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide 
That  day  I was  my  Willie’s  bride  ; 

And  years  sinsyne  hae  o’er  us  run. 

Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 

But  now  thy  flow’ry  banks  appear 
Like  drumlie  winter,  dark  and  drear. 

While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faea^ 

Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

Again  the  merry  month  o’  May 
Has  made  our  hills  and  rallies  gay ; 

The  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers. 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flowers; 
Blythe  morning  lifts  his  rosy  eye. 

And  evening’s  tears  are  tears  of  joy : 

My  soul,  delightless,  a’  surveys, 

While  Willie’s  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

Within  yon  milk-white  hawthorn  bush, 
Amang  her  nestlings  sits  the  thrush ; 

Her  faithfu’  mate  will  share  her  toil. 

Or  wi’  his  songs  her  cares  beguile : 

But  I wi’  my  sweet  nurslings  here, 

Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  cheer. 

Pass  widow’d  nights  and  joyless  days. 
While  Willie’s  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

Oh,  wae  upon  you,  men  o’  state, 

That  brethren  rouse  to  deadly  hat©! 

As  ye  make  many  a fond  heart  mourn, 

Utae  may  it  on  your  head*  return  ! 


How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy 
The  widow’s  tear,  the  orphan’s  cry  f 
But  soon  may  peace  bring  happy  day% 
And  Willie  hame  to  Logan  braes  ). 


4>Jr,  gin  mg  Imre  min  gmt  M Hose!  (ssaj 

Air — Hughie  Graham. 

Oh,  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose 
That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa'; 

And  I mysel  a drap  o’  dew. 

Into  her  bonnie  breast  to  fa’ ! 

Oh  there,  beyond  expression  blest. 

I’d  feast  on  beauty  a’  the  night ! 

Seal’d  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest, 

Till  fley’d  awa  by  Phoebus’  light. 

Oh,  were  my  love  yon  lilach  fair, 

Wi’  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring. 

And  I,  a bird  to  shelter  there. 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing— 

How  I wad  mourn,  when  it  was  tom 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude ! 

But  I wad  sing  on  wanton  wing. 

When  youthfu’  May  its  bloom  renew’d. 


Snttnit  Sian.  (363) 

There  was  a lass,  and  she  was  fair. 

At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen ; 

When  a’  the  fairest  maids  were  met. 

The  fairest  maid  was  bonnie  Jean. 

And  aye  she  wrought  her  mammie’s  war^. 
And  aye  ehe  sang  sae  merrilie : 

The  blythest  bird  upon  the  bush 
Had  ne’er  a lighter  heart  than  she. 

But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 
That  bless  the  little  lintwhite’s  nest ; 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flowers ; 
And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest 

Young  Robie  was  the  brawest  lad. 

The  flower  and  pride  of  a’  the  glen ; 

And  he  had  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye. 

And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ten. 

He  gaed  wi*  Jeanie  to  the  tryste. 

He  danc’d  wi  Jeanie  on  the  down; 

And  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist. 

Her  heart  was  tint,  her  peace  wras  stow* 

As  in  the  bosom  o’  the  stream 

The  moonbeam  dwells  at  dewy  e’eu  % 

So  trembling,  pure,  was  tender  love 
Within  the  breast  o’  bonnie  Jean, 


231 


ADOWN  WINDING  NITH  I DID  WANDEH. 


And  now  she  woiks  her  mammie’s  wark. 
And  aye  she  sighs  wi’  care  and  pain ; 

Yet  wist  na  what  her  ail  might  be. 

Or  what  wad  mak  her  weel  again. 

But  did  na  Jeanie’s  heart  loup  light* 
And  did  11a  joy  blink  in  her  ee. 

As  Robie  tauld  a tale  o’  love 
Ae  e’emn  on  the  lily  lea  ? 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west. 

The  birds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove,’ 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  fondly  prest. 

And  whisper’d  thus  his  tale  0’  love : 

" Oh  Jeanie  fair,  I loe  thee  dear ; 

Oh,  canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me ; 

Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie’s  cot. 
And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi’  me  ? 

At  barn  or  byre  thou  shalt  na  drudge. 
Or  naething  else  to  trouble  thee ; 

But  stray  amang  the  heather-bells, 

And  tent  the  waving  corn  wi’  me* 

Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do? 

She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  na ; 

At  length  she  blush’d  a sweet  consent. 
And  love  was  aye  between  them  twa. 


ffltg  n’  flic  mill. 

Air — Oh  Bonnie  Lass  will  you  lie  in  a Barrack  ? 

Oh  ken  ye  wha  Meg  o’  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 
And  ken  ye  what  Meg  o’  the  Mill  has 
gotten  ? 

She  has  gotten  a coof  wi’  a claut  o’  siller. 
And  broken  the  heart  o’  the  barley  Miller. 

The  Miller  was  3trappin’,  the  Miller  was 
ruddy ; 

A heart  like  a lord,  and  a hue  like  a lady : 
The  Laird  was  a widdiefu’,  bleerit  knurl ; — 
She’s  left  the  guidfellow  and  taen  the  churl. 

The  Miller  he  hecht  her  a heart  leal  and 
loving;  [moving, 

The  Laird  did  address  her  wi’  matter  more 
A fine  pacing  horse  wi’  a clear  chained  bridle, 
A whip  by  her  side,  and  a bonnie  side-saddle. 

Oh  wae  on  the  siller,  it  is  sae  prevailing  ! 
And  wae  on  the  love  that  is  fixed  on  a mailen ! 
A tocher’s  nae  word  in  a true  lover’s  parle, 
But  gie  me  my  love,  and  a fig  for  the  warl ! 


<&prn  itiB  Innr  in  Mb,  n!r! 

*0h!  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show. 

Oh  ! open  the  door  to  me,  oh  ! [true, 
|W  thou  hast  been  false.  I’ll  ever  prove 
Oh  1 open  the  door  to  me,  oh  l 


Cauld  is  the  blast  upon  my  pale  cheek. 

But  caulder  thy  love  for  me,  oh ; 

The  frost  that  freezes  the  life  at  my  heart. 

Is  nought  to  my  pains  frae  thee,  oh ! 

The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the  white 
wave. 

And  time  is  setting  with  me,  oh ! 

False  friends,  false  love,  farewell ! for  maif 
I’ll  ne’er  trouble  them,  nor  thee,  0I1 l” 

She  has  open’d  the  door,  she  has  open’d  it 
wide ; 

She  sees  his  pale  corse  on  the  plain,  oh ! 

"My  true  love  !”  she  cried,  and  sank  dowa 
by  his  side. 

Never  to  rise  again,  oh ! 


^nnng 

Tune — Bonnie  Dundee. 

True  hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  0*  the 
Yarrow,  [the  Ayr, 

And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banks  o' 
But  by  the  sweet  side  0’  the  Nith’s  winding 
river, 

Are  lovers  as  faithful,  and  maidens  as  fair : 
To  equal  young  Jessie  seek  Scotland  all  over  ; 

To  equal  young  Jessie  you  seek  it  in  vain  s 
Grace,  beauty,  and  elegance  fetter  her  lover, 

And  maidenly  modesty  fixes  the  chain. 

Oh,  fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay  dewy 
morning. 

And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  close ; 
But  in  the  fair  presence  o’  lovely  young 
Jessie 

Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose. 
Love  sits  in  her  smile,  a wizard  ensnaring : 

Enthron’d  in  her  eeu  he  delivers  his  law; 
And  still  to  her  charms  she  * alone  is  • 
stranger — 

Her  modest  demeanour’3  the  jewel  of  a*! 


SUlnnm  minting  fiitjj  % iri!r  3#aniiBi:. 

Tune — The  Mucking  0’  Geor die's  Byre , 

Ad  own  winding  Nith  I did  wander, 

To  mark  the  sweet  flowers  as  they  spring 
Adown  winding  Nith  I did  wander. 

Of  Phillis  to  muse  and  to  sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa  wi’  your  belles  and  your  beauties 
They  never  wi’  her  can  compare ; 
Wliaever  has  met  wi’  my  Phillis, 

Has  met  wi’  the  queen  0’  the  fail 


232 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  daisy  amus’d  my  fond  fancy. 

So  artless,  so  simple,  so  wild ; 

Tliou  emblem,  said  I,  o’  my  Phillis, 

For  she  is  simplicity’s  child. 

The  rose-bud’s  the  blush  o’  my  charmer, 

Her  sweet  balmy  lip  when  ’tis  prest : 

How  fair  and  how  pure  is  the  lily. 

But  fairer  and  purer  her  breast. 

Yon  knot  of  gay  flowers  in  the  arbour. 

They  ne’er  wi’  my  Phillis  can  vie  : 

Her  breath  is  the  breath  o’  the  woodbine. 
It's  dew-drop  o’  diamond  her  eye. 

Her  voice  is  the  song  of  the  morning, 

That  wakes  thro’ the  green-spreading  grove, 

When  Phoebus  peeps  over  the  mountains. 

On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love. 

But,  beauty,  how  frail  and  how  fleeting — 
The  bloom  of  a fine  summer’s  day ! 

While  worth  in  the  mind  o’  my  Phillis 
Will  flourish  without  a decay. 


lail  % a fan*.  (364) 

Tune — Robin  Adair. 

Hau  I a cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore. 
Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves’  dashing 
roar; 

There  would  I weep  my  woes. 

There  seek  my  lost  repose, 

Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close. 

Ne’er  to  wake  more ! 

Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare. 
All  thy  fond-plighted  vows — fleeting  as  air ! 
To  thy  new  lover  hie. 

Laugh  o’er  thy  perjury; 

Then  in  thy  bosom  try 
What  peace  is  there* 


|5!iillis  ijjE  /air.  (365) 

Tune — Robin  Adair. 

While  larks  with  the  wing, 
Fann’d  the  pure  air. 

Tasting  the  breathing  spring. 
Forth  1 did  fare ; 

Gay  the  sun’s  golden  eye. 

Peep’d  o’er  the  mountains  high ; 
Such  thy  morn ! did  1 cry, 

Phillis  the  fair. 


In  each  bird’s  careless  song. 
Glad  did  I share ; 

While  yon  wild  flowers  among. 
Chance  led  me  there ; 

Sweet  to  the  opening  day. 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray; 
Such  thy  bloom ! did  I say, 
Phillis  the  fair. 

Down  in  a shady  walk. 

Doves  cooing  were; 

I mark’d  the  cruel  hawk 
Caught  in  a snare ; 

So  kind  may  fortune  be, 

Such  make  his  destiny. 

He  who  would  injure  the©, 
Phillis  the  fair. 


$tj  Man  Item  % rjjanr’it  la  ®m». 

Tune — Allan  Water. 

By  Allan  stream  I chanc’d  to  rove. 

While  Phoebus  sank  beyond  Benleddi;  (366) 

The  winds  were  whispering  thro’  the  grove. 
The  yellow  corn  was  waving  ready : 

I listen’d  to  a lover’s  sang, 

And  thought  on  youtnfu’  pleasures  mony; 

And  aye  the  wild- wood  echoes  rang — • 

Oh,  dearly  do  I love  thee,  Annie  l 

Oh,  happy  be  the  woodbine  bower, 

Nae  nightly  bogle  make  it  eerie; 

Nor  ever  sorrow  stain  the  hour. 

The  place  and  time  I met  my  dearie ! 

Her  head  upon  my  throbbing  breast, 

She7 sinking,  said,  “Pm  thine  for  ever!" 

While  mony  a kiss  the  seal  imprest. 

The  sacred  vow,  we  ne’er  should  sever. 

The  haunt  o*  spring’s  the  primrose  brae. 

The  simmer  joys  the  flocks  to  follow; 

How  cheery  thro’  her  shortening  day. 

Is  autumn  in  her  weeds  o’  yellow ! 

But  can  they  melt  the  glowing  heart. 

Or  chain  the  soul  in  speechless  pleasure  ? 

Or  thro’  each  nerve  the  rapture  dart, 

Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom’s  treasure  ? 


(ffnras  lit  ike  taltE  fjirE  in  tnq  &rasi. 

Air — Cauld  Kail. 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast, 
And  pledge  we  ne’er  shall  sunder; 

And  I shall  spurn  as  vilest  dust 
The  warld  s wealth  and  grandeur; 

And  do  I hear  my  Jeanie  own 
That  equal  transports  move  herf 
I ask  for  dearest  life  alone 
That  I may  live  to  love  her. 


BEHOLD  THE  HOUR. 


233 


Unis  in  tny  aims,  wi’  all  thy  charms, 

I clasp  my  countless  treasure  ; 

I’ll  seek  nae  mair  o’  heaven  to  share. 
Than  sic  a moment’s  pleasure : 
And  by  thy  een  sae  bonnie  blue, 

I swear  I’m  thine  for  ever ! 

And  on  thy  lips  I seal  my  vow. 

And  break  it  shall  1 never ! 


©Jlristl*  anil  S’ll  Cntnr  in  tpnt,  mtj  Tail. 

Tune — JVhistle  and  Til  come  to  you my  lad. 

Oh  whistle  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

Oh  whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  iad ; 
Tho’  father  and  mither  and  a’  should  gae  mad. 
Oh  whistle  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

But  warily  tent,  when  ye  come  to  court  me. 
And  come  na  unless  the  back-yett  be  a-jee ; 
Syne  up  the  back-stile,  and  let  naebody  see. 
And  come  as  ye  were  11a  cornin’  to  me. 

And  come,  &c. 

At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene’er  ye  meet  me. 
Gang  by  me  as  tho’  that  ye  car’d  nae  a flie ; 
But  steal  me  a blink  o’  your  bonnie  black  ee. 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin’  at  me. 

Yet  look,  &c. 

Aye  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  for  me, 
And  whiles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a wee ; 
But  court  nae  anither,  tlio’  jokin’  ye  be, 

For  fear  that  she  wile  your  fancy  frae  me. 

. For  fear,  &c. 


JDaintij  Dant*.  (367) 

Tune — Dainty  Davie. 

Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi’  flowers. 

To  deck  her  gay,  green  spreading  bowers ; 
And  now  come  in  my  happy  hours. 

To  wander  wi’  my  Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe. 

Dainty  Davie,  dainty  Davie ; 

There  I’ll  spend  the  day  wi’  you, 

My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 

The  crystal  waters  round  us  fa’. 

The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a’. 

The  scented  breezes  round  us  blaw. 

A- wandering  wi’  my  Davie. 

When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare^ 

To  steal  upon  her  early  fare. 

Then  thro’  the  dews  I will  repair. 

To  meet  my  faithfu’  Davie. 


When  day,  expiring  in  the  west, 
The  curtain  draws  o’  nature’s  rest, 
I flee  to  his  arms  I loe  best, 

And  that’s  my  ain  dear  Davie. 


tart's  Stoss.  (338) 

Tune— Hey  Tut  tie  Taittie. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 

Or  to  victorie ! 

Now’s  the  day,  and  now’s  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o’  battle  lour ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  powefr-* 
Chains  and  slavery ! 

Wha  will  be  a traitor  knave? 

Wha  can  fill  a coward’s  grave  ? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  king  and  law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw; 
Freeman  stand,  or  Freeman  fa’. 

Let  him  follow  me  ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains  1 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  1 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 

Liberty’s  in  every  blow  !— 

Let  us  do,  or  die ! 


Sarjjnllr  ijp  Mm.  (869/ 

Tune — Oran  Gaoil. 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive ; 

Thou  goest,  thou  darliug  of  my  heart! 
Sever’d  from  thee,  can  I survive  ? 

But  fate  has  will’d,  and  we  must  part. 
I’ll  often  greet  this  surging  swell. 

Yon  distant  isle  will  often  hail : 

“E’en  here  I took  the  last  farewell; 

There  latest  mark’d  her  vanish’d  sail.** 

Along  the  solitary  shore. 

While  flitting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry. 
Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar. 

I’ll  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye ; 
Happy  thou  Indian  grove.  I’ll  say. 

Where  now  my  Nancy’s  path  may  be ! 
While  thro’  thy  sweets  she  loves  to  stray* 
Oh,  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me! 


234 


BUENS’S  POETICAL  WOEKS. 


Snlft  fang  Ign^ 

Shout  D auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  never  brought  to  mind  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  days  o’  lang  syne  ? 

CHORUS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We’ll  tak  a cup  o’  kindness  yet. 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu’d  the  go  wans  fine ; 

But  we’ve  wandered  mony  a weary  foot, 
Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl’t  i*  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin’  sun  till  dine ; 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar’d. 
Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

And  here’s  a hand,  my  trusty  fiere. 

And  gie’s  a hand  o’  thine  ; 

And  we’ll  tak  a right  guid  willie-waught. 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye’ll  be  your  pint  stoup. 

And  surely  I’ll  be  mine  ; 

And  weTl  tak  a cup  o’  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 


aUfirrc  are  i!jt  Saijs?  - 

Tune — Saw  ye  my  father? 

Where  are  the  joys  I have  met  in  the 
morning. 

That  danc’d  to  the  lark’s  early  song  ? 
Where  is  the  peace  that  awaited  my  wand’ring. 
At  evening  the  wild  woods  among  ? 

No  more  a-winding  the  course  of  yon  river. 
And  marking  sweet  flow’rets  so  fair  : 

No  more  I trace  the  light  footsteps  of 
pleasure. 

But  sorrow  and  sad  sighing  care. 

Is  it  that  summer’s  forsaken  our  vallies. 

And  grim  surly  winter  is  near  ? 

No,  no ! the  bees  humming  round  the  gay 
roses. 

Proclaim  it  the  pride  of  the  year. 

Fain  would  I hide  what  I fear  to  discover. 
Yet  long,  long  too  well  have  I known. 

All  that  has  caused  this  wreck  in  my  bosom. 
Is  Jenny,  fair  Jenny  alone. 

Time  cannot  aid  me,  my  griefs  are  immortal. 
Nor  hope  dare  a comfort  bestow  : — ■ 

Come  then,  enamour’d  and  fond  of  my 
anguish. 

Enjoyment  I’ll  seek  in  my  woe. 


f jinn  Ijast  Xrft  me  drntr. 

Tune — Fee  him,  Father. 

Tiiou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  thou  hast  left 
me  ever,  [me  ever  ; 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  thou  hast  left 

Aften  hast  thou  vow’d  that  death  only  should 
us  sever. 

Now  thou’st  left  thy  lass  for  aye — I maun 
see  thee  never,  Jamie, 

I’ll  see  thee  never. 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie,  thou  hast  me 
forsaken,  [forsaken; 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie,  thou  hast  me 

Thou  canst  love  anither  jo,  while  my  heart  ia 
breaking : 

Soon,  my  weary  een  I’ll  close — never  mail 
to  waken,  Jamie, 

Ne’er  mair  to  waken. 


Drlnirrtt  Iraain,  lire  'plrasnr*. 

Tune — The  Collier's  Bonnie  Lassie . 

Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure 
The  fickle  Fair  can  give  thee. 

Is  but  a fairy  treasure — • 

Thy  hopes  will  soon  deceive  thee. 

The  billows  on  the  ocean. 

The  breezes  idly  roaming. 

The  clouds’  uncertain  motion. 

They  are  but  types  of  woman. 

Oh  ! art  thou  not  ashamed 
To  doat  upon  a feature  ? 

If  man  thou  would’st  be  namec^ 

Despise  the  silly  creature. 

Go,  find  an  honest  fellow  ! 

Good  claret  set  before  the*  i 

Hold  on  till  thou  art  mellow. 

And  then  to  bed  in  glory. 


f jjinr  % am,  tmj  /aiijjful  /air. 

Tune — Liggeram  Cosh  [the  Quaker's  wife 3 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair. 

Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy ; 

Ev’ry  pulse  along  my  veins, 

Ev’ry  roving  fancy. 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart. 

There  to  throb  and  languish: 

Tho’  despair  had  wrung  its  core. 

That  would  heal  its  anguish. 


OX  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 


235 


Take  away  these  rosy  lips. 

Rich  with  balmy  treasure  : 
Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love. 
Lest  I die  with  pleasure. 

What  is  life  when  wanting  love? 

Night  without  a morning  : 
Jjeve’s  the  cloudless  summer  sun. 
Nature  gay  adorning. 


3Hi(  f prar,  fennt. 

Tune — My  Jo  Janet. 

* Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife. 
Nor  longer  idly  rave,  sir; 

Tho’  I am  your  wedded  wife. 

Yet  I am  not  your  slave,  sir.” 

" One  of  two  must  still  obey, 

Nancy,  Nancy ; 

Is  it  man,  or  woman,  say, 

My  spouse,  Nancy  ?” 

u If  ’tis  still  the  lordly  word. 

Service  and  obedience  ; 

I’ll  desert  my  sov’reign  lord, 

And  so  good-bye  allegiance  1* 

a Sad  will  I be,  so  bereft, 

Nancy,  Nancy, 

Yet  I’ll  try  to  make  a shift. 

My  spouse,  Nancy.” 

u My  poor  heart  then  break  it  must, 

My  last  hour  I’m  near  it : 

When  you  lay  me  in  the  dust. 

Think,  think  how  you  will  bear  it.” 

“I  will  hope  and  trust  in  heaven, 
Nancy,  Nancy, 

Strength  to  bear  it  will  be  given. 

My  spouse,  Nancy.” 

**  Well,  sir,  from  the  silent  dead. 

Still  I’ll  try  to  daunt  you  ; 

Ever  round  your  midnight  bed 
Horrid  sprites  shall  haunt  you.* 

* I’ll  wed  another  like  my  dear, 

Nancy,  Nancy ; 

Then  all  hell  will  fly  for  fear. 

My  spouse,  Nancy.” 


®jj r fSanks  sf  to. 

Tune — The  Banks  of  Cree. 

Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower. 
All  underneath  the  birchen  shade ; 
The  ? illage-bell  has  toll’d  the  hour. 

Oh,  what  can  stay  my  lovely  maid  ? 


'Tis  not  Maria’s  whispering  call ; 

’Tis  but  the  balmy-breathing  gale, 
Mix’d  with  some  warbler’s  dying  fall, 

The  dewy  stars  of  eve  to  hail. 

It  is  Maria’s  voice  I hear  ! — 

So  calls  the  woodlark  in  the  grove 
His  little  faithful  mate  to  cheer ! 

At  once  ’tis  music  and  ’tis  love. 

And  art  thou  come  ? — and  art  thou  true  ? 

Oh  welcome,  dear  to  love  and  me 
And  let  us  all  our  vows  renew, 

Along  the  flowery  banks  of  Cree. 


<fl>a  tip  Ira  anh  /ar  Slmaij. 

Tun  e — O'er  the  hills , Sfc. 

How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad. 

When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad  ? 

How  can  I the  thought  forego. 

He’s  on  the  seas  to  meet  the  foe  ? 

Let  me  wander,  let  me  rove. 

Still  my  heart  is  with  my  love  ; 

Nightly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day 
Are  with  him  that’s  far  away. 

CHORUS. 

On  the  seas  and  far  away. 

On  stormy  seas  and  far  away ; 

Nightly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day 
Are  aye  with  him  that’s  far  away. 

Wien  in  summer’s  noon  I faint, 

As  weary  flocks  around  me  pant. 

Haply  in  the  scorching  sun 
My  sailor’s  thund’ring  at  his  gun ; 

Bullets  spare  my  only  joy ! 

Bullets,  spare  my  darling  boy ! 

Fate,  do  with  me  what  you  may. 

Spare  but  him  that’s  far'  away  1 

At  the  starless  midnight  hour, 

When  winter  rules  with  boundless  power  j 
As  the  storms  the  forest  tear, 

And  thunders  rend  the  howling  air. 
Listening  to.the  doubling  roar. 

Surging  on  the  rocky  shore, 

All  I can — I weep  and  pray. 

For  his  weal  that’s  far  away. 

Peace,  thy  olive  wand  extend. 

And  bid  wild  war  his  ravage  end, 

Man  with  brotner  man  to  meet. 

And  as  a brother  kindly  greet : 

Then  may  Heaven  with  prosperous  g&la^ 
Fill  Tny  sailor’s  welcome  sails. 

To  my  arms  their  charge  convey. 

My  deor  lad  that’s  far  away. 


233 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ca*  t!jr  in  tjjB  IBimML 

CHORUS. 

Ca’  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 

Ca’  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca’  them  where  the  burnie  rows. 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Hark  the  mavis’  evening  sang 
Sounding  Clouden’s  woods  amang; 
Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang. 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

We’ll  gae  down  by  Clouden  side 
Thro’  the  hazels  spreading  wide. 

O’er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 

Yonder  Clouden’s  silent  towers. 
Where  at  moonshine,  midnight  hours. 
O’er  the  dewy  bending  flowers. 

Fames  dance  sae  cheery. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear ; 
Thou’rt  to  love  and  heaven  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near. 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart; 

I can  die — but  canna  part. 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea ; 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie ; 
Till  clay-cauld  death  shall  blin’  my  ee. 
Ye  shall  be  my  dearie. 


$jjt  sags  sjj»  X ars  me  ffirst  af  £’. 

Tune — Onagh’s  Lock. 

Bah  flaxen  were  her  ringlets. 

Her  eyebrows  of  a darker  hue, 
Bewitchingly  o’er-arching 

Twa  laughing  een  o’  bonnie  blue. 

Her  smiling,  sae  wiling. 

Would  make  a wretch  forget  his  woe: 
What  pleasure,  what  treasure. 

Unto  these  rosy  lips  to  grow : 

8uch  was  my  Clitoris’  bonnie  face. 

When  first  her  bonnie  face  I saw, 

And  aye  my  Clitoris’  dearest  charm. 

She  says  she  loes  me  best  of  a’. 

Like  harmony  her  motion  ; 

Her  pretty  ancle  is  a spy 
Betraying  fair  proportion. 

Wad  make  a saint  forget  the  sky. 

Eae  warming,  sae  charming. 

Her  faultless  form  and  graceful  air; 

Ilk  feature — auld  nature 

Declared  that  she  could  do  nae  mair. 


Hers  are  the  willing  chains  o’  love, 

By  conquering  beauty’s  sovereign  law  j 
And  aye  my  Chloris’  dearest  charm. 

She  says  she  loes  me  best  of  a’. 

Let  others  love  the  city. 

And  gaudy  show  at  sunny  noon ; 

Gie  me  the  lonely  valley. 

The  dewy  eve,  and  rising  moon 
Fair  beaming,  and  streaming, 

Her  silver  light  the  boughs  amang ; 
While  falling,  recalling. 

The  amorous  thrush  concludes  his  san^ 
There,- dearest  Chi  oris,  wilt  thou  rove 
By  wimpling  burn  and  leafy  shaw. 

And  hear  my  vows  o’  truth  and  love. 

And  say  thou  loes  me  best  of  a’  I 


lam  ijt  mil  T'litlli}  ? 

Tune — When  she  cam  ben  she  hobbit . 
On,  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Philly  ? 

Oh,  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Philly  ? 

She’s  down  i’  the  grove,  she’s  wi’  a new  lov^ 
She  winna  come  hame  to  her  Willie. 
What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Philly  ? 
What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Philly  ? 

She  lets  thee  to  wit  that  she  has  thee  forgotj 
And  for  ever  disowns  thee,  her  Willy. 

Oh,  had  I ne’er  seen  thee,  my  Philly  ! 

Oh,  had  I ne’er  seen  thee,  my  Philly ! 

As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou’s  fair, 
Thou’s  broken  the  heart  o’  thy  Willy. 


$am  Xnng  ani  irtarn  is  ijjt  Higljt? 

(370) 

Tune — Cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen. 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night 
When  I am  frae  my  dearie  ? 

I restless  lie  frae  e’en  to  morn, 

Tho’  I we’re  ne’er  sae  weary. 

CHORUS. 

For  oh  ! her  lanely  nights  are  lang. 
And  oh  ! her  dreams  are  eerie, 

And  oh ! her  widow’d  heart  is  sair. 
That’s  absent  frae  her  dearie. 

When  I think  on  the  lightsome  days 
I spent  wi’  thee,  my  dearie. 

And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar. 

How  can  I be  but  eerie  ? 

For  oh ! &c. 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours 
The  joyless  day,  how  dreary ! 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by. 

When  I w as  wi’  my  dearie. 

For  oh!  &c. 


FAKE  WELL  THOU  STREAM  THAT  WINDING  FLOWS. 


*37 


f rt  nni  RJntnaE  I'rr  ffaraplaii.- 

Tune — Duncan  Gray . 

Let  not  woman  e’er  complain 
Of  incoustancy  in  love ; 

Let  net  woman  e’er  complain 
Fickle  man  is  apt  to  rove. 

Look  abroad  through  Nature’s  range. 
Nature’s  mighty  law  is  change; 

Ladies,  would  it  not  be  strange, 

Man  should  then  a monster  prove  ? 

Mark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies; 

Ocean’s  ebb,  and  ocean’s  flow : 

Sun  and  moon  but  set  to  rise. 

Round  and  round  the  seasons  go. 

Why  then  ask  of  silly  man 
To  oppose  great  Nature’s  plan? 

We’ll  be  constant  while  we  can— 

You  can  be  no  more,  you  know. 


^Irrp’st  ®jnra,  nr  iUak’st  ®frna  ? (37i) 

Tune — Deil  tak  the  wars. 

Sleep’st  thou,  or  wak’st  thou,  fairest  crea- 
Rosy  morn  now  lifts  his  eye,  [ture  ? 
Numbering  ilka  bud,  which  Nature 
Waters  wi’  the  tears  o’  joy  : 

Now  thro’  the  leafy  woods. 

And  by  the  reeking  floods. 

Wild  Nature’s  tenants,  freely,  gladly  stray  : 
The  lintwhite  in  his  bower 
Chants  o’er  the  breathing  flower. 

The  lav’rock  to  the  sky 
Ascends  wi’  sangs  o’  joy. 

While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the  day. 
Phoebus  gilding  the  brow  o’  morning. 
Banishes  ilk  darksome  shade. 

Nature  gladd’ning  and  adorning; 

Such  to  me  my  lovely  maid. 

When  absent  from  my  fair. 

The  murky  shades  o’  care 
With  starless  gloom  o’ercast  my  sullen  sky ; 
But  when  in  beauty’s  light. 

She  meets  my  ravish’d  sight. 

When  through  my  very  heart 
Her  beaming  glories  dart, 

*Tis  then  I wake  to  life,  to  light,  and  joy. 


2Hg  Cljbris,  mark  jura  (Iran  tl;r  fonts. 

Tune — My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground. 

My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves. 

The  primrose  banks  how  fair ; 

The  balmy  gales  awake  the  flowers. 

Ami  wave  thy  flaxen  bait 


The  lav’rock  shuns  the  palace  gay. 

And  o’er  the  cottage  sings  : 

For  nature  smiles  as  sweet,  I ween. 

To  shepherds  as  to  kings. 

Let  minstrels  sweep  the  skilfu’  string 
In  lordly  lighted  ha’  : 

The  shepherd  stops  his  simple  reed, 
Blythe,  in  the  birken  shaw. 

The  princely  revel  may  survey 
Our  rustic  dance  wi’  scorn  ; 

But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  oura 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  ? 

The  shepherd,  in  the  flowery  glen. 

In  shepherd’s  phrase  will  woo : 

The  courtier  tells  a liner  tale. 

But  is  his  heart  as  true  ? 

These  wild-wood  flowers  I’ve  pu’d,  to  deck 
That  spotless  breast  o’  thine  : 

The  courtier’s  gems  may  witness  love— 
But  ’tis  na  love  like  mine. 


St  mas  itir  farming  ffinntij  if  32agf 

(372) 

Tune — Dainty  Davie. 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 

When  all  the  fiow’rs  were  fresh  and  gay. 
One  morning,  by  the  break  of  day. 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe,— 

From  peaceful  slumber  she  arose. 

Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose. 

And  o’er  the  flow’ry  mead  she  goes,— 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn. 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 
Tripping  o’er  the  pearly  lawn. 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

The  feather’d  people,  you  might  see 
Perch’d  all  around  on  every  tree. 

In  notes  of  sweetest  melody. 

They  hail  the  charming  Chloe ; 

Till,  painting  gay  the  eastern  skica^ 

The  glorious  sun  began  to  rise, 
Out-rivall’d  by  the  radiant  eyes 
Of  youthful,  charming  Chloe, 

Lovely  was  she,  & c. 


/arantll,  iijnit  ftrrara  fftat  RJinMnj 
/liras. 

Tune — Nancy’s  to  the  greenwood  gane. 
Farewell,  thou  stream  that  winding  floaTl 
Around  Eliza’s  dwelling ! 

Oh  mem’ry  ! spare  the  cruel  throes 
Within  my  bosom  swelling : 


238 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Condemn’d  to  drag  a hopeless  chain. 
And  yet  in  secret  languish. 

To  feel  a fire  in  ev’ry  vein. 

Nor  dare  disclose  my  anguish. 

Love’s  veriest  wretch,  unseen,  unknown, 
I fain  my  griefs  would  cover : 

The  bursting  sigh,  th’  unweeting  groan. 
Betray  the  hapless  lover. 

I know  thou  doom’st  me  to  despair. 

Nor  wilt,  nor  canst  relieve  me; 

But,  oh ! Eliza,  hear  one  prayer. 

For  pity’s  sake,  forgive  me  ! 

The  music  of  thy  voice  I heard. 

Nor  wist  while  it  enslaved  me ; 

I saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  fear’d. 

Till  fears  no  more  had  sav’d  me. 

Th’  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast. 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing, 

*Mid  circling  horrors  sinks  at  last 
In  overwhelming  ruin. 


mi’  tjji  lint-mljite  farki. 

Tune — Rotkiemurche’s  Rant. 

CHORUS. 

Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white  losks, 

Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie. 

Wilt  thou  wi’  me  tent  the  flocks 
W ilt  thou  be  my  dearie  O ? 

Now  Nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea. 

And  a’  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee : 

Oh,  wilt  thou  share  its  joy  wi’  me, 

And  say  thou’lt  be  my  dearie  O ? 

Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white  locks,  &c. 
And  when  the  welcome  simmer-shower 
Has  cheer’d  ilk  drooping  little  flower, 

We’ll  to  the  breathing  woodbine  bower 
At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie  O. 

Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white  locks,  &c. 
When  Cynthia  lights,  wi’  silver  ray. 

The  weary  shearer’s  hameward  way. 

Thro’  yellow  waving  fields  we’ll  stray. 

And  talk  o’  love,  my  dearie  O. 

Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white  locks,  &c. 
And  when  the  howling  wintry  blast 
Disturbs  my  lassie’s  midnight  rest. 
Enclasped  to  my  faithful  breast. 

I’ll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie  O. 

Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white  locks,  &c. 

fllilhcanii  aUIUn. 

Tuna — The  Sow's  Tail , 

WILLY. 

On  Philly,  happy  be  that  day 
When  roving  through  the  gather’d  hay, 
fcfy  youthfu’  Heart  was  stown  away. 

And  by  thy  charms,  my  Philly. 


. PHILLY. 

Oh  Willy,  aye  I bless  the  grove 
WThere  first  I own’d  my  maiden  love. 

Whilst  thou  didst  pledge  the  powers  abava 
To  be  my  ain  dear  Willy. 

WILLY. 

As  songsters  of  the  early  year 
Are  ilka  day  mair  sweet  to  hear, 

So  ilka  day  to  me  mair  dear 
And  charming  is  my  Philly. 

PHILLY. 

As  on  the  briar  the  budding  rose 
Still  richer  breathes  and  fairer  blows. 

So  in  my  tender  bosom  grows 
The  love  I bear  my  Willy. 

WILLY. 

The  milder  sun  and  bluer  sky. 

That  crown  my  harvest  cares  wi’  joy. 

Were  ne’er  sae  welcome  to  my  eye 
As  is  a sight  o’  Philly. 

PHILLY. 

The  little  swallow’s  wanton  wing, 

Tho'  wafting  o’er  the  flowery  spring. 

Did  ne’er  to  me  sic  tidings  bring. 

As  meeting  o’  my  Willy. 

WILLY. 

The  bee  that  thro’  the  sunny  hour 
Sips  nectar  in  the  opening  flower. 

Compar’d  wi’  my  delight  is  poor. 

Upon'  the  lips  o’  Philly. 

PHILLY. 

The  woodbine  in  the  dewy  weet. 

When  evening  shades  in  silence  meet. 

Is  nocht  sae  fragrant  or  sae  sweet 
As  is  a kiss  o’  Willy. 

WILLY. 

Let  fortune’s  wheel  at  random  rin. 

And  fools  may  tyne,  and  knaves  may  wia* 
My  thoughts  are  a’  bound  up  in  ane. 

And  that’s  my  ane  dear  Philly. 

PHILLY. 

What’s  a*  the  joys  that  gowd  can  gie  f 
I care  nae  wealth  a single  flie ; 

The  lad  I love’s  the  lad  for  me. 

And  that’s  my  ain  dear  Willy. 


fnnltnttii  mi'  liitl*. 

Tune — Lumps  o’  Pudding. 
Contented  wi’  little,  and  cantie  wi’  mair, 
Whene’er  I forgather  wi’  sorrow  and  care, 

I gie  them  a skelp  as  they’re  creepin’  alang, 
Wi’  a cog  o’  guid  swats,  and  an  auld  Scottish 
sang. 


MY  NANNIE’S  AWA. 


m 


I whiles  claw  the  elbow  o’  troublesora 
thought ; 

But  man  is  a sodger,  and  life  is  a faught : 
My  mirth  and  good  humour  are  coin  in  my 
pouch. 

And  my  freedom’s  my  lairdship  nae  monarch 
dare  touch. 

A townmond  o’  trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa’, 
A night  o’  guid  fellowship  sowthers  it  a’ : 
When  at  the  blythe  end  of  our  journey  at 
last,  [past  ? 

Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o’  the  road  Le  has 
Blind  chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoyte  on 
her  way : [gae : 

Be’t  to  me,  be’t  frae  me,  e’en  let  the  jade 
Come  ease,  or  come  travail : come  pleasure, 
or  pain,  - [again !” 

My  warst  word  is — “ Welcome,  and  welcome 


faa’jt  ijnnt  Isanr  hie  ft)tts,  mq  IKatq, 

(373) 

Tune — Roy's  Wife. 

CHORUS. 

Can  st  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy? 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 

Well  thou  know’st  my  aching  heart, 

And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity? 

Is  this  thy  plighted,  fond  regard. 

Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katy  ? 

Is  this  thy  faithful  swain’s  reward — 

An  aching,  broken  heart,  my  Katy? 

Farewell ! and  ne’er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katy ! 

Thou  may’st  find  those  will  love  thee  dear — 
But  not  a love  like  mine,  my  Katy. 


/nr  a’  ft liat,  anil  a’  ffjjat. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a’  that  ? 

The  coward  slave  we  pass  him  by. 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a’  that  l 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

Our  toil’s  obscure,  and  a’  that. 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp,  (374) 
The  man’s  the  goud  for  a’  that. 

What  tho’  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin  grey,  and  a’  that; 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A man’s  a man  for  a’  that ; 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a’  that ; 

Fbe  honest  man,  though  e’er  sae  poor, 
la  king  o’  men  for  a’  that. 


Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca’d  a lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a’  that; 
Tho’  hundreds  worship  at  his  word. 
He’s  but  a coof  for  a’  that:. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

His  riband,  star,  and  a’  that. 

The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a’  that. 

A prince  can  mak  a belted  knight, 

A marquis,  duke,  and  a’  that : 

But  an  honest  man’s  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith  he  maunna  fa’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a’  that. 

The  pith  o’  sense,  and  pride  o’  worth. 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a’  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a’  that. 

That  sense  and  worth,  o’er  a’  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

It’s  coming  yet,  for  a’  that. 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o’er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a’  that. 


Samur’s  Sima. 

Tune — There'll  never  be  peace,  tyc. 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blythe  natura 
arrays,  [braes. 

And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o’er  the 

While  birds  warble  welcome  in  ilka  green 
shaw ; 

But  to  me  it’s  delightless — my  Nannie’s  awa. 

The  snaw-drap  and  primrose  our  woodlands 
adorn. 

And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet  o’  the  morn ; 

They  pain  my  sad  bosom,  sae  sweetly  they 
blaw. 

They  mind  me  o’  Nannie — and  Nannie’s  awa. 

Thou  lav’rock  that  springs  frae  the  dews  of 
the  lawn,  [dawn. 

The  shepherd  to  warn  o’  the  grey-breaking 

And  thou  mellow  mavis  that  hails  the 
night-fa’. 

Give  over  for  pity — my  Nannie’s  awa. 

Come,  autumn,  sae  pensive,  in  yellow  and 
grey. 

And  soothe  me  wi’  tidings  o’  nature’s  decay ; 

The  dark,  dreary  winter,  and  wild-driving 
snaw, 

Alane  can  delight  me — now  Nannie’s  ari.  - 


22 


240 


BUKLS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Craigirhnnt  -ttelr.  (375) 
Tune — Craigiehurn  wood. 

Sweet  fa’s  the  eve  on  Craigieburn, 

And  bly the  awakes  the  morrow ; 

But  a’  the  pride  o’  spring’s  return 
Can  yield  me  nocht  but  sorrow. 

I see  the  flowers  and  spreading  trees, 

I hear  the  wild  birds  singing ; 

But  what  & weary  wight  can  please. 

And  care  his  bosom  wringing  ? 

Fain,  fain  would  I my  griefs  impart. 

Yet  dare  na  for  your  anger ; 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart. 

If  I conceal  it  langer. 

If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me. 

If  thou  shalt  love  anitherv 

When  yon  green  leaves  fade  frae  the  tree. 
Around  my  grave  they’ll  wither.  (376) 


<£$  lassie  art  tjjna  llrrping  ijptf 

Tune — Let  me  in  this  ane  Night . 

Oh  lassie  art  thou  sleeping  yet  ? 

Or  art  thou  wakin’,  I would  wit  ? 

For  love  has  bound  me  hand  and  foot. 
And  I would  fain  be  in,  jo. 

CHORUS. 

Oh  let  me  in  this  ane  night. 

This  ane,  ane,  ane  night; 

For  pity’s  sake  this  ane  night. 

Oh  rise  and  let  me  in,  jo  1 

Thou  hear’st  the  winter  wind  and  weet, 
Nae  star  blinks  thro’  the  driving  sleet; 
Tak  pity  on  my  weary  feet. 

And  shield  me  frae  the  rain,  jo. 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blaws 
Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa’s ; 

The  cauldness  o’  thy  heart’s  the  caust 
Of  a’  my  grief  and  pain,  jo. 

Reply  to  the  Foregoing . 

Ok  tell  na  me  o’  wind  and  rain. 

Upbraid  na  me  wi’  cauld  disdain; 

Gae  back  the  gait  ye  cam  again, 

I winna  let  you  in,  jo ! 

CHORUS. 

I tell  you  now  this  ane  night. 

This  ane,  ane,  ane  night ; 

And  ance  for  a’  this  ane  night, 

J winna  let  yon  in,  jo. 


The  snellest  blast,  at  mirkest  hours. 

That  round  the  pathless  wand’rer  pours. 
Is  nocht  to  what  poor  she  endures 
That’s  trusted  faithless  man,  jo/ 

The  sweetest  flower  that  deck’d  the  me&4. 
Now  trodden  like  the  vilest  weed; 

Let  simple  maid  the  lesson  read. 

The  weird  may  be  her  ain,  jo. 

The  bird  that  charm’d  his  summer-  day. 

Is  now  the  cruel  fowler’s  prey ; 

Let  witless,  trusting,  woman  say 
How  aft  her  fate’s  the  same,  jo. 


Stoss  ta  fljB  -SJnniilarif. 

Tune — Where'll  honnie  Ann  lie  ? or,  Lodh 
Eroch  Side. 

Oh  stay,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay. 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray, 

A hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay. 

Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 

Again,  again  that  tender  part, 

That  I may  catch  thy  melting  art : 

For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart* 

Wha  kills  me  wi’  disdaining. 

Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind. 

And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 

Oh  ! nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join’<^ 

Sic  notes  o’  woe  could  wauken. 

Thou  tells  o’  never-ending  care  : 

O’  speechless  grief,  and  dark  despair; 

For  pity’s  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair. 

Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  ! 


Da  Cjjlnris  htittg  Sli. 

Tune — Aye  wakin  O. 
CHORUS. 

Long,  long  the  night, 

Heavy  comes  the  morrow* 
While  my  soul’s  delight 
Is  on  her  bed  of  sorrow. 

Can  I cease  to  care, 

Can  I cease  to  languish. 

While  my  darling  fair 

Is  on  the  couch  of  anguish  t 

Every  hope  is  fled. 

Every  fear  is  terror; 

Slumber  even  I dread. 

Every  dream  is  horror. 


OH  THIS  lb  NO  MI  AIN  LASSIE. 


2 il 


Hear  me,  Pow’rs  divine ! 

Oh  ! in  pity  hear  me  ! 
Take  aught  else  of  mine, 

But  my  Chloris  spare  me  ! 


affair  francs  n'  fmrct  32ptlc. 

Tune — Humours  of  Glen. 

Their  groves  o’  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign 
lands  reckon,  [perfume ; 

Where  bright  beaming  summers  exalt  the 

Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o’  green 
breckan,  [broom. 

Wi’  the  bum  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow 

Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom 
bowers,  [unseen : 

Where  the  blue-bell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly 

For  there,  lightly  tripping  amang  the  wild 
flowers,  , [Jean. 

A-listening  the  linnet,  aft  wanders  my 

Tho’  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay  sunny 
vallies. 

And  cauld  Caledonia’s  blast  on  the  wave ; 

Their  sweet-scented  woodlands  that  skirt  the 
proud  palace,  [and  slave ! 

What  are  they  ? — the  haunt  of  the  tyrant 

The  slave’s  spicy  forests,  and  gold-bubbling 
fountains. 

The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi’  disdain ; 

He  wanders  as  free  a3  the  winds  of  his 
mountains,  [his  Jean ! 

Save  love’s  willing  fetters — the  chains  o’ 


Sum  ftwi  art  tfa  'f'r  eti. 

ALTERED  FROM  AN  OLD  ENGI/I8H  BOND. 

Tune — John  Anderson  my  Jo, 

How  cruel  are  the  parents; 

Who  riches  only  prize  : 

And  to  the  wealthy  booby. 

Poor  woman  sacrifice ! 

Meanwhile  the  hapless  daughter 
Has  but  a choice  of  strife 
To  shun  a tyrant  father’s  hate. 

Become  a wretched  wife. 

The  rav’ning  hawk  pursuing. 

The  trembling  dove  thus  flie% 

To  shun  impelling  ruin 
Awhile  her  pinion  tries : 

Till  of  escape  despairing, 

No  shelter  or  retreat, 

She  trusts  the  ruthless  falconer. 

And  drops  beneath  his  feet. 


%m%  hh  Ijrr  Satinb  th  maa 
mtj  Uniit. 

Tune — Laddie,  lie  near  me. 

[ ’Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  ee  was  my  ruin; 
Fair  tho’  she  be,  that  was  ne’er  my  undoing : 
’Twas  the  dear  smile  when  naebody  did 
mind  us,  [o’  kindness. 

’Twa3  the  bewitching,  sweet,  stown  glance 
Sair  do  I fear  that  to  hope  is  denied  me, 

Sair  do  I fear  that  despair  maun  abide  me ; 
But  tho’  fell  fortune  should  fate  us  to  sever. 
Queen  shall  she  be  in  my  bosom  for  ever. 
Mary,  I’m  thine  wi’  a passion  sincerest. 

And  thou  hast  plighted  me  love  the  dearest ! 
And  thou’rt  the  angel  that  never  can  alter. 
Sooner  the  sun  in  his  motion  would  falter. 


22 ark  pH  $nmp  nf  fnstlij  /asfamt. 

Tune — Beil  talc  the  Wars. 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion. 
Round  the  wealthy,  titled  bride : 

But  when  compar’d  with  real  passion. 

Poor  is  all  that  princely  pride. 

What  are  the  showy  treasures  ? 

What  are  the  noisy  pleasures  ? 

The  gay  gaudy  glare  of  vanity  and  art : 

The  polish’d  jewel’s  blaze 
May  draw  the  wond’ring  gaze. 

And  courtly  grandeur  bright 
The  fancy  may  delight. 

But  never,  never  can  come  near  the  heart. 

But  did  you  see  my  dearest  Chloris, 

In  simplicity’s  array ; 

Lovely  as  yonder  sweet  op’ning  flower  is. 
Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  day. 

Oh  then  the  heart  alarming. 

And  all  resistless  charming, 

In  Love’s  delightful  fetters  she  chains  the 
willing  soul ! 

Ambition  would  disown 
The  world’s  imperial  crown. 

Even  Avarice  would  deny 
His  worshipp’d  deity. 

And  feel  thro’  ev’ry  vein  Love’s  raptures  roll 


fjl  fljis  is  nn  rap  Sin  Xassi?, 

Tune — This  is  no  my  ain  House, 
chorus. 

Oh  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie. 

Fair  tho’  the  lassie  be ! 

Oh  weel  ken  I my  ain  lassie. 

Kind  love  is  in  her  ee. 


242 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I ace  a form,  I see  a face. 

Ye  weel  may  wi’  the  fairest  place : 

It  wants,  to  me,  the  witching  graces 
The  kind  love  that’s  in  her  ee. 

She’s  bonnie,  blooming,  straight,  and  taU, 
And  lang  has  had  my  heart  in  thrall; 
And  aye  it  charms  my  very  saul. 

The  kind  love  that’s  in  her  ee. 

A thief  sae  pawkie  is  my  Jean, 

To  steal  a blink,  by  a’  unseen ; 

But  gleg  as  light  are  lovers’  een. 

When  kind  love  is  in  the  ee. 

It  may  escape  the  courtly  sparks. 

It  may  escape  the  learned  clerks ; 

But  weel  the  watching  lover  marks 
^'he  kind  love  that’s  in  her  ee. 


Hara  Spring  lias  dJIail  tjji  fan*  in  totn. 

(377) 

Now  spring  has  clad  the  grove  in  green. 
And  strew’d  the  lea  wi’  flowers : 

The  furrow’d,  waving  corn  is  seen 
Rejoice  in  fostering  showers ; 

While  ilka  thing  in  nature  join 
Their  sorrows  to  forego. 

Oh  why  thus  all  alone  are  mine 
The  weary  steps  of  woe  ! 

The  trout  within  yon  wimpling  bum 
Glides  swift — a silver  dart ; 

And  safe  beneath  the  shady  thorn 
Defies  the  angler’s  art. 

My  life  was  ance  that  careless  stream. 

That  wanton  trout  was  I ; 

But  love,  wi’  unrelenting  beam. 

Has  scorch’d  my  fountains  dry. 

The  little  flow’ret’s  peaceful  lot, 

In  yonder  cliff  that  grows, 

Which,  save  the  linnet’s  flight,  I wot, 

Nae  ruder  visit  knows, 

Was  mine ; till  love  has  o’er  me  past. 

And  blighted  a’  my  bloom. 

And  now  beneath  the  with’ring  blast 
My  youth  and  joy  consume. 

The  waken’d  lav’rock  warbling  springs. 

And  climbs  the  early  sky, 

Winnowing  blythe  her  dewy  wings 
In  morning’s  rosy  eye. 

As  little  reck’d  I sorrow’s  power. 

Until  the  flowery  snare 
O’  witching  love,  in  luckless  hour. 

Made  me  the  thrall  o’  care. 

Oh,  1 ad  my  fate  been  Greenland  snows, 

Or  Afric’s  burning  zone, 

Wi’  man  and  nature  leagu’d  my  foes, 

So  Peggy  ne’er  I’d  kno  'vn  1 


The  wretch  whase  doom  is,  u hope  nae  mail," 
What  tongue  his  woes  can  tell ! 

Within  whase  bosom,  save  despair, 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell. 


<f>jj  SmntiB  mas  pit  $nsg  Sriir. 

Oh  bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier, 

That  blooms  so  far  frae  haunt  o’  man; 

And  bonnie  she,  and  ah  ! how  dear! 

It  shaded  frae  the  e’enin’  sun. 

Yon  rosebuds  in  the  morning  dew. 

How  pure  amang  the  leaves  sae  green; 

But  purer  was  the  lover’s  vow 

They  witnessed  in  their  shade  yestreen. 

All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower. 

That  crimson  rose,  how  sweet  and  fair ; 

But  love  is  far  a sweeter  flower 
Amid  life’s  thorny  path  o’  care. 

The  pathless  wild  and  wimpling  burn, 

Wi’  Chloris  in  my  arms,  be  mine; 

And  I the  world,  nor  wiaa,  nor  scorn. 

Its  joy  8 and  griefs  alike  resign. 


(fntlant  rag  tm,  u Cnmfurt  ntss. 

Tune — Let  me  in  this  ane  Night . 

Forlorn  my  love,  no  comfort  near. 

Far,  far  from  thee,  I wander  here ; 

Far,  far  from  thee,  the  fate  severe 
At  which  I most  repine,  love. 

CHORUS. 

Oh  wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me ; 

But  near,  near,  near  me : 

How  kindly  thou  wouldst  cheer  me. 

And  mingle  sighs  with  mine,  love. 

Around  me  scowls  a wintry  sky. 

That  blasts  each  bud  of  hope  and  joy; 

And  shelter,  shade,  nor  Lome  have  I, 

Save  in  those  arms  of  thine,  love. 

Cold,  alter’d  friendship’s  cruel  part. 

To  poison  fortune’s  ruthless  dart — - 
Let  me  not  break  thy  fan  fiful  hear^ 

And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love. 

But  dreary  tho*  the  moments  fleei. 

Oh  let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet  l 
That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 
Can  on  thy  Cliloris  shine,  love. 


JESST. 


24S 


$nj  fnt  a tuns  mi'  a fffnrljir. 

Tune — Balinamona  ora. 

Awa  wi’  your  witchcraft  o’  beauty’s  alarms. 

The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your 
arms. 

Oh,  gie  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o’  charms. 

Oh,  gie  me  the  lass  wi’  the  weel-stockit  farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then  hey  for  a lass  wi’  a tocher;  then  hey 
for  a lass  wi’  a tocher. 

Then  hey  for  a lass  wi’  a tocher — the  nice 
yellow  guineas  for  me. 

Your  beauty’s  a flower,  in  the  morning  that 
blows. 

And  withers  the  faster,  the  faster  it  grows  : 

But  the  rapturous  charm  o’  the  bonnie  green 
knowes,  [yowes. 

Ilk  spring  they’re  new  deckit  wi  bonnie  white 

And  e’en  when  this  beauty  your  bosom  has 
blest,  [possest ; 

The  brightest  o’  beauty  may  cloy  when 

But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings  wi’  Geordie 
imprest,  [carest. 

The  langer  ye  hae  them,  the  mair  they’re 


fast  3Haq  a Srani  -Eton, 

Tune — The  Lothian  Lassie. 

Bast  May  a braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang 
glen, 

And  sail*  wi’  his  love  he  did  deaye  me  ; 

I said  there  was  naething  I hated  like  men — 
The  deuce  gae  wi’m  to  believe  me,  believe 
me, 

The  deuce  gae  wi’m  to  believe  me. 

He  spaK  o’  the  darts  o’  my  bonnie  black  een. 
And  vow’d  for  my  love  he  wa3  dying ; 

I said  he  might  die  when  he  liked  for  Jean — 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying,  for  lying. 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying ! 

A well-stocked  mailen,  himsel  for  the  laird. 
And  marriage  aff-hand,  were  his  proffers  : 
I never  loot  on  that  I kenn’d  it,  or  car’d, 

But  thought  I might  hae  waur  offers, 
waur  offers, 

But  thought  I might  hae  waur  offers. 

But  what  wad  ye  think  ? — in  a fortnight  or 

less, 

The  deil  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her ! 

He  up  the  lang  loan  to  my  black  cousin 
Bess  (378),  [rnuld  bear  her, 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad ! I could  bear  her. 
Guess  ye  how,  the  jad ! I could  bear  her. 


But  a’  the  niest  week  as  I fretted  wi*  care* 

I gaed  to  the  tryste  o’  Dalgarnock, 

And  wha  but  my  fine  fickle  lover  was  there ! 
I glowr’d  as  I’d  seen  a warlock,  a warlock, 
I glowr’d  as  I’d  seen  a warlock. 

But  owre  my  left  shoutlier  I gae  him  a blink. 
Lest  neibors  might  say  I was  saucy ; 

My  wooer  he  caper’d  as  he’d  been  in  drink, 
And  vow’d  I was  his  dear  lassie,  dear 
lassie. 

And  vow’d  I was  his  dear  lassie. 

I spier’d  for  my  cousin  fu’  couthy  and  sweety 
Gin  she  had  recovered  her  hearin’. 

And  how  her  new  shoon  fit  her  auld  shachl’t 
feet,  [a-swearin’. 

But,  heavens ! how  he  fell  a-swearin’. 
But,  heavens  ! how  he  fell  a-swearin’. 

He  begged,  for  guidsake,  I wad  be  his  wife^ 
Or  else  I wad  kill  him  wi,  sorrow : 

So  e’en  -to  preserve  the  poor  body  in  life, 

I think  I maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to* 
morrow, 

I think  I maun  wed  him  to-morrow. 


/ragmmt. 

Tune — The  Caledonian  Hunt1  9 Delight. 

Why,  why  tell  tby  lover, 

Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy  ? 

Why,  why  undeceive  him, 

And  give  all  his  hopes  the  He  ? 

Oh  why,  while  fancy,  raptur’d,  slumbers, 
Chloris,  Chloris  all  the  theme. 

Why,  why  wouldst  thou  cruel. 

Wake  thy  lover  from  his  dream? 


StSStJ.  (379) 

CHORUS. 

Here’s  a health  to  ane  I loe  dear! 

Here’s  a health  to  ane  I loe  dear  ! [meet. 
Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lover’® 
And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy! 

Altho’  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Altlio’  even  hope  is  denied : 

’Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 

Then  aught  in  the  world  beside — Jessy  I 

I mourn  thro’  the  gay,  gaudy  day. 

As  hopeless,  I muse  on  thy  charms ; 
But  welcome  the  dream  o’  sweet  slumber, 
Bor  then  I am  lock’t  in  thy  arms — Jessy  I 


BURNS’S  TOETICAL  WORKS. 


% & 

i guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 

I guess  by  the  love  rolling  ee ; 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession, 
'Gainst  fortune’s  fell  cruel  decree — 
Jessy ! 


/airrst  JHaiir  an  Dnran  ®anks. 

Tun  e — Rothiemurckc . 

CHORUS.. 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks. 
Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon, 

Wilt  thou  lay  that  frown  aside. 

And  smile  as  thou  were  wont  to  do. 
Full  well  thou  know’st  I love  thee  dear, 
Could’st  thou  to  malice  lend  an  ear  ? 

Oh,  did  not  love  exclaim  " Forbear, 

Nor  use  a faithfu’  lover  so l” 

Then  come,  thou  fairest  of  the  fair. 

Those  wonted  smiles,  oh  let  me  share ! 
And,  by  thy  beauteous  self  I swear. 

No  love  but  thine  my  heart  shall  know. 


iantorn?  Sail.  (380) 

Oh  once  I lov’d  a bonnie  lass. 

Ay,  and  I love  her  still ; 

And  whilst  that  honour  warms  my  breast. 
I’ll  love  my  handsome  Nell. 

As  bonnie  lasses  I hae  seen. 

And  mony  full  as  braw; 

But  for  a modest  gracefu’  mien. 

The  like  I never  saw. 

A bonnie  lass,  I will  confess. 

Is  pleasanFto  the  ee. 

But  without  some  better  qualities. 

She’s  no  the  lass  for  me. 

But  Nelly’s  looks  are  blythe  and  sweet, 
And,  what  is  best  of  a’. 

Her  reputation  is  complete. 

And  fair  without  a flaw. 

She  dresses  aye  sae  clean  and  neat. 

Both  decent  and  genteel : 

And  then  there’s  something  in  her  gait 
Gars  ony  dress  look  weel. 

A gaudy  dress  and  gentle  air 
May  slightly  touch  the  heart ; 

But  it’s  innocence  and  modesty 
That  polishes  the  dart. 

*Tis  this  in  Nelly  pleases  me, 

’Tis  this  enchants  my  soul; 

For  absolutely  in  my  breast 

. She  reigns  without  control. 


3Hi|  /atjjtr  mas  a /arratr.  (381) 

Tune — The  Weaver  and  his  shuttle,  O. 

My  father  was  a farmer  upon  the  Carried 
border,  O,  [order,  O ; 

And  carefully  he  bred  me  in  decency  and 
He  bade  me  act  a manly  part,  though  I had 
ne’er  a farthing,  O ; 

For  without  an  honest  manly  heart,  no  man 
was  worth  regarding,  O. 

Then  out  into  the  world,  my  course  I did 
determine,  O ; 

Tho’  to  be  rich  wa3  not  my  wish,  yet  to  b® 
great  was  charming,  O : 

My  talents  they  were  not  the  worst,  nor  yet 
my  education,  O ; 

Resolv’d  was  I,  at  least  to  try,  to  mend  my 
situation,  O. 

In  many  a way,  and  vain  essay,  I courted 
fortune’s  favour,  O ; 

Some  cause  unseen  still  stept  between,  to 
frustrate  each  endeavour,  O. 

Sometimes  by  foes  I was  o’erpower’d ; some- 
times by  friends  forsaken,  O ; 

And  when  my  hope  was  at  the  top,  I still 
was  worst  mistaken,  O. 

Then  sore  harass’d,  and  tir’d  at  last,  with 
fortune’s  vain  delusion,  O, 

I dropt  my  schemes,  like  idle  dreams,  and 
came  to  this  conclusion,  O — 

The  past  was  bad,  and  the  future  hid;  its 
good  or  ill  untried,  O ; 

But  the  present  hour  was  in  my  pow’r,  and 
so  I would  enjoy  it,  O. 

No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view  had  I,  nor  per- 
son to  befriend  me,  O ; 

So  I must  toil,  and  sweat  and  broil,  and 
labour  to  sustain  me,  O : 

To  plough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow,  my 
father  bred  me  early,  O ; 

For  one,  he  said,  to  labour  bred,  was  a match 
for  fortune  fairly,  O. 

Thus  all  obscure,  unknown,  and  poor,  thro* 
life  I’m  doom’d  to  wander,  O, 

Till  down  my  weary  bones  I lay,  in  everlas- 
ting slumber,  O. 

No  view  nor  care,  but  shun  whate’er  might 
breed  me  pain  or  sorrow,  O ! 

I live  to-day  as  well’s  I may,  regardless  of  to- 
morrow, O. 

But  cheerful  still,  I am  as  well,  as  a monarch 
in  a palace,  O, 

Tho’  fortune’s  frown  still  hunts  me  down, 
with  all  her  wonted  malice,  O : 

I make  indeed  my  daily  bread,  but  ne’er  caa 
make  it  farther,  O ; 

But,  as  daily  bread  is  all  I reed,  I do  not 
much  regard  her,  O. 


HER  FLOWING  LOCKS. 


2 i 


When  sometimes  by  my  labour  I earn  a 
little  mony,  O, 

Some  uuforseen  misfortune  comes  gen’rally 
upon  me,  O : 

Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect,  or  my 
good-natur’cl  folly,  O ; 

But  come  what  will,  I’ve  sworn  it  still.  I’ll 
ne’er  be  melancholy,  O. 

All  you  who  follow  wealth  and  power  with 
unremitting  ardour,  O, 

The  more  in  this  you  look  for  bliss,  you  leave 
your  view  the  farther,  O : 

Had  you  the  wealth  Potosi  boasts,  or  nations 
to  adore  you,  O, 

A cheerful  honest-hearted  clown  I will  prefer 
before  you,  O. 


Up  in  ijjs  Blaming  iarlq. 

Tune — Cold  Mows  the  Wind . 

i 

CHORUS. 

Up  in  the  morning’s  no  for  me. 

Up  in  the  morning  early : 

When  a’  the  hills  are  cover’d  wi’  snaw, 
I’m  sure  it’s  winter  fairly. 

Cauld  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west. 
The  drift  is  driving  sairly; 

Sae  loud  and  shrill  I hear  the  blast, 

I’m  sure  its  winter  fairly. 

The  birds  sit  cluttering  in  the  thorn, 

A’  day  they  fare  but  sparely ; 

And  lang’s  the  night  frae  e’en  to  mom — 
I’m  sure  it’s  winter  fairly. 


2rq,  ijii  Diustn  Blillrr. 

Tune — The  Busty  Miller . 

Hey,  the  dusty  miller. 

And  his  dusty  coat ; 

He  will  win  a shilling. 

Or  he  spend  a groat. 

Dusty  was  the  Coat, 

Dusty  was  the  colour. 
Dusty  was  the  kiss 

That  I got  frae  the  miller. 

Hey,  the  dusty  miller. 

And  his  dusty  sack ; 

Leeze  me  on  the  calling 
Fills  the  dusty  peck— 

Fill?  the  dusty  peck. 

Brings  the  dusty  siller ; 

I wad  gie  my  coatie 
For  the  dusty  miller. 


Mil.  (382) 

Tune — Dainty  Davie, 

There  was  a lad  was  born  in  Kyle, 
But  whatna  day  o’  whatna  style 
I doubt  it’s  hardly  worth  the  while 
To  be  sae  nice  wi’  Robin. 

Robin  was  a rovin’  boy. 

Rantin’  rovin’,  rantin’  rovin'; 
Robin  was  a rovin’  boy. 

Rantin’  rovin’  Robin ! 

Our  monarch’s  hindmost  year  but  an© 
Was  five-and-twenty  days  begun, 

’Twas  then  a blast  o’  Jan  war’  win* 

Blew  hansel  in  on  Robin. 

The  gossip  keekit  in  his  loof. 

Quo  scho,  wha  lives  will  see  the  proof. 
This  waly  boy  will  be  nae  coof ; 

I think  we’ll  ca’  him  Robin. 

He’ll  hae  misfortunes  great  and  sma\ 
But  aye  a heart  aboon  them  a’; 

He’ll  be  a credit  till  us  a’ — 

We’ll  a’  be  proud  o’  Robin. 

But  sure  as  three  times  three  mak  nine, 
I see  by  ilka  score  and  line. 

This  chap  will  dearly  like  our  kin*. 

So  leeze  me  on  thee,  Robin. 


®ju  ©Elis  of  B’mtrljlmr,  (383) 

In  Mauchline  there  dwells  six  proper  young 
belles,  [hood  a’, 

! The  pride  of  the  place  and  its  neighbour- 

Tlieir  carriage  and  dress,  a stranger  would 
guess, 

In  Lon’on  or  Paris  they’d  gotten  it  a*. 

Miss  Miller  is  fine.  Miss  Markland’s  diving 
Miss  Smith  she  has  wit,  and  Miss  Iiett) 
is  braw,  [Morton ; 

There’s  beauty  and  fortune  to  get  wi’  Mis* 
But  Armour’s  the  jewel  for  me  o’  them 
a’.  (384) 


8rr  /laming  £ arks.  (S85) 

Her  Sowing  locks,  the  raven’s  wing, 
Adown  her  neck  and  bosom  hing ; 
How  sweet  unto  that  breast  to  cling. 
And  round  that  neck  entwine  her ! 
Her  lips  are  roses  wat  wi’  dew. 

Oh,  what  a feast  her  bonnie  mou’  I 
Her  cheeks  a mair  celestial  hue, 

A crimson  still  diviner. 


246 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


&I#  Inn  of  dMfr  l&illh.  (386) 

Tune — Sliawnboy . 

Ye  sous  of  old  Killie,  assembled  by  Willie, 
To  follow  the  noble  vocation ; 

Your  thrifty  old  mother  has  scarce  such 
another 

To  sit  in  that  honoured  station. 

I’ve  little  tc  say,  but  only  to  pray, 

A s praying’s  the  ton  of  your  fashion  ; 

A prayer  from  the  muse  you  well  may  excuse, 
*T  s seldom  her  favourite  passion. 

Ye  powers  who  preside  o’er  the  wind  andthe 
tide. 

Who  marked  each  element’s  border ; 

Who  formed  this  frame  with  beneficent  aim. 
Whose  sovereign  statute  is  order ; 

Within  this  dear  mansion  may  wayward 
contention 

Or  withered  envy  ne’er  enter ; 

May  secrecy  round  be  the  mystical  bound. 
And  brotherly  love  be  the  centre. 


ffljB  fmjfal  'ttiiramrr. 

Tune — Maggy  Lauder . 

I married  with  a scolding  wife. 

The  fourteenth  of  November; 

She  made  me  weary  of  my  life. 

By  one  unruly  member. 

Long  did  I bear  the  heavy  yoke^ 

And  many  griefs  attended ; 

But,  to  my  comfort  be  it  spoke. 

Now,  now  her  life  is  ended. 

We  lived  full  one-and-twenty  years, 

A man  and  wife  together ; 

At  length  from  me  her  course  she  steer’d. 
And  gone  I know  not  whither  : 

Would  I could  guess,  I do  profess, 

I speak,  and  do  not  flatter. 

Of  all  the  women  in  the  world, 

I never  could  come  at  her. 

Her  body  is  bestowed  well, 

A handsome  grave  does  hide  her; 

But  sure  her  soul  is  not  in  hell. 

The  deil  would  ne’er  abide  her ! 

I rather  think  she  is  aloft. 

And  imitating  thunder ; 

For  why  ? — methinks  I hear  her  voice 
Tearing  the  clouds  asunder  1 


<fl>,  'Utyarc  Mil  pa  <S>et  ? (386) 

Tune — Bonnie  Dundee. 

0,  whare  did  you  get  that  hauver  meal  ban- 
nock ? 

Oh  silly  blind  body,  oh  dinna  ye  see  ? 


I gat  it  frae  a brisk  young  sodger  laddie. 
Between  Saint  Johnston  and  bonnie  Dun* 
dee. 

Oh,  gin  I saw  the  laddie  that  gae  me’t ! 

Aft  has  he  doudled  me  upon  his  knee ; 
May  heaven  protect  my  bonnie  Scots  laddie, 
And  send  him  safe  hame  to  his  babie  and 
me ! 

My  blessin’s  upon  thy  sweet  wee  lippie, 

My  blessin’s  upon  thy  bonnie  ee-bree ! 
Thy  smiles  are  sae  like  my  blythe  sodgei 
laddie, 

Thou’s  aye  the  dearer  and  dearer  to  me  l 
But  I’ll  big  a bower  on  yon  bonnie  banks. 
Where  Tay  rins  wimplin’  by  sae  clear ; 
And  I’ll  deed  thee  in  the  tartan  sae  fine. 
And  mak  thee  a man  like  thy  daddie  dean, 


CjjptB  mas  a tm. 

Tune — Duncan  Davison. 

There  was  a lass,  they  ca’d  her  Meg, 

And  she  held  o’er  the  moors  to  spin ; 
There  was  a lad  that  follow’d  her. 

They  ca’d  him  Duncan  Davison. 

The  moor  was  driegh,  and  Meg  was  skeigl\ 
Her  favour  Duncan  could  na  win ; 

For  wi’  the  rock  she  wad  him  knock. 

And  aye  she  shook  the  temper-pin. 

As  o’er  the  moor  they  lightly  foor, 

A burn  was  clear,  a glen  was  green. 

Upon  the  banks  they  eas’d  their  shanks. 
And  aye  she  set  the  wheel  between : 

But  Duncan  swore  a haly  aith 

That  Meg  should  be  a bride  the  morn. 
Then  Meg  took  up  her  spinnin’  graith. 

And  flung  them  a’  out  o’er  the  burn. 
We’ll  big  a house — a wee,  wee  house. 

And  we  will  live  like  king  and  queen, 

Sae  blythe  and  merry  we  will  be 
When  ye  set  by  the  wheel  at  e’en. 

A man  may  drink  and  no  be  drunk ; 

A man  may  fight  and  no  be  slain; 

A man  may  kiss  a bonnie  las3. 

And  aye  be  welcome  back  again. 


ICanitlairq,  Cnunt  ttjB  Xantia! 

Tune — Hey  tuttie , taitie. 

Landlady,  count  the  lawin. 
The  day  is  near  the  dawin ; 
Ye’re  a’  blind  drunk,  boys. 

And  I’m  but  jolly  fou. 

Hey  tuttie,  taitie. 

How  tuttie,  taitie— 
Wha’s  fou  now  ? 


FIRST  WHEN  MAGGY  WAS  MY  CARE. 


247 


Cog,  an  ye  were  aye  fou. 
Cog,  an  ye  were  aye  fou, 

I wa  d sit  and  sing  to  you. 
If  ye  were  aye  fou. 

Weel  may  ye  a’  be ! 

Ill  may  we  never  see  ! 

God  bless  the  king,  boys. 
And  the  companie  J 


Milk’  Stark’  3Miie, 

Tune — Rattlin'  roarin'  Willie, 

Oh,  rattlin’  roarin’  Willie, 

Oh,  he  held  to  the  fair. 

And  for  to  sell  his  fiddle. 

And  buy  some  other  ware; 

But  parting  wi’  his  fiddle. 

The  saut  tear  blin’t  his  ee  ; 

And  rattlin’  roarin’  Willie, 

Ye’re  welcome  hame  to  me  ! 

Oh  Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle. 

Oh  sell  your  fiddle  sae  fine ; 

Oh  Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle. 
And  buy  a pint  o’  wine. 

If  I should  sell  my  fiddle. 

The  warl  would  think  I was  mad ; 

For  mony  a rantin’  day 
My  fiddle  and  I hae  had. 

As  I cam  by  Crochallan, 

I cannily  keekit  ben— 

Rattlin’  roarin’  Willie 

Was  sitting  at  yen  board  en*— 

Sitting  at  yon  boaid  ne’. 

And  amang  guid  companie ; 

Rattlin  roaring’  Willie, 

Ye’re  welcome  hame  to  me  1 


$imntjr’0  a 'ftlrasant  film. 

Tune — Aye  wankin  0. 

Simmer’s  a pleasant  time. 
Flowers  of  every  colour  ; 

The  water  rins  o’er  the  heugh. 
And  I long  for  my  true  lover. 

Aye  waukin  O, 

Waukin  still  and  wearie  : 
Sleep  I can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie 

When  I sleep  I dream. 

When  I wauk  I’m  eerie : 

Sleep  I can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 


Lanely  night  comes  on, 

A’  the  lave  are  sleeping ; 

I think  on  my  bonnie  lad. 

And  bleer  my  een  wi’  greetin’. 


Inae  ajir’a  irat  a Xaasie  tjrf. 

Tune — Lady  Badinscoth's  Reel, 

My  love  she’s  but  a lassie  yet. 

My  love  she’s  but  a lassie  yet. 

We’ll  let  her  stand  a year  or  twa. 

She’ll  no  be  half  sae  saucy  yet. 

I rue  the  day  I sought  her,  O, 

I rue  the  day  I sought  her,  O ; 

Wha  gets  her  needs  na  say  she’s  woo’d. 
But  he  may  say  he’s  bought  her,  O l 
Come,  draw  a drap  o’  the  best  o’t  yet. 
Come,  draw  a drap  o’  the  best  o’t  yet ; 
Gae  seek  for  pleasure  where  ye  will. 

But  here  I never  miss’d  it  yet. 

We’re  a’  dry  wi’  drinking  o’t. 

We’re  a’  dry  wi’  drinking  o’t; 

The  minister  kiss'd  the  fiddler’s  wife. 

And  could  na  preach  for  thinking  </fc 


f fie  dkptain’s  lainj. 

Tune — O Mount  and  Go. 

CHORUS. 

Oh  mount  and  go. 

Mount  and  make  you  ready; 
Oh  mount  and  go, 

And  be  the  captain’s  lady; 

When  the  drums  do  beat. 

And  the  cannons  rattle. 

Thou  shalt  sit  in  state. 

And  see  thy  love  in  battle. 

When  the  vanquish’d  foe 
Sues  for  peace  and  quiet. 

To  the  shades  we’ll  go. 

And  in  love  enjoy  it. 


/irst  tnjjrit  ffiaggtj  mas  mi}  fan; 

Tune — Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 

First  when  Maggy  was  my  care. 
Heaven  I thought  was  in  her  air ; 

Now  we’re  married — spier  nae  mair— < 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

Meg  was  meek,  and  Meg  was  mild, 
Bonnie  Meg  was  nature’s  child; 

Wiser  men  than  me’s  beguil’d-  * 
Whistls  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 


243 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


How  we  live,  ray  Meg  and  me, 

How  we  love,  and  how  we  gree, 

1 care  na  by  how  few  may  see — 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

Wha  I wish  were  maggot’s  meat 
Dish’d  up  in  her  winding  sheet, 

I could  write — but  Meg  maun  see’t — 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 


ffljtm’j  a iit  iijts  Ciig. 

To  a Gaelic  Air. 

There’s  a youth  in  this  city,  it  were  a great 
pity 

That  he  frae  our  lasses  should  wander  awa ; 

For  he’s  bonnie  and  braw,  weel  favoured 
and  a’. 

And  his  hair  has  a natural  buckle  and  a’. 

His  coat  is  the  hue  of  his  bonnet  sae  blue ; 

His  fecket  is  white  as  the  new-driven 
snaw; 

His  hose  they  are  blae,  and  his  shoon  like 
the  slae. 

And  his  clear  siller  buckles  they  dazzle 
us  a’. 

For  beauty  and  fortune  the  laddie’s  been 
courtin’ ; [and  braw ; 

Weel-featured,weel-tocher’d,weel-mounted, 

But  chiefly  the  siller,  that  gars  him  gang 
till  her. 

The  penny’s  the  jewel  that  beautifies  a’. 

There’s  Meg  wi’  the  mailen  that  fain  wad 
a-haen  him ; [ha’ ; 

And  Susie,  whose  daddy  was  laird  o’  the 

There’s  lang-tocher’d  Nancy  maist  fetters 

his  fancy — [of  a’. 

But  the  laddie’s  dear  sel’  he  loes  dearest 


<t>lj  age  mg  sit  Sang  rat. 

Tune — My  wife  she  Dang  me. 

()  aye  my  wife  she  dang  me. 

And  aft  my  wife  did  bang  me, 

U ye  gie  a woman  a’  her  will, 

Guid  faith,  she’ll  soon  o’ergang  ye. 

On  peace  and  rest  my  mind  was  bent. 
And  fool  I was  I married ; 

But  never  honest  man’s  intent 
As  cursedly  miscarried. 

Some  sa’r  o’  comfort  still  at  last. 
When  a’  my  days  are  done,  man; 

My  pains  o’  hell  on  earth  are  past. 
Pm  sure  o’  bliss  aboon,  man. 


Oh  aye  my  wife  she  dang  m«. 

And  aft  my  wife  did  bang  awe. 

If  ye  gie  a woman  a’  her  will, 

Guid  faith,  she’ll  soon  o’erg&ug  y& 


ippit  i&air. 

Tune — My  Eppie 

And  oh ! my  Eppie, 

My  jewel,  my  Eppie ! 
Wha  wadna  be  happy 
Wi’  Eppie  Adair  ? 

By  love,  and  by  beauty. 
By  law,  and  by  duty, 

I swear  to  be  true  to 
My  Eppie  Adair ! 

And  oh ! my  Eppie, 

My  jewel,  my  Eppie, 
WTha  wadna  be  happy 
Wi’  Eppie  Adair? 

A’  pleasure  exile  me. 
Dishonour  defile  me. 

If  e’er  I beguile  thee. 
My  Eppie  Adair  l 


®tre  Sattlt  nf 

Tune — Cameronian  Rant . 

u Oh  cam  ye  here  the  figh*  to  shun. 

Or  herd  the  sheep  wi’  me,  man  ? 

Or  were  ye  at  the  Sherra-mui*, 

And  did  the  battle  see,  mac.  ?” 

“ I saw  the  battle,  sair  and  tough. 

And  reekin’  red  ran  mony  a sh^ugh, 

My  heart,  for  fear,  gaed  sough  *or  sough 
To  hear  the  thuds,  and  see  the  <dnds, 

O’  clans  frae  woods,  in  tartan  duds, 

Wha  glaum’d  at  kingdoms  tlure,  m»» 

The  red-coat  lads,  wi’  black  cock^«\:. 

To  meet  them  were  na  slaw,  man ; 

They  rush’d  and  push’d,  and  bluia  cKtgiw.ft'd, 
| And  mony  a bouk  did  fa’,  man ; 

The  great  Argyle  led  on  his  files, 

{ I wat  they  glanc’d  for  twenty  mile*  :■ 

They  hack’d  and  hash’d  while  broadsword* 
clash’d. 

And  tliro’ they  dash’d,  and  hew’d,and  jau^h’d, 
Till  fey  men  died  awa,  man. 

But  had  you  seen  the  philabegs. 

And  skyrin  tartan  trews,  man ; 

When  in  the  teeth  they  dar’d  our  Whigs, 
And  covenant  true  blues,  man ; 


THENIEL  MENZIE’S  BONNIE  MARY. 


In  lines  extended  lang  and  large. 

When  bayonets  opposed  the  targe. 

And  thousands  hasten’d  to  the  charge, 

Wi’  Highland  wrath  they  frae  the  sheath 
Drew  blades  o’  death,  till,  out  o’  breath. 
They  fled  like  frighted  doos,  man.” 

“Oh  how  diel,  Tam,  can  that  be  true? 

The  chase  gaed  frae  the  North,  man ; 

I saw  myself,  they  did  pursue 

The  horseman  back  to  Forth,  man ; 

And  at  Dunblane,  in  my  am  sight, 

They  took  the  brig  wi’  a’  their  might. 

And  straught  to  Stirling  winged  their  flight ; 
But,  cursed  lot ! the  gates  were  shut ; 

And  mony  a huntit,  poor  red-coat, 

For  fear  amaist  did  swarf,  man  1" 

' My  sister  Kate  cam  up  the  gate 
Wi’  crowdie  unto  me,  man ; 

She  swore  she  saw  some  rebels  ran 
Frae  Perth  unto  Dundee,  man  : 

Their  left-hand  general  had  nae  skill. 

The  Angus  lads  had  nae  good  will 
That  day  their  neibor’s  blood  to  spill ; 

For  fear,  by  foes,  that  they  should  lose 
Their  cogs  o,  brose — all  crying  woes ; 

And  so  it  goes  you  see,  man. 

They’ve  lost  some  gallant  gentlemen 
Amang  the  Highland  clans,  man : 

L fear  my  Lord  Panmure  is  slain. 

Or  fallen  in  Whiggish  hands,  man: 

Now  wad  ye  sing  this  double  fight. 

Some  fell  for  wrang,  and  some  for  right; 

But  mony  bade  the  world  guid-night ; 

Then  ye  may  tell,  how  pell  and  mell. 

By  red  claymores,  and  muskets’  knell, 

Wi’  dying  yell,  the  Tories  fell. 

And  Whig  a to  hell  did  flee,  man.” 


fill!  Sigljlanir  f anting  (388) 

Oh  ! I am  a, me  to  the  low  countrie, 

Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie ! 

Without  a penny  in  my  purse. 

To  buy  a meal  to  me. 

It  was  na  sae  in  the  Highland  hills^ 

Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie ! 

Nae  woman  in  the  country  wide 
Sae  happy  was  as  me. 

For  then  I had  a score  o’  kye^ 

Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie ! 

Feeding  on  yon  hills  so  high, 

And  giving  milk  to  me. 

And  there  I had  three  score  o’  yowes, 
Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie  ! 

Skipping  on  yon  bonnie  knowes. 

And  casting  woo’  to  me. 


I was  the  happiest  of  a’  the  clan, 
Sair,  sair  may  I repine ; 

For  Donald  was  the  brawest  lad. 
And  Donald  he  was  mine. 

Till  Charlie  Stewart  cam  at  last, 

Sae  far  to  set  us  free ; 

My  Donald’s  arm  was  wanted  then, 
For  Scotland  and  for  me. 

Their  waefu’  fate  what  need  I tell  ? 
Right  to  the  wrang  did  yield : 

My  Donald  and  his  country  fell 
Upon  Culloden’s  field. 

Oh  ! I am  come  to  the  low  countrie, 
Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie ! 

Nae  woman  in  the  world  wide 
Sae  wretched  now  as  me. 


IStyarB  Jjaf  gr  fen? 

Tune — Killiecrankie. 

Whare  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad? 

Where  hae  ye  been  sae  brankie,  O ? 
Oh,  whare  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad  ? 
* Cam  ye  by  Killiecrankie,  O ? 

An  ye  had  been  whare  I hae  been. 

Ye  wad  nae  been  sae  cantie,  O ; 

An  ye  had  seen  what  I hae  seen. 

On  the  braes  of  Killiecrankie,  O, 

I fought  at  land,  I fought  at  sea ; 

At  hame  I fought  my  auntie,  O; 
But  I met  the  devil  and  Dundee, 

On  the  braes  o’  Killiecrankie,  O, 

The  bauld  Pitcur  fell  in  a furr. 

And  Clavers  got  a clankie,  O ; 

Or  I had  fed  an  Athole  gled. 

On  the  braes  o’  Killiecrankie,  o. 


Ijjrnirl  Smtnit  3Hanj, 

Tune — The  Ruffian's  Rant . 

In  coming  by  the  brig  o’  Dye, 

At  Darlet  we  a blink  did  tarry ; 

As  day  was  dawiri  in  the  sky. 

We  drank  a health  to  tonnie  Mary. 
Theniel  Menzie  s bonnie  Mary, 
Theniel  Menzie’s  bonnie  Mary ; 
Charlie  Gregor  tint  his  plaidie, 
Kissin’  Theniel’a  bonnie  Mary. 

Her  een  sae  bright,  her  brow  sae  white. 
Her  haffet  locks  as  brown’s  a berry  ; 
And  aye  they  dimpl’t  wi’  a smile. 

The  rosy  cheeks  o’  bonnie  Mary. 


250 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


iWe  lap  and  danced  the  lee  lang  day. 
Till  piper  lads  were  wae  and  weary  : 
But  Charlie  gat  the  spring  to  pay. 

For  kissin’  Theniel’s  bonnie  Mary, 


/rat  iijc  /rituiis  anil  Tanii  % Inn*. 

Air — Carr  on  Side. 

Frae  the  friends  and  land  I love 
Driv’n  by  fortune’  felly  spite, 

Frae  my  best  belov’d  I rove. 

Never  mair  to  taste  delight ; 

Never  mair  maun  hope  to  find 
Ease  frae  toil,  relief  frae  care : 

When  remembrance  wracks  the  mind. 
Pleasures  but  unveil  despair. 

Brightest  climes  shall  mirk  appear. 

Desert  ilka  blooming  shore. 

Till  the  fates  nae  mair  severe, 

Friendship,  love,  and  peace  restore; 

Till  Revenge,  wi’  laurell’d  head. 

Bring  our  banish’d  hame  again ; 

And  ilk  loyal  bonnie  lad 

Cress  the  seas  and  win  his  ainT 


(fora  0 tjjt  Datj. 

Tune — Guidwife , Count  the  Lawin. 

Gane  is  the  day,  and  mirk’s  the  night. 
But  we’ll  ne’er  stray  for  fau’t  o’  light. 
For  ale  and  brandy’s  stars  and  moon. 
And  bluid-red  wine’s  the  rising  sun. 

Then  guidwife,  count  the  lawin. 

The  lawin,  the  lawin  ; 

Then  guidwife,  count  the  lawin. 
And  bring  a coggie  mair ; 

There’s  wealth  and  ease  for  gentlemen. 
And  simple  folk  maun  fight  and  fen; 
But  here  we’re  a’  in  ae  accord, 

For  ilka  man  that’s  drunk’s  a lord. 

My  coggie  is  a haly  pool. 

That  heals  the  wounds  o’  care  and  dool ; 
And  pleasure  is  a wanton  trout, 

An  ye  drink  but  deep  ye’ll  find  him  out, 


ftljt  ft itjjrr  Slant. 

Tune — To  a Highland  air , 

Tiie  tither  morn,  when  I forlorn 
Aneath  an  aik  sat  moaning, 

I did  na  trow.  I’d  see  my  jo. 

Beside  me,  gain  thr  gloaming. 


But  he  sae  trig,  lap  o’er  the  rig. 

And  dawtingly  did  cheer  me, 

When  I,  what  reck,  did  least  expec'. 

To  see  my  lad  so  near  me. 

His  bonnet  he,  a thought  ajee. 

Cock’d  sprush  when  first  he  clasp’d  me; 

And  I,  I wat,  wi’  fainness  grat. 

While  in  his  grips  he  press’d  me. 

Deil  tak  the  war ! I late  and  air, 

Hae  wish’d  since  Jock  departed; 

But  now  as  glad  I’m  wi  my  lad. 

As  short  syne  broken-hearted. 

Fu’  aft  at  e’en  wi’  dancing  keen. 

When  a’  were  blythe  and  merry, 

I car’d  na  by,  sae  sad  was  I, 

In  absence  o’  my  dearie. 

But,  praise  be  blest,  my  mind’s  at  rest, 

I’m  happy  wi’  my  Johnny  : 

At  kirk  and  fair,  I’se  aye  be  there^ 

And  be  as  canty’s  ony. 


<fatt  Skat  mt  akr  in  ftjarlia. 

Tune — O’er  the  Water  to  Charlie. 

Come  boat  me  o’er,  come  row  me  o’er. 
Come  boat  me  o’er  to  Charlie ; 

I’ll  gie  John  Ross  another  bawbee. 

To  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie. 

We’ll  o’er  the  water  and  o’er  the  sea. 
We’ll  o’er  the  water  to  Charlie; 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  we’ll  gather  and  go 
And  live  or  die  wi’  Charlie. 

I loe  weel  my  Charlie’s  name 
Tho’  some  there  be  abhor  him : 

But  oh,  to  see  auld  Nick  gaun  hame. 

And  Charlie’s  face  before  him  ! 

I ^vear  and  vow  by  moon  and  star% 

And  sun  that  shines  so  early. 

If  I had  twenty  thousand  lives, 

I’d  die  as  aft  for  Charlie. 


St  is  ni,  Stan,  tjnj  Skanii  /its. 

Tune — The  Maid's  CompluisJ. 

It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonnie  face 
Nor  shape  that  I admire, 

Altho’  thy  beauty  and  thy  grao» 

Might  weel  awake  desire. 

Something,  in  ilka  part  o’  thee. 

To  praise,  to  love,  I find ; 

But  dear  as  is  thy  form  to  me. 

Still  dearer  is  thy  mind. 


AS  I WAS  A-WANDERING. 


251 


Nae  mair  ungen’rous  wish  I hae. 
Nor  stronger  in  my  breast, 
Than  if  I canna  mak  thee  sae. 

At  least  to  see  thee  blest. 
Content  am  I,  if  Heaven  shall  give 
But  happiness  to  thee : 

And  as  wi’  thee  I’d  wish  to  live, 
Tor  thee  I’d  bear  to  die. 


% jnre  a ‘Huff  a'  imj  fin.  (389) 

Tune — Naebody . 

I hae  a wife  o’  my  ain — 

I’ll  partake  wi’  naebody; 

I’ll  tak  cuckold  frae  nane. 

I’ll  gie  cuckold  to  naebody. 

I hae  a penny  to  spend. 

There — thanks  to  naebody ; 

I hae  naething  to  lend. 

I’ll  borrow  frae  naebody. 

I am  naebody’s  lord — 

I’ll  be  slave  to  naebody; 

I hae  a guid  braid  sword. 

I’ll  tak  dunts  frae  naebody 

I’ll  be  merry  and  free, 

I’ll  be  sad  for  naebody ; 

If  naebody  care  for  me, 

I’ll  care  for  naebody. 


■TOilllsMj’B  tiWrmm;  Straif. 

Tiie  noble  Maxwells  and  their  powers 
Are  coming  o’er  the  border, 

And  they’ll  gae  bigg  Terreagles  toward 
And  set  them  a’  in  order. 

And  they  declare  Terreagles  fair. 

For  their  abode  they  chuse  it ; 
There’s  no  a heart  in  a’  the  land, 

But’s  lighter  at  the  news  o’t. 

Tho’  stars  in  skies  may  disappear, 

And  angry  tempests  gather. 

The  happy  hour  may  soon  be  near 
That  brings  us  pleasant  weather: 

The  weary  night  o’  care  and  grief 
May  hae  a joyful  morrow  ; 

So  dawning  day  has  brought  relief— • 
Fareweel  our  night  o’  sorrow  l 


fflil  ffnllirr  ICaiiM*. 

Tune — The  Collier  Laddie . 

Where  live  ye,  my  bonnie  lass  ? 

And  tell  me  what  they  ca’  ye ; 

My  name,  she  says,  is  Mistress  Jean, 
And  I follow  the  Collier  Laddie. 


My  name,  she  says,  is  Mistre3s  Jean, 

And  I follow  the  Collier  Laddie. 

See  you  not  yon  hills  and  dales, 

The  sun  shines  on  sae  brawlie  ! 

They  a’  are  mine,  and  they  shall  be  thine. 
Gin  ye’ll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

They  a’  are  mine,  and  they  shall  be  tiling 
Gin  ye’ll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

Ye  shall  gang  in  gay  attire, 

Weel  buskit  up  sae  gaudy ; 

And  ane  to  wait  on  every  hand, 

Gin  ye’ll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie, 

And  ane  to  wait  on  every  hand. 

Gin  ye’ll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

Tho’  ye  had  a’  the  sun  shines  on, 

And  the  earth  conceals  sae  lowly; 

I wad  turn  my  back  on  you  and  it  a*. 

And  embrace  my  Collier  Laddie. 

I wad  turn  my  back  on  you  and  it  a*. 

And  embrace  my  Collier  Laddie. 

I can  win  my  five  “pennies  in  a day. 

And  spen ’t  at  night  fu’  brawlie; 

And  make  my  bed  in  the  Collier’s  neuk. 
And  lie  down  wi’  my  Collier  Laddie, 

And  make  my  bed  in  the  Collier’s  neuk. 
And  lie  down  wi’  my  Collier  Laddie. 

Luve  for  luve  is  the  bargain  for  me, 

Tho’  the  wee  cot-house  should  hand  me; 

And  the  world  before  me  to  win  my  bread. 
And  fair  fa’  my  Collier  Laddie. 

And  the  world  before  me  to  win  my  bread. 
And  fair  fa’  my  Collier  Laddie. 


1b  S mas  a-Waitircriitj. 

Tune — Rinn  Meudial  mo  Mliealladh. 

As  I was  a-wandering  ane  midsummer  e’enin*. 
The  pipers  and  youngsters  were  making 
their  game ; 

Amang  them  I spied  my  faithless  fause  lover. 
Which  bled  a’  the  wounds  o’  my  dolour 
again. 

Weel,  since  he  has  left  me,  my  pleasure 
gae  wi’  him ; [plain. 

I may  be  distress’d,  but  I winna  com- 
I flatter  my  fancy  I may  get  anither. 

My  heart 'it  shall  never  be  broken  fof 
ane. 

I couldna  get  sleeping  till  dawin  for  greeting 
The  tears  trickled  down  like  the  hail  and 
the  rain ; 

Had  I na  got  greetin’,  my  heart  wad  a broken, 
For  oh ! love  forsaken’s  a tormenting  pain. 


23 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


252 

Although  he  has  left  me  for  greed  o’  the 
siller, 

I dinna  envy  him  the  gains  he  can  win ; 

I rather  wad  bear  a’  the  lade  o’  my  sorrow 
Than  ever  hae  acted  sae  faithless  to  him. 


farnlritrs  bij  flamr. 

Tune — Ye  Jacobites  by  Name. 

Ye  Jacobitesby  name,  give  an  ear, give  an  ear ; 
Ye  Jacobites  by  name,  give  an  ear ; 

Ye  Jacobites  by  name. 

Your  fautes  I will  proclaim, 

Your  doctrines  I maun  blame— 
You  shall  hear. 

What  is  right  and  what  is  wrang,  by  the  law, 
by  the  law  ? [law  ? 

What  is  right  and  what  is  wrang  by  the 
What  is  right  and  what  is  wrang? 

A short  sword  and  a lang, 

A weak  arm,  and  a strang 
For  to  draw. 

What  makes  heroic  strife,  fam’d  afar,  fam’d 
afar  ? 

What  makes  heroic  strife,  fam’d  afar  ? 
What  makes  heroic  strife  ? 

To  whet  th’  assassin’s  knife. 

Or  hunt  a parent’s  life 
* Wi’  bluidie  wrar. 

Then  let  your  schemes  alone,  in  the  state,  in 
the  state ; 

Then  let  your  schemes  alone  in  the  state ; 
Then  let  your  schemes  alone. 

Adore  the  rising  sun. 

And  leave  a man  undone 
To  his  fate. 


ICalrij  3Harg  Snit. 

Tune — Craigtown’s  growing. 

Oil,  Lady  Mary  Ann  looked  o’er  the  casfle 
va’ ; 

She  saw  three  bonnie  boys  playing  at  the  ba’ ; 

The  youngest  he  was  the  flower  amang  thorn 
a’ — [yet. 

My  bonnie  laddie’s  young,  but  he’s  growin’ 

Oh  father ! oh  father ! an  ye  think  it  fit. 

We’ll  send  him  a year  to  the  college  yet : 

We’ll  sew  a green  ribbon  round  about  his  hat, 
And  that  will  let  them  ken  he’s  to  marry 
yet. 

Lady  Mary  Ann  was  a flower  i’  the  dew. 

Sweet  was  its  smell,  and  bonnie  was  its  hue ; 

And  the  langer  it  blossom’d  the  sweeter  it 
grew : [yet. 

For  the  lily  in  the  bud  will  be  bonnier 


Young  Charlie  Cochrane  was  the  sprout  of 
an  aik ; [make% 

Bonnie  and  bloomin’  and  straught  w as  it : 

The  sun  took  delight  to  shine  for  its  sake. 
And  it  will  be  the  brag  o’  the  forest  yet. 

The  simmer  is  gane  when  the  leaves  the;} 
were  green. 

And  the  days  are  awa  that  we  hac  seen  ; 

But  far  better  days  I trust  will  come  again. 
For  my  bonnie  laddie’s  young,  but  he’* 
growin’  yet. 


M nnrr  ifir  fatjj. 

Tune — Charlie  Gordon's  Welcome  Herns. 

Out  over  the  Forth  I look  to  the  north. 

But  what  is  the  north  and  its  Highland* 
to  me? 

The  south  nor  the  east  gie  ease  to  my  breast. 
The  far  foreign  land,  or  the  wild-rolling  sea. 

But  I look  to  the  west,  when  I gae  to  rest. 
That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumber* 
may  be ; 

For  far  in  the  w^est  lives  he  I loe  best. 

The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me. 


Snrkrg’s  tarn  ijir  farting  Hiss. 

Tune — Jockey's  taen  the  Parting  Kiss, 

Jockey’s  taen  the  parting  kiss. 

O’er  the  mountains  he  is  gane ; 

And  within  him  is  a’  my  bliss. 

Nought  but  griefs  with  me  remain 

Spare  my  luve,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 

Plashy  sleets  and  beating  rain ! 

Spare  my  luve,  thou  feathery  snawr, 
Drifting  o’er  the  frozen  plain 

When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 
O’er  the  day’s  fair,  gladsome  ee, 

Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep. 

Sweetly  blythe  his  waukening  be! 

He  will  think  on  her  he  loves, 

Fondly  he’ll  repeat  her  name ; 

For  where’er  he  distant  roves, 

Jockey’s  heart  is  still  at  karne. 


Cfir  fairs  n'  Dgssrt 

Tune — Hey  ca ' thro* 

Up  wi’  the  carles  o’  Dysart, 

And  the  lads  o’  Buckhavea, 
And  the  kimmers  o’  Largo, 

And  the  lasses  o’  Levea. 


SAE  FAR  AWA. 


253 


Hey,  ca’  thro’,  ca’  thro’. 

For  we  hae  mickle  ado ; 
Hey,  ca’  thro’,  ca’  thro’. 

For  we  hae  mickle  ado. 

We  hae  tales  to  tell. 

And  we  hae  sangs  to  sing ; 
We  hae  pennies  to  spend. 

And  we  hae  pints  to  bring. 

We’ll  live  a’  our  days. 

And  them  that  come  bellin’. 
Let  them  do  the  like, 

And  spend  the  gear  they  win. 


ftaiitj  <Mir, 

Tune — The  Ruffian's  Rant. 

h*  the  lads  o’  Thornie-bank, 

When  they  gae  to  the  shore  o’  Bucky, 
They’ll  step  in  and  tak  a pint 
Wi’  Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky  ! 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky, 

Brews  guid  ale  at  shore  o’  Bucky ! 
I wish  her  sale  for  her  guid  ale, 

The  best  on  a’  the  shore  o’  Bucky. 

Her  house  sae  bien,  her  curch  sae  clean, 

I wat  she  is  a dainty  chucky ; 

A.nd  cheerlie  blinks  the  ingle-gleed 
Of  Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky ! 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky, 

Brews  guid  ale  at  shore  o’  Bucky ; 
I wish  her  sale  for  her  guid  ale, 

The  best  on  a’  the  shore  o’  Bucky. 


^oitiig  Samir,  piirr  nf  a’  tl;r  pain, 

Tune — The  Carlin  o'  the  Glen. 

Young  Jamie,  pride  of  a’  the  plain, 

Sae  gallant  and  sae  gay  a swain ; 

Thro’  a’  our  lasses  he  did  rove. 

And  reigned  resistless  king  of  love: 

But  now  wi’  sighs  and  starting  tears. 

He  strays  amang  the  woods  and  briers; 

Or  in  the  glens  and  rocky  caves 
His  sad  complaining  dowie  raves. 

I wha  sae  late  did  range  and  rove. 

And  chang’d  with  every  moon  my  love, 

I little  thought  the  time  was  near. 
Repentance  I should  buy  sae  dear : 

The  slighted  maids  my  torment  see. 

And  laugh  at  a’  the  pangs  I dree : 

W hile  she,  my  cruel,  scornfu’  fai^, 

F orbids  me  e’er  tb  see  her  mair ! 


Srnntj's  a’  mat,  par  Sairg. 

Tune — Coming  through  the  Rye, 

Coming  through  the  rye,  poor  body. 
Coming  through  the  rye. 

She  draiglet  a ’ her  petticoatie. 

Coming  through  the  rye. 

Jenny’s  a’  wat,  poor  body, 

Jenny’s  seldom  dry  ; 

She  draiglet  a’  her  petticoatie^ 
Coming  through  the  rye. 

Gin  a body  meet  a body 
Coming  through  the  rye, 

Gin  a body  kiss  a body, 

Need  a body  cry  ? 

Gin  a body  meet  a body 
Coming  through  the  glen, 

Gin  a body  kiss  a body. 

Need  the  world  ken  ? 


f jtr  Carlin’  n’t. 

Tune — Salt-Jish  and  Dumplings 

I co ft  a stane  o’  haslock  woo’. 

To  make  a wat  to  Johnny  o’t ; 

For  Johnny  is  my  only  jo, 

I loe  him  best  of  ony  yet. 

The  cardin’  o’t,  the  spinnin’  o’t. 
The  warpin’  o’t,  the  winnin*  o’t ; 
When  ilka  ell  cost  me  a groat. 

The  tailor  staw  the  linin  o’t. 

For  though  his  locks  be  lyart  grey. 

And  though  his  brow  be  beld  abooa  > 
Yet  I hae  seen  him  on  a day. 

The  pride  of  a’  the  parish  en. 


®n  fljrr,  Imrl  llittr. 

To  thee,  lov’d  Nith,  thy  gladsome  plaint. 
Where  late  wi’  careless  thought  I rang’d, 
Though  prest  wi’  care  and  sunk  in  woe. 

To  thee  I bring  a heart  unchang’d. 

I love  thee,  Nith,  thy  banks  and  braes, 

Tho’  mem’ry  there  my  bosom  tear ; 

For  there  he  rov’d  that  brake  my  heart. 

Yet  to  that  heart,  ah ! still  how  dear  I 


far  far  Sara. 

Tune — Dalkeith  Maiden  Bridge . 

On,  sad  and  heavy  should  I part. 

But  for  her  sake  sae  far  awa ; 
Unknowing  what  my  way  may  thwart 
My  native  land  sae  far  awa. 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Sal 


Thou  that  of  a'  things  Maker  art. 

That  form’d  this  fair  sae  far  awa, 

Gie  body  strength,  then  I’ll  ne’er  start 
At  this  my  way  sae  far  awa. 

How  true  is  love  to  pure  desert. 

So  love  to  her,  sae  far  awa : 

And  nocht  can  heal  my  bosom’s  smart, 
While,  oh ! she  is  sae  far  awa. 

Nane  other  love,  nane  other  dart, 

I feel  but  her’s,  sae  far  awa ; 

But  fairer  never  touch’d  a heart 
» Than  her’s,  the  fair  sae  far  awt. 


ia  tittj  Irart. 

Tune — Wae  is  my  Heart. 

Wae  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear’s  in  my  ee; 
Lang,  lang,  joy’s  been  a stranger  to  me : 
Forsaken  and  friendless,  my  burden  I bear. 
And  the  sweet  voice  o’  pity  ne’er  sounds  in 
my  ear. 

Love,  thou  hast  pleasures,  and  deep  hae  I 
loved : [proved ; 

Love,  thou  hast  sorrows,  and  sair  hae  I 
But  this  bruised  heart  that  now  bleeds  in 
my  breast, 

I can  feel  its  throbbings  will  soon  be  at  rest. 

Oh,  if  I were  happy,  where  happy  I hae  been, 
Down  by  yon  stream,  and  yon  bonnie  castle- 
green  ; [me. 

For  there  he  is  wand’ring,  and  musing  on 
Wha  wad  soon  dry  the  tear  frae  Phillis’s  ee. 


Imang  tlji  fms. 

Tune — The  King  of  France , he  rade  a Race. 

Amang  the  trees  where  humming  bees 
At  buds  and  flowers  were  hinging,  O, 

Auld  Caledon  drew  out  her  drone. 

And  to  her  pipe  was  singing,  O ; 

*Twas  pibroch,  sang,  strathspey,  or  reels. 

She  dirl’d  them  alf  fu’  clearly,  O, 

When  there  cam  a yell  o’  foreign  squcels, 
That  dang  her  tapsalteerie,  O. 

Their  capon  craws  and  queer  ha,  ha’s. 

They  made  our  lugs  grow  eerie,  O j 
The  hungry  bike  did  scrape  and  pike 

Till  we  were  wae  and  weary,  O.  [ 

But  a royal  ghaist  wha  ance  was  cas’d, 

A prisoner  aughteen  year  awa. 

He  fir’d  a fiddler  in  the  North 
That  dang  them  tapsalteerie,  O, 


fl;?  figiiiaml  EaMfo. 

Tune — If  thou’lt  Play  me  Fair  Pi&£ 
The  bonniest  lad  that  e’er  I saw, 

Bonnie  laddie,  Highland  laddie^ 

Wore  a plaid,  and  was  fu’  braw, 

Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 

On  his  head  a bonnet  blue, 

Bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  5 
His  royal  heart  was  firm  and  true, 
Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 

Trumpets  sound,  and  cannons  roay, 
Bonnie  lassie.  Lowland  lassie ; 

And  a’  the  hills  wi’  echoes  roar, 

Bonnie  Lowland  lassie. 

Glory,  honour,  now  invite, 

Bonnie  lassie.  Lowland  lassie. 

For  freedom  and  my  king  to  fight, 
Bonnie  Lowland  lassie. 

The  sun  a backward  course  shall  tal&i 
Bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie. 

Ere  aught  thy  manly  courage  shaken 
Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 

Go  ! for  yourself  procure  renown, 
Bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie ; 

And  for  your  lawful  king  his  crown, 
Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 


f annnrks  n’  $arbg. 

Tune — The  Killogie . 

Bannocks  o’  bear  meal. 
Bannocks  o’  barley ; 

Here’s  to  the  Highlandmanii 
Bannocks  o’  barley. 

Wha  in  a brulzie 

Will  first  cry  a parley? 

Never  the  lads  wi’ 

The  bannocks  o’  barley! 

Bannocks  0’  bear  meal. 
Bannocks  o’  barley ; 

Here’s  to  the  lads  wi’ 

The  bannocks  o’  barley ! 

Wha  in  his  wae-days 

Were  loyal  to  Charlie?— • 

Wha  but  the  lads  wi’ 

The  bannocks  o’  barley? 


Jkiiin  IJjurE  in  faint, 

CHORUS. 

Robin  shure  in  hairst^ 

I shure  wi’  him; 

Fient  a heuk  had  I, 

Yet  I stack  by  him. 


THE  LADDIES  BY  THE  BANKS  O’NITH. 


25$ 


I gaed  up  to  Dunse, 

To  warp  a wab  o’  plaiden ; 

At  his  daddie’s  yett, 

Wha  met  me  but  Robin? 

# Was  na  Robin  bauld. 

Though  I was  a cotter. 

Play’d  me  sic  a trick. 

And  me  the  eller’s  dochter? 
Robin  promised  me 
A’  my  winttV  vittle ; 

Kent  haet  he  had  but  three 
Goose  feathers  and  a whittle. 


gniErfest  ffiaq. 

Sweetest  May,  let  love  inspire  thee; 
Take  a heart  which  he  desires  thee ; 

As  thy  constant  slave  regard  it ; 

For  its  faith  and  truth  reward  it. 

Proof  o’  shot  to  birth  or  money. 

Not  the  wealthy  but  the  bonnie ; 

Not  high-born,  but  noble-minded. 

In  love’s  silken  band  can  bind  it. 


®jlE  lm  nf  felrftriian. 

Tune — Jacky  Latin . 

>*at  ye  me,  oh  gat  ye  me, 

Oh  gat  ye  me  wi’  naething 
Rock  and  reel,  and  spinnin’  wheel, 

A mickle  quarter  basin. 

Bye  attour,  my  gutcher  has 
A hich  house  and  a laigh  ane, 

A’  forbye  my  bonnie  sel’. 

The  lass  of  Ecclefechan. 

Oh  haud  your  tongue  now,  Luckie  Laing, 
Oh  hand  your  tongue  and  januier ; 

I held  the  gate  till  you  I met, 

Syne  I began  to  wander  : 

I tint  my  whistle  and  my  sang, 

I tint  my  peace  and  pleasure : 

But  your  green  graff,  now,  Luckie  Laing, 
Wad  airt  me  to  my  treasure. 


$Err*5  a fnitlr  anil  aa  Jknrst  /ricn&. 

Here's  a bottle  and  an  honest  friend  1 
Wha  wad  ye  wish  for  mair,  man  ? 

Wha  kens,  before  his  life  may  end, 

What  his  share  may  be  o’  care,  man  ? 
Then  catch  the  moments  as  they  fly, 

And  use  them  as  ye  ought,  man 
Believe  me,  happiness  is  shy, 

And  comes  na  aye  when  sought,  man. 


<!!>ir  a fJlnngfyatait. 

As  I was  & w&.id’ring  ane  morning  in  spring. 

I heard  a young  ploughman  sae  sweetly  tt 
sing; 

And  as  he  was  singing  these  words,  he  did  say. 

There’s  nae  life  like  the  ploughman’s  in  the 
month  o’  sweet  May. 

The  lav’rock  in  the  morning  she’ll  rise  fr&a 
her  nest,  [breast. 

And  mount  to  the  air  wi’  the  dew  on  her 

And  wi’  the  merry  ploughman  she’ll  whistle 
and  sing,  [again. 

And  at  night  she’ll  return  to  her  nest  back 


C|je  ttranj  ftonlr  a’  ®nm. 

Tune — The  Weary  Puncl  o’  Tow* 

The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund. 
The  weary  pund  o’  tow ; 

I think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 
Before  she  spin  luer  tow. 

I bought  my  wife  a stane  o’  lint 
As  guid  as  e’er  did  grow ; 

And  a’  that  she  has  made  o’  thfit» 

Is  ane  poor  pund  o’  tow. 

There  sat  a bottle  in  a bole, 

Beyont  the  ingle  lowe. 

And  aye  she  took  the  tither  sonk. 

To  drouk  the  stowrie  tow. 

Quoth  I,  for  shame,  ye  dirty  dame* 

Gae  spin  your  tap  o’  tow  ! 

She  took  the  rock,  and  wi’  a knock 
She  brak  it  o’er  my  pow. 

At  last  her  feet — I sang  to  see’t— 
Gaed  foremost  o’er  the  knowe ; 

And  ere  I wad  anither  jad. 

I’ll  wallop  in  a tow. 


Cj!E  faiiiiiES  bt|  ijjE  SBartlrs  n'  Utijr.  ?9(» 

Tune — Up  and  waur  them  a\ 

The  laddies  by  the  banks  o’  Nith, 

Wad  trust  his  Grace  wi’  a’,  Jamie, 

But  he’ll  sair  them  as  he  sair’d  the  kin& 
Turn  tail  and  rin  awa,  Jamie. 

Up  and  waur  them  a’,  Jamie, 

Up  and  waur  them  a’ ; 

The  Johnstones  hae  the  guidin’  1% 

Ye  turncoat  whigs,  awa. 


23* 


BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


m 

The  day  he  stude  his  country’s  friend. 
Or  gied  her  faes  a claw,  Jamie, 

Or  frae  puir  man  a blessin’  wan. 

That  day  the  duke  ne’er  saw,  Jamie. 

But  wlia  is  he,  his  country’s  boast  ? 

Like  him  there  is  na  twa,  Jamie; 
There’s  no  a callant  tents  the  kye. 

But  kens  o’  Westerha’,  Jamie. 

To  end  the  wark,  here’s  Whistlebirck, 
Lang  may  his  whistle  blaw,  Jamie ; 
And  Maxwell  true  o’  sterling  blue. 
And  we’ll  be  Johnstones  a’,  Jamie. 


(Epigrams,  h. 


<$!t  Captain  ®rnsi, 

THE  CELEBRATED  ANTIQUARY.  (391) 

The  Devil  got  notice  that  Grose  was 
a-dying,  [flying ; 

So  whip ! at  the  summons,  old  Satin  came 

But  when  he  approach’d  where  poor  Francis 
lay  moaning, 

And  saw  each  bed-post  with  its  burden  a- 
groaniug  (392), 

A stonish’d,  confounded,  cried  Satan,  “ By 

I’ll  want  ’im,  ere  I take  such  a damnable  load,’ 


€>n  a ItnpnM  Cmtntnj  Ipirj. 

Oh  death,  hadst  thou  but  spar’d  his  life 
Whom  we  this  day  lament, 

We  freely  wad  exchang’d  the  wife^ 

And  a’  been  weel  content. 

E’en  as  he  is,  cauld  in  his  graff. 

The  swap  we  yet  will  do’t ; 

Tak  thou  the  carlin’s  carcase  aff, 

Thou’se  get  the  saul  to  boot. 


Snntijtr  nit  l;i5  UDitrntn. 

One  Queen  Artemisia,  as  old  stories  tell. 
When  deprived  of  her  husband  she  loved  so 
well,  [show’d  her. 

In  respect  for  the  love  and  affection  he 
She  reduc’d  him  to  dust,  and  she  drank  off 
the  powder. 


But  Queen  Netherplace,  of  a different  com* 
plexion,  [tion. 

When  call’d  on  to  order  the  fun’ral  direc- 
Would  have  ate  her  dead  lord,  on  a slender 
pretence,  [expense ! 

Not  to  show  her  respect,  but — to  save  the 


<f>n  Clppitsiuitc’* 

translations  nf  JEartial’j  Epigrams. 

(393) 

Oh  thou,  whom  poesy  abhors. 

Whom  prose  has  turned  out  of  doors, 
Heard’st  thou  that  groan — proceed  no 
further ; 

Twas  laurelled  Martial  roaring  murtherl 


Cn  JHiss  % $raft,  nf  51  gr. 

Oh  ! had  each  Scot  of  ancient  times. 
Been  Jeany  Scott,  as  thou  art; 

The  bravest  heart  on  English  gruund. 
Had  yielded  like  a coward. 


an  Sllitrrafr  Crnflrman, 

WHO  HAD  A FINE  LIBRARY. 

Free  through  the  leaves,  ye  maggots,  make 
your  windings ; [bindings  f 

But  for  the  owner’s  sake,  oh  spare  the 


SBrittrn 

UNDER  THE  PICTURE  OF  MISS  BURNS,  (394) 

Cease,  ye  prudes,  your  envious  railings* 
Lovely  Burns  has  charms — confess  : 

Ti-ue  it  is,  she  had  one  failing— 

Had  a woman  ever  less  ? 


•fimttra  bh  a aUinirnm  nf  flit  Sns 

AT  CARRON. 

We  cam  na  here  to  view  your  warke 
In  hopes  to  be  mair  wise. 

But  only,  lest  we  gang  to  hell. 

It  may  be  nae  surprise : 

But  whan  we  tirled  at  your  door. 

Your  porter  dought  ua  hear  us; 

Sae  may,  should  we  to  hell’s  yetts  come* 
Your  billy  Satau  sair  us  I 


ON  THE  EARL  OF  * * * • 


257 


'Sfrithn  na  a 1$m  nf  (©lass 

IN  THE  INN  AT  MOFFAT.  (395) 

Ask  why  God  made  the  gem  so  small. 
And  why  so  huge  the  granite  ? 
Because  God  meant  mankind  should  set 
The  higher  value  on  it. 


/raptrat.  (396) 

The  black-headed  eagle 
At  keen  as  a beagle, 

He  hunted  owre  height  and  owre  howe ; 
But  fell  in  a trap 
On  the  braes  o’  Gemappe, 

E’en  let  him  come  out  as  he  dowe. 


Snrinilitij  slumm  jjint  at  Swrriranj. 

(397) 

Whoe’er  he  be  that  sojourns  here, 

I pity  much  his  case, 

Unless  he  come  to  wait  upon 
The  Lord  their  God,  his  Grace. 

There’s  naething  here  but  Highland  pride. 
And  Highland  scab  and  hunger; 

If  providence  has  sent  me  here, 

’Twas  surely  in  his  anger. 


lijjjjtanti  Saspitalitii.  (398) 
When  death’s  dark  stream  I ferry  o’er, 
A time  that  surely  shall  come. 

In  Heaven  itself  I’ll  ask  no  more. 

Than  just  a Highland. welcome 


X inra  ait  ffliss  Utmlilt. 

Kemble,  thou  cur’st  my  unbelief 
Of  Moses  and  his  rod ; 

At  Yarico’s  sweet  notes  of  grief 
The  rock  with  tears  had  flow’d. 


t|s  IRitk  st  Xaminghra. 

A cauld  day  December  blew, 

A cauld  kirk,  and  in’t  but  few, 

A caulder  minister  never  spak — 
They’ll  a’  be  warm  ere  I come  back. 

a 


fnlmtt  Xragtre  anil  Cmrmant. 

(399) 

The  Solemn  League  and  Covenant 

Cost  Scotland  blood — cost  Scotland  tearc: 
But  it  seal’d  freedom’s  sacred  cause — 

If  thou’rt  a slave,  indulge  thy  sneers. 


$n  a firtain  ^arsnn’s  funks. 

That  there  is  falsehood  in  his  look# 
I must  and  will  deny ; 

They  say  their  master  is  a knave— 
And  sure  they  do  not  lie. 


<f>n  #mug  ike  ffitairtifnl  fiat 

OF  THE  EARL  OF  • . • * • 

What  dost  thou  in  that  mansion  fair?—’ 
Flit,  * * * * and  find 
Some  narrow,  dirty,  dungeon  cave. 

The  picture  of  thy  mind ! 


ijit  farl  nf  • • • * 

No  Stewart  art  thou,  * * * * 

The  Stewarts  all  were  brave ; 

Besides,  the  Stewarts  were  but  fooll. 
Not  one  of  them  a knave. 

Oil  the  Same . 

Bright  ran  thy  line,  oh  * * * * 
Thro’  many  a far-farn’d  sire ! 

' So  ran  the  far-fam’d  Roman  way* 

So  ended  in  a mire. 

To  the  Same, 

ON  THE  AUTHOR  BEING  THREATENS# 
WITH  HIS  RESENTMENT. 

Spare  me  thy  vengeance,  * * * * 

In  quiet  let  me  live : 

I ask  no  kindness  at  thy  hand. 

For  thou  hast  none  to  giv«. 


258 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORR&. 


®n  pit  /l'llura, 

WITO  IN  COMPANY  ENGROSSED  THE  CONVERS 4TION 
WITH  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  H*S  GREAT  CONNEXIONS. 

No  more  of  your  titled  acquaintances  boast. 
And  what  nobles  and  gentles  you’ve  seen ; 
An  insect  'is  still  but  an  insect  at  most, 

Tlio’  it  crawl  on  the  curl  of  a Queen  1 


Ityittnt  mt  a ^ani  nf  ©te, 

ON  THE  OCCASION  OP  A NATIONA 
THANKSGIVING  FOR  A NAVAL  VICTORY 
Ye  hypocrites ! are  these  your  pranks? — 
To  murder  men,  and  gie  God  thanks ! 

For  shame  ! gie  o’er,  proceed  no  further — 
God  won’t  accept  your  thanks  for  murther  1 


ft jjs  ftrn?  lni|al  Satinri  (400) 

Ye  true  " Loyal  Natives,”  attend  to  my  song 
In  uproar  and  riot  rejoice  the  night  long : 
From  envy  and  hatred  your  corps  is  exempt; 
But  where  is  your  shield  from  the  darts  o’ 
contempt  ? 


Susrriptian  an  a (Poblpt. 

There’s  death  in  the  cup — sae  beware! 

Nay,  more — there  is  danger  in  touching; 
But  *La  can  avoid  the  fell  snare? 

The  man  and  his  wine’s  sae  bewitching  l 


fxfpmpntp  an  $r.  $p*. 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or 
not, 

And  cookery  the  first  in  the  nation  ; 
ft’ho  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse  and 
wit, 

Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 


ftn  3Hr,  £ptp, 

WITH  A PRESENT  OF  A DOZEN  OF  PORTER. 

Oh,  had  the  malt  thy  strength  of  mind. 
Or  hops  the  flavour  of  thy  wit, 

*Twere  drink  for  first  of  human  kind, 

A gift  that  e’en  for  Syme  were  fit. 


ftjtf  ffrrrti  nf  ^anrrfij,  (40i> 

In  politics  if  thou  would’st  mix, 

A nd  mean  thy  fortunes  be, 

Bear  this  in  mind : — be  deaf  and  blind* 
Let  great  folks  hear  and  see. 


•UMftrn  in  a fairi]’s  $nrkpi-Snnft. 

Grant  me,  indulgent  Heav’n,  that  I may 
live,  [ghe. 

To  see  the  miscreants  feel  the  pains  they 
Deal  freedom’s  sacred  treasures  free  as  air. 
Till  slave  and  despot  be  but  things  which 
were. 


ftn  I njjtt  ftaijlnr.  (402) 

With  Pegasus  upon  a day, 

Apollo  weary  flying. 

Through  frosty  hills  the  journey  lay* 
On  foot  the  way  was  plying. 

Poor  slip-shod  giddy  Pegasu# 

Was  but  a sorry  walker; 

To  Vulcan  then  Apollo  goes, 

To  get  a frosty  calker. 

Obliging  Vulcan  fell  to  work. 

Threw  by  his  coat  and  bonnet. 

And  did  Sol’s  business  in  a crack; 
Sol  paid  him  with  a sonnet. 

Ye  Vulcan’s  sons  of  Wanlockhead* 
Pity  my  sad  disaster ; 

My  Pegasus  is  poorly  shod— 

I’ll  pay  you  like  my  master. 


ftn  Miss  /nntcnrlln, 

ON  SEEING  HER  IN  A FAVOURIT1 
CHARACTER. 

Sweet  naivete  of  feature. 

Simple,  wild,  enchanting  elf. 

Not  to  thee,  but  thanks  to  Nature, 
Thou  art  acting  but  thyself. 

Wert  thou  awkward,  stiff,  affected. 
Spurning  nature,  torturing  art ; 
loves  and  graces  all  rejected, 

Tien  indeed  thou’d’st  act  a part; 


GRACES  BEFORE  MEAT. 


299 


©lit  fast.  (403) 

Instead  of  a song,  boys.  I’ll  give  you  a 
toast — 

Here’s  the  memory  of  those  on  the  twelth 
that  we  lost ! — 

That  we  lost,  did  I say?  nay,  by  Heav’n, 
that  we  found ; 

For  their  fame  it  shall  last  while  the  world 
goes  round.  [King! 

The  next  in  succession.  I’ll  give  you — the 
Whoe’er  would  betray  him,  on  high  may  he 
swing ; [tution. 

And  here’s  the  grand  fabric,  our  free  Consti- 
As  built  on  the  base  of  the  great  Revolution ; 
And  longer  with  politics  not  to  be  cramm’d. 
Be  Anarchy  curs’d,  and  be  Tyranny  damn’d : 
And  who  would  to  Liberty  e’er  prove  disloyal. 
May  his  son  be  a hangman,  and  he  his  first 
trial. 


fatsfittra  Itninraal, 

WRITTEN  ON  A WINDOW.  (404) 

Ye  men  of  wit  and  wealth,  why  all  this  sneer- 
ing [hearing, 

’Gainst  poor  excisemen?  give  the  cause  a 
What  are  your  landlords’  rent-rolls  ? teazing 
ledgers : [mighty  gaugers : 

What  premiers — what  ? even  monarchs’ 
Nay,  what  are  priests,  those  seeming  godly 
wise  men  ? 

What  are  they,  pray,  but  spiritual  excisemen  ? 


©n  Sr.  ftkrarell, 

ON  MISS  JESSY  STAIG’S  RECOVERY. 

Maxwell,  if  merit  here  you  crave. 

That  merit  I deny — 

You  save  fair  Jessy  from  the  grave ! 

An  angel  could  not  die. 


<f>n  Stsstj  1 mars,  (405) 

Talk  not  to  me  of  savages 
From  Afric’s  burning  sun ; 

No  savage  e’er  could  rend  ray  heart. 
As,  Jessy,  thou  hast  done. 

But  Jessy’s  lovely  hand  in  mine, 

A mutual  faith  to  plight. 

Not  even  to  view  the  heavenly  choir 
Would  be  so  blest  a sight. 


Toast  to  the  Same.  (406) 

Fill  me  with  the  rosy  wine. 

Call  a toast — a toast  divine  ; 
Give  the  poet’s  darling  flame^ 
Lovely  Jessy  be  the  name; 

Then  thou  mayest  freely  boast 
Thou  hast  given  a peerless  toast. 


Epitaph  on  the  Same.  (407) 

Say,  sages,  what’s  the  charm  on  earth 
Can  turn  death's  dart  aside? 

It  is  not  purity  and  worth. 

Else  Jessy  had  not  died. 


To  the  Sam*. 

But  rarely  seen  since  Nature’s  birth. 
The  natives  of  the  sky ; 

Yet  still  one  seraph’s  left  on  earth. 
For  Jessy  did  not  die. 


farrs  Mart  JKrut. 

Some  hae  meat  and  canna  eat. 

And  some  would  eat  that  want  it. 
But  we  hae  meat,  and  we  can  eat, 
Sae  let  the  Lord  be  thankit. 


Oh  Thou,  who  kindly  dost  provide 
For  every  creature’s  wrant ! 

We  bless  Thee,  God  of  Nature  wide. 
For  all  thy  goodness  lent : 

And,  if  it  please  Thee,  heavenly  guide. 
May  never  worse  be  sent ; 

But  whether  granted  or  denied. 

Lord,  bless  us  with  content  1 Amen 


Oh  Thou,  in  whom  we  live  and  move 
Who  mad’st  the  sea  and  shore ; 
Thy  goodness  constantly  we  prove. 
And  grateful  would  adore. 

And  if  it  please  thee,  Pow’r  above. 
Still  grant  us,  wdth  such  store. 

The  friend  we  trust,  the  fair  we  love^ 
And  we  desire  no  more. 


m 


BURNS’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


if  tfflpjji 


<tf>n  fjjr  Sniljnr's  /aifirr. 

Oh  ye  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  staims, 
Draw  near  with  pious  rev’rence  and  attend ! 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband’s  dear  remains. 
The  tender  father,  and  the  gen’rous  friend. 
The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  woe ; 
The  dauntless  heart  that  fear’d  no  human 
pride ; 

The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a foe ; 

“Tor  ev’n  his  failings  lean’d  to  virtue’s 
side.”  (408) 


dta  8 Irnprrk’ir  tantnj  fpirr. 

As  father  Adam  first  was  fool’d, 

A case  that’s  still  too  common. 

Here  lies  a man  a woman  rul’d. 

The  devil  rul’d  the  woman 


$a  a tabrairir  Ruling  flirrr. 

Here  souter  Hood  in  death  does  sleep — 
To  hell,  if  he’s  gane  thither. 

Satan,  gie  him  the  gear  to  keep 
He’ll  hand  it  weel  tliegither. 


$8  a fiaisq  'fnlrntir,  (409) 

Below  these  stanes  lie  Jamie’s  banes: 
Oh  Death,  it’s  my  opinion. 

Thou  ne’er  took  such  a bleth’rin  bitch 
Into  thy  dark  dominion  1 


<fl>n  Stfri  ®njinnt|.  («o) 

HIC  JACET  WEE  JOHNNY. 

Whoe’er  thou  art,  oh  reader,  know. 
That  death  has  murder’d  Johnny  1 
And  here  his  body  lies  fu’  low— 

For  snul  he  ne’er  had  ony. 


<fl>n  Snljn  Snnt. 

INNKEEPER,  MAHCHLINB. 
Here  lies  Johnny  Pidgeon; 

What  was  his  religion  ? 

Wha  e’er  desires  to  ken. 

To  some  other  warl’ 

Maun  follow  the  carl, 

For  here  Johnny  Pidgeon  had  none ! 

Strong  ale  was  ablution — 

Small  beer,  persecution, 

A dram  was  memento  mori; 

But  a full  flowing  bowl 
Was  the  joy  of  his  soul. 

And  port  was  celestial  glory. 


/nr  Unimt  liken,  fsg. 

Know  thou,  oh  stranger  to  the  fame 
Of  this  much  lov’d,  much  honour’d  namaH 
(For  none  that  knew  him  need  be  told) 

A wrarmer  heart  death  ne’er  made  cold. 


<Un  a /rirait. 

An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest 
As  e’er  God  with  his  image  blest ! 

The  friend  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth ; 
The  friend  of  age,  and  guide  of  youth ; 
Few  hearts  like  his,  with  virtue  warm’d. 
Few  heads  with  knowledge  so  inform’d ; 
If  there’s  another  world,  he  lives  in  bliss ; 
If  there  is  none,  he  made  the  best  of  this. 


/nr  (tain  iamiltnn. 

The  poor  man  weeps — here  Gavin  sleepy 
Whom  canting  wretches  blam’d  : 

But  with  such  as  he,  where’er  he  be. 

May  I be  sav’d  or  iamn’d  1 


4bn  It' at. 

Sic  a reptile  was  Wat, 

Sic  a miscreant  slave. 

That  the  very  worms  damn’d  him 
When  laid  in  his  grave. 

“ In  his  flesh  there’s  a famine," 

A starv’d  reptile  cries  ; 

“ And  his  heart  is  rank  poison," 
Another  replies. 


ON  A PICTURE. 


4ktt  b ^rjjnntoasttr 

IN  CLEISH  PARISH,  FIFESHIRE. 

Here  lie  Willie  Michie’s  banes. 

Oh  Satan,  when  ye  tak  him, 

Gie  him  the  schoolin’  of  your  weans  ; 
For  clever  deils  he’ll  mak  ’em ! 


4h  Mr.  3#.  faiifalianks. 

Honest  Will’s  to  Heaven  gane. 
And  mony  shall  lament  him ; 
His  faults  they  a’  in  Latin  lay, 

Ik  English  nane  e’er  kent  them. 


/nr  William  Ktrnl, 

Ye  maggots,  feed  on  Nicol’s  brain. 
For  few  sic  feasts  you’ve  gotten ; 
You’ve  got  a prize  o’  Willie’s  heart. 
For  deil  a bit  o’t’s  rotten. 


4f>H  . 

Stop  thief!  dame  Nature  cried  to  Death, 
As  Willie  drew  his  latest  breath ; 

You  have  ray  choicest  model  taen 
Hon  shall  I make  a fool  again  ? 

On  the  Same. 

Rest  gently,  turf,  upon  his  breast, 

His  chicken  heart’s  so  tender ; — 

But  rear  huge  castles  on  his  head, 

His  skull  will  prop  them  under. 


4k a fakrirl  Httjrar&sn*, 

BREWER,  DUMFRIES,  (409) 

Here  Brewer  Gabriel’s  fire’s  extinct. 
And  empty  all  his  barrels  ; 

He’s  blest — if  as  he  brew’d  he  drink— 
In  upright  honest  morals. 


4kn  Snjrn  ® nsjrhij, 

WRITER,  DUMFRIES. 

Hsre  lies  John  Bushby,  honest  man! 
Cheat  him,  devil,  if  you  can. 


4kn  tl;i  firet's  iangSlttr. 

Here  lies  a rose,  a budding  rose. 
Blasted  before  its  bloom ; 

Whose  innocence  did  sweets  disclose 
Beyond  that  flower’s  perfume. 

To  those  who  for  her  loss  are  griev’d. 
This  consolation’s  given — 

She’s  from  a world  of  woe  reliev’d. 
And  blooms  a rose  in  heaven. 


4k a b ^irinrt 

REPRESENTING  JACOB’S  DREAM* 

Dear , I’ll  gie  you  some  advice, 

You’ll  tak  it  no  uncivil : 

You  shouldna  paint  at  angels  mair. 
But  try  and  paint  the  d — L 

To  paint  an  angel’s  kittle  wark, 

Wi’  auld  Nick  there’s  less  danger  § 
You’ll  easy  draw  a weel-kent  face, 

But  no  sae  weel  a stranger. 


m 


Camsjmknre  nf  Sn 


ContHpattkttce  nf  Iie 


m.  i 

>TO  MR  JOHN  MURDOCH,  SCHOOL- 
MASTER, 

STAPLES  INN  BUILDINGS,  LONDON. 

Lochlea,  loth  January,  1783. 
Pear  Sir. — As  I have  an  opportunity  of 
sending  you  a letter  without  putting  you  to 
that  expense  which  any  production  of  mine 
would  but  ill  repay,  I embrace  it  with  plea- 
sure, to  tell  you  that  I have  not  forgotten, 
nor  ever  will  forget,  the  many  obligations  I 
lie  under  to  your  kindness  and  friendship. 

I do  not  doubt,  Sir,  but  you  will  wish  to 
know  what  has  been  the  result  of  all  the 
pains  of  an  indulgent  father  and  a masterly 
teacher,  and  I wish  I could  gratify  your 
curiosity  with  such  a recital  as  you  would  be 
pleased  with ; but  that  is  what  I am  afraid 
will  not  be  the  case.  I have,  indeed,  kept 
pretty  clear  of  vicious  habits,  and,  in  this 
respect,  1 hope  my  conduct  will  not  disgrace 
the  education  I have  gotten  ; but,  as  a man 
vif  tire  world,  I am  most  miserably  deficient. 


One  would  have  thought  that,  bred  as  I have 
been,  under  a father,  who  has  figured  pretty 
well  as  un  homme  dies  affaires , I might  have 
been  what  the  world  calls  a pushing,  active 
fellow ; but  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Sir,  there 
is  hardly  any  thing  more  my  reverse.  I seem 
to  be  one  sent  into  the  world  to  see  and  ob- 
serve ; and  I very  easily  compound  with  the 
knave  who  tricks  me  of  my  money,  if  t here 
be  any  thing  original  about  him,  which  skowa 
me  human  nature  in  a different  light  from 
any  thing  I have  seen  before.  In  short,  the 
joy  of  my  heart  is  to  “ study  mea,  their 
manners,  and  their  ways and  for  this  dar- 
ling subject,  I cheerfully  sacrifice  every  other 
consideration.,  I am  quite  indolent  about 
those  great  concerns  that  set  the  bustling, 
busy  sons  of  care  ago g ; and  if  I have  to  an- 
swer for  the  present  hour,  I am  very  easy 
with  regard  to  any  thing  further.  Even  the 
last,  worst  shift  of  the  unfortunate  and  the, 
wretched  does  nor  much  terrify  me : I know 
that  even  then,  my  talent  for  what  country 
folks  call  a “ sensible  crack,”  when  once  it  is 
sanctified  by  a hoary  head,  would  procure  me 


266 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


»o  much  esteem,  that,  even  then,  I would 
learn  to  be  happy.  However,  I am  under  no 
apprehensions  about  that ; for  though  indo- 
lent, yet  so  far  as  an  extremely  delicate  con- 
stitution permits,  I am  not  lazy,  and  in  many 
things,  especially  in  tavern  matters,  I am  a 
strict  economist— not,  indeed,  for  the  sake 
of  the  money,  but  one  of  the  principal  parts 
in  my  composition  is  a kind  of  pride  of  sto- 
mach ; and  I scorn  to  fear  the  face  of  any 
man  living — above  every  thing,  I abhor,  as  hell, 
the  idea  of  sneaking  in  a corner  to  avoid  a 
dun — possibly  some  pitiful,  sordid  wretch, 
who  in  my  heart  I despise  and  detest.  ’Ti3 
this,  and  this  alone,  that  endears  economy 
to  me.  In  the  matter  of  books,  indeed,  I am 
very  profuse.  My  favourite  authors  are  of 
the  sentimental  kind,  such  as  Shenstone, 
particularly  his  “ Elegies  ; ” Thomson ; 
“ Man  of  Feeling” — a book  I prize  next  to 
the  Bible; — “Man  of  the  World;”  Sterne, 
especially  his  “Sentimental  Journey ;”  Mac- 
pherson’s  “ Ossian,”  & c. ; these  are  the  glo- 
rious models  after  which  I endeavour  to  form 
my  conduct,  and  ’tis  incongruous,  ’tis  absurd, 
to  suppose  that  the  man  whose  mind  glows 
with  sentiments  lighted  up  at  their  sacred 
flame — the  man  whose  heart  distends  with 
benevolence  to  all  the  human  race — he  “who 
can  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things  ” — 
can  he  descend  to  mind  the  paltry  concerns 
about  which  the  terne filial  race  fret,  and  fume, 
and  vex  themselves ! Oh  how  the  glorious 
triumph  swells  my  heart ! I forget  that  I 
am  a poor,  insignificant  devil,  unnoticed  and 
unknown,  stalking  up  and  down  fairs  and 
markets,  when  I happen  to  be  in  them,  read- 
ing a page  or  two  of  mankind,  and  “ catching 
the  manners  living  as  they  rise,”  whilst  the 
men  of  business  jostle  me  on  every  side,  as 
an  idle  incumbrance  in  their  way.  But  I 
dare  say  I have  by  this  time  tired  your  pa- 
tience ; so  I shall  conclude  with  begging  you 
to  give  Mrs  Murdoch — not  my  compliments, 
for  that  is  a mere  common-place  story,  but 
my  warmest,  kindest  wishes  for  her  welfare — 
and  accept  of  the  same  for  vourself,  from, 
dear  Sir,  yours,  R.  B. 


NO.  IL 

TO . 

[an  early  love  letter.] 

Lochlea,  1783. 

I verily  believe,  my  dear  E.,  that  the 
pure  genuine  feelings  of  love  are  as  rare  in 
the  world  as  the  pure  genuine  principles  of 
virtue  and  piety.  This,  I hope,  will  account 
for  the  uncommon  style  of  all  my  letters  to 


you.  By  uncommon,  I mean  their  being 
written  in  such  a hasty  manner,  which, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  has  made  me  often 
afraid  lest  you  should  take  me  for  some 
zealous  bigot,  who  conversed  with  his  mis- 
tress as  he  would  converse  with  his  minister. 
I don’t  know  how  it  is,  my  dear,  for  though, 
except  your  company,  there  is  nothing  on 
earth  gives  me  so  much  pleasure  as  writing 
to  you,  yet  it  never  gives  me  those  giddy 
raptures  so  much  talked  of  among  lovers.  I 
have  often  thought  that  if  a well-grounded 
affection  be  not  really  a part  of  virtue,  ’tis 
something  extremely  akin  to  it.  Whenever 
the  thought  of  my  E.  warms  my  heart, 
every  feeling  of  humanity;  every  prin- 
ciple of  generosity,  kindles  in  my  breast. 
It  extinguishes  every  dirty  spark  of  malice 
and  envy,  which  are  but  too  apt  to  infest  me. 
I grasp  every  creature  in  the  arms  of  uni- 
versal benevolence,  and  equally  participate 
in  the  pleasures  of  the  happy,  and  sympatliise 
with  the  miseries  of  the  unfortunate.  I 
assure  ou,  my  dear,  I often  look  up  to  the 
Divine  Disposer  of  events  with  an  eye  of 
gratitude  for  the  blessing  which  I hope  he 
intends  to  bestow  on  me  in  bestowing  you. 
I sincerely  wish  that  he  may  bless  my  endea- 
vours to  make  your  life  as  comfortable  and 
happy  as  possible,  both  in  sweetening  the 
rougher  parts  of  my  natural  temper,  and 
bettering  the  unkindly  circumstances  of  my 
* fortune.  This,  my  dear,  is  a passion,  at  least 
in  my  view,  worthy  of  a man,  and,  I will  add, 
worthy  of  a Christian.  The  sordid  earth- 
worm may  profess  love  to  a woman’s  person, 
whilst  in  reality  his  affection  is  centered  in 
her  pocket ; and  the  slavish  drudge  may  go 
a-wooing  as  he  goes  to  the  horse-market,  to 
choose  one  who  is  stout  and  firm,  and,  as  we 
may  say  of  an  old  horse,  one  who  will  be  a 
good  drudge,  and  draw  kindly.  I disdain 
their  dirty,  puny  ideas.  I would  be  heartily 
out  of  humour  with  myself,  if  I thought  I 
were  capable  of  having  so  poor  a notion  of 
the  sex,  which  were  designed  to  crown  the 
pleasures  of  society.  Poor  devils!  I don’t 
envy  them  their  happiness  who  have  such 
notions.  For  my  part,  I propose  quite  other 
pleasures  with  my  dear  partner.  R.  B. 


NO.  III. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Lochlea,  1783. 

My  Dear  E. — I do  not  remember,  in  the 
course  of  your  acquaintance  and  mine,  ever 
to  have  heard  your  opinion  on  the  ordinal 
way  of  falling  in  love,  amongst  people  of  ou* 
station  in  life.  I do  not  mean  the  persons 


A LOYE  LETTER. 


267 


who  proceed  in  the  way  of  bargain,  but  those 
whose  affection  is  really  placed  on  the  person. 

Though  I be,  as  you  know  very  well,  but  a 
very  awkward  lover  myself,  yet  as  I have 
some  opportunities  of  observing  the  conduct 
of  others  who  are  much  better  skilled  in  the 
affair  of  courtship  than  I am,  I often  think 
it  is  owing  to  lucky  chance,  more  than  to 
good  management,  that  there  are  not  more 
unhappy  marriages  than  usually  are. 

It  is  natural  for  a young  fellow  to  like  the 
acquaintance  of  the  females,  and  customary  for 
him  to  keep  them  company  when  occasion 
serves : some  one  of  them  i3  more  agreeable 
to  him  than  the  rest — there  is  something,  he 
knows  not  what,  pleases  him,  he  knows  not 
how,  in  her  company.  This  I take  to  be 
what  is  called  love  with  the  greater  part  of  us ; 
and  I must  own,  my  dear  E.,  it  is  a hard 
game  such  a one  as  you  have  to  play  when 
you  meet  with  such  a lover.  You  cannot 
refuse  but  he  is  sincere,  and  yet  though 
you  use  him  ever  so  favourably,  perhaps 
in  a few  months,  or  at  farthest  in  a year 
or  two,  the  same  unaccountable  fancy  may 
make  him  as  distractedly  fond  of  another, 
whilst  you  are  quite  forgot.  I am  aware, 
that  perhaps  the  next  time  I have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you,  you  may  bid  me  take  my  own 
lesson  home,  and  tell  me  that  the  passion  I 
have  professed  for  you  is  perhaps  one  of 
those  transient  flashes  I have  been  descri- 
bing; but  I hope,  my  dear  E.,  you  will 
do  me  the  justice  to  believe  me,  when  I 
assure  you  that  the  love  I have  for  you  is 
founded  on  the  sacred  principles  of  virtue 
and  honour,  and  by  consequence,  so  long 
as  you  continue  possessed  of  those  amiable 
qualities  which  first  inspired  my  passion 
for  you,  so  long  must  I continue  to  love  you. 
Believe  me,  my  dear,  it  is  love  like  this 
alone  which  can  render  the  marriage  state 
happy.  People  may  talk  of  flames  and 
raptures  as  long  as  they  please — and  a warm 
fancy,  with  a flow  of  youthful  spirits,  may 
make  them  feel  something  like  what  they 
describe ; but  sure  I am,  the  nobler  faculties 
of  the  mind,  with  kindred  feelings  of  the 
heart,  can  only  be  the  foundation  of  friend- 
ship, and  it  has  always  been  my  opinion 
that  the  married  life  was  only  friendship  in 
a more  exalted  degree.  If  you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  grant  my  wishes,  and  it  should 
please  Providence  to  spare  us  to  the  latest 
period  of  life,  I can  look  forward  and  see 
that  even  then,  though  bent  down  with 
wrinkled  age — even  then,  when  all  other 
worldly  circumstances  will  be  indifferent 
to  me,  I will  regard  my  E.  with  the  tenderest 
affection,  and  for  this  plain  reason,  because 


she  is  still  possessed  of  those  noble  qualities 
improved  to  a much  higher  degree,  which 
first  inspired  my  affection  for  her. 

Oh!  happy  state,  when  souls  each  other  draw. 
When  love  is  liberty,  and  nature  law. 

I know  were  I to  speak  in  such  a style  to 
many  a girl,  who  thinks  herself  possessed  of 
no  small  share  of  sense,  she  would  think 
it  ridiculous ; but  the  language  of  the  heart 
is,  my  dear  E.,  the  only  courtship  I shall 
ever  use  to  you. 

When  I look  over  what  I have  written,  I 
am  sensible  it  is  vastly  different  from  the 
ordinary  style  of  courtship,  but  I shall  make 
no  apology — I know  your  good  nature  will 
excuse  what  your  good  sense  may  see 
amis*.  R.  B.  . 


NO.  IV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Lochlea,  1783. 

I have  often  thought  it  a peculiar  un. 
lucky  circumstance  in  love,  that  though,  in 
every  other  situation  in  life,  telling  the 
truth  is  not  only  the  safest,  but  actually  by 
far  the  easiest  way  of  proceeding,  a lover  is 
never  under  greater  difficulty  in  acting,  or 
more  puzzled  for  expression,  than  when  his 
passion  is  sincere,  and  his  intentions  are  hon- 
ourable. I do  not  think  that  it  is  very  difficult 
for  a person  of  ordinary  capacity  to  talk  of  love 
and  fondness  which  are  not  felt,  and  to  make 
vows  of  constancy  and  fidelity  which  are 
never  intended  to  be  performed,  if  he  be 
villain  enough  to  practice  such  detestable 
conduct;  but  to  a man  whose  heart  glows 
with  the  principles  of  integrity  and  truth, 
and  who  sincerely  loves  a woman  of  amiable 
person,  uncommon  refinement  of  sentiment 
and  purity  of  manners — to  such  a one,  in 
such  circumstances,  I can  assure  you,  my 
dear,  from  my  own  feelings  at  this  present 
moment,  courtship  is  a task  indeed.  There 
is  such  a number  of  foreboding  fears  and 
distrustful  anxieties  crowd  into  my  mind 
when  I am  in  your  company,  or  when  I 
sit  down  to  write  to  you,  that  what  to  speak, 
or  what  to  write,  I am  altogether  at  a loss. 

There  is  one  rule  which  I have  hitherto 
practised,  and  which  I shall  invariably 
keep  with  you,  and  that  is,  honestly  to  tell 
you  the  plain  truth.  There  is  something 
so  mean  and  unmanly  in  the  arts  of  dissimu- 
lation and  falsehood,  that  I am  surprised 
they  can  be  acted  by  any  one,  in  so  noble,  so 
generous  a passion,  as  virtuous  love.  No^ 
my  dear  E.,  I shall  never  endeavour  to 


268 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


gain  your  favour  by  such  detestable  practices. 
If  you  will  be  so  good,  and  so  generous, 
as  to  admit  me  for  your  partner,  your 
companion,  your  bosom  friend  through  life, 
there  is  nothing  on  this  side  of  eternity 
shall  give  me  greater  transport ; but  I shall 
never  think  of  purchasing  your  hand  by 
any  arts  unworthy  of  a man,  and,  I will  add, 
of  a Christian,  There  is  one  thing,  my  dear, 
which  I earnestly  request  of  you,  and  it  is 
this,  that  you  would  soon  either  put  an  end 
to  my  hopes  by  a peremptory  refusal,  or  cure 
file  of  my  fears  by  a generous  consent. 

It  would  oblige  me  much  if  you  would 
send  me  a line  or  two  when  convenient. 
I shall  only  add  further,  that,  if  a behaviour 
regulated  (though  perhaps  but  very  imper- 
fectly) by  the  rules  of  honour  and  virtue,  if 
a heart  devoted  to  love  and  esteem  you, 
and  an  earnest  endeavour  to  promote  your 
happiness — if  these  are  qualities  you  wish  in 
a friend,  in  a husband,  I hope  you  shall  ever 
find  them  in  your  real  friend  and  sincere 
lover,  R.  B. 


no.  v. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Lochlea,  1783. 

I ought,  in  good  manners,  to  have  ac- 
knowledged the  receipt  of  your  letter  before 
this  time,  but  my  heart  was  so  shocked  with 
the  contents  of  it,  that  I can 'scarcely  yet 
collect  my  thoughs  so  as  to  write  to  you  on  the 
subject.  I will  not  attempt  to  describe  what 
I felt  on  receiving  your  letter.  I read  it 
over  and  over,  again  and  again,  and  though 
it  was  in  the  politest  language  of  refusal, 
still  it  was  peremptory  : “you  were  sorry  you 
could  not  make  me  a return,  but  you  wish 
me” — what,  without  you,  I never  can  obtain — 
“you  wish  me  all  kind  of  happiness.”  It 
would  be  weak  and  unmanly  to  say  that 
without  you  I never  can  be  happy ; but  sure 
I am,  that  sharing  life  with  you  would  have 
given  it  a relish,  that,  wanting  you,  I can 
never  taste. 

Your  uncommon  personal  advantages,  and 
your  superior  good  sense,  do  not  so  much 
strike  me  : these,  possibly,  may  be  met  with 
in  a few  instances  in  others  ; but  that  amia- 
ble goodness,  that  tender  feminine  softness, 
that  endearing  sweetness  of  disposition,  with 
all  the  charming  offspt  ing  of  a warm  feeling 
heart- — these  I never  again  expect  to  meet 
with,  in  such  a degree,  in  this  world.  All 
these  charming  qualities,  heightened  by  an 
education  much  beyond  any  thing  I have 
©:«r  met  in  any  v oman  I ever  dared  to 


approach,  have  made  an  impression  on  my 
heart  that  I do  not  think  the  world  can  ever 
efface.  My  imagination  has  fondly  flattered 
myself  with*  a wish,  X dare  not  say  it  ever 
reached  a hope,  that  possibly  I might  one 
day  call  you  mine.  I had  formed  the  most 
delightful  images,  and  my  fancy  fondly 
brooded  over  them ; but  now  I am  wretched 
for  the  loss  of  what  I really  had  no  right  to 
expect.  I must  now  think  no  more  of  you 
as  a mistress ; still  I presume  to  ask  to  be 
admitted  as  a friend.  As  such  I wish  to  be 
allowed  to  wait  on  you ; and  as  I expect  to 
remove  in  a few  days  a little  further  off,  and 
you,  I suppose,  will  soon  leave  this  place,  I 
wish  to  see  or  hear  from  you  soon : and  if 
an  expression  should  perhaps  escape  me, 
rather  too  warm  for  friendship,  I hope  you 
will  pardon  it  in,  my  dear  Miss — (pardon  me 
the  dear  expression  for  once)  * * * R.  B. 


NO.  VI. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  BURNESS, 

WRITER,  MONTROSE.  (1) 

Lochlea , 21st  June,  1783. 

Dear  Sir. — My  father  received  your 
favour  of  the  10th  current,  and  as  he  has 
been  for  some  months  very  poorly  in  health, 
and  is  in  his  own  opinion  (and,  indeed,  in 
almost  every  body’s  else)  in  a dying  condi- 
tion,  lie  has  only,  with  great  difficulty, 
written  a few  farewell  lines  to  each  of  his 
brothers-in-law.  For  this  melancholy  reason, 
I now  hold  the  pen  for  him  to  thank  you  for 
your  kind  letter,  and  to  assure  you.  Sir,  that 
it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  my  father’s  cor- 
respondence in  the  north  die  with  him.  My 
brother  writes  to  John  Caird,  and  to  him  I 
must  refer  you  for  the  news  of  our  family. 

I shall  only  trouble  you  with  a few  pan 
ticulars  relative  to  the  wretched  state  of  this 
country.  Our  markets  are  exceedingly  high 
— oatmeal,  17d.  and  18d.  per  peck,  and  not 
to  be  got  even  at  that  price.  We  have  indeed 
' been  pretty  well  supplied  with  quantities  of 
white  peas  from  England  and  elsewhere,  but 
that  resource  is  likely  to  fail  us,  and  what 
will  become  of  us  then,  particularly  the  very 
poorest  sort.  Heaven  only  knows.  This 
country,  till  of  late,  was  flourishing  incre- 
dibly in  the  manufacture  of  silk,  lawn, 
and  carpet-weaving;  and  we  are  still  car- 
rying on  s good  deal  in  that  way,  but 
much  reduced  from  what  it  was.  We  had 
also  a fine  trade  in  the  shoe  way,  but  now 
entirely  ruined,  and  hundreds  driven  to  a 


LETTER  TO  MR.  BURNESS. 


26fc 


•tarring  ©audition  on  account  of  it.  Farming 
is  also  at  a very  low  ebb  with  us.  Our  lands, 
generally  speaking,  are  mountainous  and 
barren  ; and  our  landholders,  full  of  ideas  of 
farming  gathered  from  the  English  and  the 
Lothian3,  and  other  rich  soils  in  Scotland, 
make  no  allowance  for  the  odds  of  the  quality 
of  land,  and  consequently  stretch  us  much 
beyond  what  in  the  event  we  will  be  found 
able  to  pay.  We  are  also  much  at  a loss  for 
want  of  proper  methods  in  our  improvements 
of  farming.  Necessity  compels  us  to  leave 
our  old  schemes,  and  few  of  us  have  oppor- 
tunities of  being  well  informed  in  new  ones. 
In  short,  my  dear  Sir,  since  the  unfortunate 
beginning  of  this  American  war,  and  its  as 
unfortunate  conclusion,  this  country  has 
been,  and  still  is,  decaying  very  fast.  Even 
in  higher  life,  a couple  of  our  Ayrshire  noble- 
men, and  the  major  part  of  our  knights  and 
•quires,  are  all  insolvent.  A miserable  job 
of  a Douglas,  Heron,  and  Co.’s  bank,  which 
no  doubt  you  have  heard  of,  has  undone 
numbers  of  them;  and  imitating  English  and 
French,  and  other  foreign  luxuries  and  fop- 
peries, lias  ruirmd  as  many  more.  There  is  a 
great  trade  of  smuggling  carried  on  along  our 
coasts,  which,  however  destructive  to  the 
interests  of  the  kingdom  at  large,  certainly 
enriches  this  corner  of  it,  but  too  often  at 
the  expense  of  our  morals.  However,  it 
enables  individuals  to  make,  at  least  for  a 
time,  a splendid  appearance;  but  Fortune, 
as  is  usual  with  her  when  she  is  uncommonly 
lavish  of  her  favours,  is  generally  even  with 
them  at  the  last:  and  happy  were  it  for 
numbers  of  them  if  she  would  leave  them  no 
worse  than. when  she  found  them. 

My  mother  sends  you  a small  present  of  a 
cheese ; ’tis  but  a very  little  one,  as  our  last 
year’s  stock  is  sold  off ; but  if  you  could  fix 
on  any  correspondent  in  Edinburgh  or  Glas- 
gow, we  would  send  you  a proper  one  in  the 
season.  Mrs.  Black  promises  to  take  the 
cheese  under  her  care  so  far,  and  then  to 
•end  it  to  you  by  the  Stirling  carrier. 

I shall  conclude  this  long  letter  with  assur- 
ing you  that  I shall  be  very  happy  to  hear 
from,  you,  or  any  of  our  friends  in  your 
country,  when  opportunity  serves. 

My  father  sends  you,  probably  for  the  last 
time  in  this  world,  his  warmest  wishes  for 
yrur  welfare  and  happiness;  and  my  mother 
and  the  rest  of  the  family  desire  to  enclose 
their  kind  compliments  to  you,  Mrs.  Burness, 
and  the  rest  of  your  family,  along  with  those 
iff,  dear  Sir,  your  affectionate  cousin, 

R.  B. 


NO.  VII. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  BURNESS,  MON- 
TROSE. 

Lochlea , 17 th  February,  1734. 

Dear  Cousin. — I would  have  returned 
you  my  thanks  for  your  kind  favour  of  the 
13th  of  December  sooner,  had  it  not  been 
that  I waited  to  give  you  an  account  of  that 
melancholy  event,  which,  for  some  time  past, 
we  have  from  day  to  day  expected. 

On  the  13th  current  I lost  the  best  of 
fathers.  Though,  to  be  sure,  we  have  had 
long  warning  of  the  impending  stroke,  still 
the  feelings  of  nature  claim  their  part,  and  I 
cannot  recollect  the  tender  endearments  and 
parental  lessons  of  the  best  of  friends  and 
ablest  of  instructors,  without  feeling  what 
perhaps  the  calmer  dictates  of  reason  would 
partly  condemn. 

I hope  ray  father’s  friends  in  your  country 
will  not  let  their  connexion  in  this  place  di® 
with  him.  For  my  part  I shall  ever  with 
pleasure,  with  pride,  acknowledge  my  con- 
nexion with  those  who  were  allied  by  the  ties 
of  blood  and  friendship  to  a man  whose 
memory  I shall  ever  honour  and  revere. 

I expect,  therefore,  my  dear  Sir,  you  will 
not  neglect  any  opportunity  of  lei  ting  me 
hear  from  you,  which  will  very  much  oblige, 
my  dear  cousin,  yours  sincerely,  R.  B. 


NO.  VIII. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  BURNESS,  MON- 
TROSE. 

Mossgiel , August,  1784. 

We  have  been  surprised  with  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  phenomena  in  the  moral 
world,  which,  I dare  say,  has  happened  in  the 
course  of  this  half  century.  We  have  had  a 
party  of  Presbytery  relief,  as  they  call  them- 
selves, for  some  time  in  this  country.  A 
-pretty  thriving  society  of  them  has  been  in 
the  burgh  of  Irvine  for  some  years  past,  till 
about  two  years  ago  a Mrs.  Buchan  from 
Glasgow  came  among  them,  and  began  to 
spread  some  fanatical  notions  of  religion 
among  them,  and,  in  a short  time,  mada 
many  converts ; and  among  others  their 
preacher,  Mr  White,  who,  upon  that  account, 
has  been  suspended  and  formally  deposed  by 
his  brethren.  He  continued,  however,  to 
preach  in  private  to  his  party,  and  was  sup- 
ported, both  he  and  their  spiritual  mother, 
as  they  affect  to  call  old  Buchan,  by  the 
contributions  of  the  rest,  several  of  whom 


270 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


were  in  good  cirenm stances ; till  in  spring 
last,  the  populace  rose  and  mobbed  Mrs. 
Buchan,  and  put  her  out  of  the  town  ; on 
which  all  her  followers*  voluntarily  quitted 
the  place  likewise,  and  with  such  precipita- 
tion, that  many  of  them  never  shut  their 
doors  behind  them;  one  left  a washing  on  the 
green,  another  a cow  bellowing  at  the  crib 
without  food,  or  any  body  to  mind  her,  and 
after  several  stages,  they  are  fixed  at  present 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Dumfries.  Their 
tenets  are  a strange  jumble  of  enthusiastic 
jargon ; among  others,  she  pretends  to  give 
them  the  Holy  Ghost  by  breathing  on  them, 
w hich  she  does  with  postures  and  practices 
that  are  scandalously  indecent.  They  have 
likewise  disposed  of  all  their  effects,  and  hold 
a community  of  goods,  and  live  nearly  an 
idle  life,  carrying  on  a great  farce  of  pre- 
tended devotion  in  barns  and  woods,  where 
they  lodge  and  lie  all  together,  and  hold 
likewise  a community  of  women,  as  it  is 
another  of  their  tenets  that  they  can  commit 
no  moral  sin.  I am  personally  acquainted 
with  most  of  them,  and  I can  assure  you  the 
above  mentioned  are  facts. 

This,  my  dear  Sir,  is  one  of  the  many 
instances  of  the  folly  of  leaving  the  guidance 
of  sound  reason  and  common  sense  in  mat- 
ters of  religion. 

Whenever  we  neglect  or  despise  these 
■acred  monitors,  the  whimsical  notions  of  a 
per tur bated  brain  are  taken  for  the  immedi- 
ate influences  of  the  Deity,  and  the  wildest 
fanaticism,  and  the  most  inconstant  absurdi- 
ties, will  meet  with  abettors  and  converts. 
Nav,  I have  often  thought,  that  the  more 
out-of-the-way  and  ridiculous  the  fancies 
are,  if  once  they  are  sanctified  under  the 
sacred  name  of  religion,  the  unhappy  mis- 
taken votaries  are  the  more  firmly  glued  to 
them.  R.  B. 


NO.  IX. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  SMITH,  MATJCH- 
LINE. 

Mossgiel,  Monday  Morning , 1786. 

My  Dear  Sir. — I went  to  Dr.  Douglas 
yesterday,  fully  resolved  to  take  the  oppor- 
tunity of  Captain  Smith ; but  I found  the 
Doctor  with  a Mr.  and  Mrs.  White,  both 
Jamaicans,  and  they  have  deranged  my  plans 
altogether.  They  assure  him  that  to  send 
me  from  Savannah  la  Mar  to  Port  Antonio, 
will  cost  my  master,  Charles  Douglas,  up- 
wards of  fifty  pounds,  besides  running  the 
risk  of  throwing  myself  into  a pleuritic  fever. 


in  consequence  of  hard,  travelling'  in  the 
sun.  On  these  accounts,  he  refuses  sending 
me  with  Smith ; but  vessel  sails  from 
Greenock  the  1st  of  September,  right  for 
the  place  of  my  destination.  The  captain 
of  her  is  an  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Gavin 
Hamilton’s,  and  as  good  a fellow  as  heart 
could  wish : with  him  I am  destined  to  go. 
Where  I shall  shelter  £ know  not,  but  I 
hope  to  weather  the  storm.  Perish  the  drop 
of  blood  of  mine  that  fears  them ! I know 
their  worst,  and  am  prepared  to  meet  it ■ 

I’ll  laugh,  and  sing,  and  shake  my  leg. 

As  lang’s  i dow. 

On  Thursday  morning  if  you  can  muster 
as  much  self-denial  as  to  be  out  of  bed  about 
seven  o’clock,  I shall  see  you  as  I ride 
through  to  Cumnock.  After  all.  Heaven 
bless  the  sex ! I feel  there  is  still  happiness 
for  me  among  them  : — 

Oh  woman,  lovely  woman ! Heaven  designed 
you 

To  temper  man ! — we  had  been  brutes  with- 


NO.  X. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  RICHMOND,  EDIN- 
BURGH. (2) 

Mossgiel , February  17,  1786. 

My  dear  Sir. — I have  not  time  at 
present  to  upbraid  you  for  your  silence  and 
neglect;  I shall  only  say  I received  yours 
with  great  pleasure.  I have  enclosed  you  a 
piece  of  rhyming  ware  for  your  perusal.  I 
have  been  very  busy  with  the  muses  since  I 
saw  you,  and  have  composed,  among  several 
others: — The  Ordination,  a poem  on  Mr. 
M'Kinlay’s  being  called  to  Kilmarnock; 
Scotch  Drink,  a poem;  The  Cotter’s  Saturday 
Night ; An  Address  to  the  Devil,  &c.  I 
have  likewise  completed  my  poem  on  the 
Dogs,  but  have  not  shown  it  to  the  world. 
My  chief  patron  now  is  Mr.  Aiken  in  Ayr, 
who  is  pleased  to  expres  i great  approbation 
of  my  works.  Be  so  good  as  send  me 
Fergusson,  by  Connel,  and  I will  remit  you 
the  money.  I have  no  news  to  acquaint  you 
with  about  Mauchline ; they  are  just  going 
on  in  the  old  way.  I have  some  very  im- 
portant news  with  respect  to  myself,  not  the 
most  agreeable — news  that  I am  sure  you 
cannot  guess,  but  I shall  give  you  the  par- 
ticulars another  time.  I am  extremely 
happy  with  Smith ; he  is  the  only  friend  I 


LETTER  TO  MR.  AIKEN. 


271 


have  now  in  Man  chime.  I can  scarcely  forgive 
your  long  neglect  of  me,  and  1 beg  you  will 
let  me  hear  from  you  regularly  by  Connel. 
If  you  would  act  your  part  as  a friend,  I am 
sure  neither  good  nor  bad  fortune  should 
strange  or  alter  me.  Excuse  haste,  as  I got 
your’s  but  yesterday.  I am,  my  dear  Sir, 
yoiura* 

Robert  Burns. 


no.  XI. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

Mossgiel,  3rd  March,  1786, 

Sir.- — I have  done  myself  the  pleasure  of 
complying  with  your  request  in  sending  you 
my  Cottager.  If  you  have  a leisure  minute, 
I should  be  glad  if  you  would  copy  ?t  and 
return  me  either  the  original  or  the  trans- 
cript, as  I have  not  a copy  of  it  by  me,  and 
1 have  a friend  who  wishes  to  see  it. 

Now,  Kennedy,  if  foot  or  horse 
E’er  bring  you  in  by  Mauchline  Corse  (3), 
Lord,  man,  there’s  lasses  there  wad  force 
A hermit’s  faney ; 

And  down  the  gate,  in  faith,  they’re  worse, 
And  mair  unchancy. 

But,  as  I’m  sayin’,  please  step  to  Dow’s, 
And  taste  sic  beer  as  Johnnie  brews. 

Till  some  bit  callari  bring  me  news 
That  you  are  there ; 

And  if  we  dinna  haud  a bouze. 

I’ll  ne’er  drink  mair. 

It’s  no  I like  to  sit  and  swallow. 

Then  like  a swine  to  puke  and  wallow ; 
But  gie  me  just  a true  good  fallow, 

Wi’  right  engine. 

And  spunkie  ance  to  make  us  mellow. 
And  then  we’ll  shine. 

Now,  if  you’re  ane  o’  warld’s  folk, 

Wha  rate  the  wearer  by  the  cloak. 

And  sklent  on  poverty  their  joke, 

Wi’  bitter  sneer, 

Wi’  you  no  friendship  will  I troke. 

Nor  cheap  nor  dear. 

But  if,  as  I’m  informed  weel. 

Ye  hate,  as  ill’s  the  vera  deil, 

The  flinty  heart  that  canna  feel. 

Come,  Sir,  here’s  tae  you  ! 

Hae,  there’s  my  liaun’,  I wiss  you  weel, 
And  guid  be  wi’  you ! 

R.  B. 


NO.  XII. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  MUIR,  KILMAR. 

NOCK. 

Mossgiel,  2M  March,  1785. 

Dear  Sir. — I am  heartily  sorry  I had  not 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  as  you  returned 
through  Mauchline ; but  as  I was  engaged, 
I could  not  be  in  town  before  the  evening. 

I here  enclose  you  my  “Scotch  Drnk,** 

and  “may  the follow  ” with  a blessing  for 

your  edification.  I hope,  some  time  before 
we  hear  the  gowk,  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  at  Kilmarnock,  when  I intend  we 
shall  have  a gill  between  us  in  a mutchkin- 
stoup,  which  will  be  a great  comfort  and 
consolation  to,  dear  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 
Robert  Burns. 


no.  XIII. 

TO  MR.  AIKEN. 

Mossgiel,  3rd  April,  1786. 

Dear  Sir. — I received  your  kind  lettef 
with  double  pleasure  on  account  of  the 
second  flattering  instance  of  Mrs.  C.’s  notice 
and  approbation.  I assure  you  I 

Turn  out  the  burnt  side  o’  my  skin, 

as  the  famous  Ramsay,  of  jingling  memory, 
says,  at  such  a patroness.  Present  her  my 
most  grateful  acknowledgements,  in  your 
very  best  manner  of  telling  truth.  I have 
inscribed  the  following  stanza  on  the  blank 
leaf  of  Miss  More’s  work : — 

Thou  flattering  mark  of  friendship  kind. 

Still  may  thy  pages  call  to  mind 
The  dear,  the  beauteous  donor. 

Thdfcgh  sweetly  female  every  part. 

Yet  such  a head,  and  more  the  heart. 
Does  both  the  sexes  honour. 

She  showed  her  taste  refined  and  just 
When  she  selected  thee. 

Yet  deviating  own  I must. 

For  so  approving  me ; 

But  kind  still,  I mind  still. 

The  giver  in  the  gift — 

I’ll  bless  her,  and  wiss  her 
A friend  above  the  Lift. 

My  proposals  for  publishing  I am  just 
going  to  send  to  pres®.  I expect  to  heal 
from  you  by  the  first  opportunity.  I an% 
ever  dear  Sir,  your’s,  Robert  Burn#. 


272 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


NO.  XIV. 

TO  MR.  M’WHINNIE,  WRITER,  AYR, 

Mossgiel,  17 th  April , 1786. 

It  ia  injuring  some  hearts,  those  hearts 
that  elegantly  bear  the  imnression  of  the 
good  Creator,  to  say  to  them  you  give  them 
the  trouble  of  obliging  a friend ; for  this 
reason,  I only  tell  you  that  I gratify  my  own 
feelings  in  requesting  your  friendly  offices 
with  respect  to  the  enclosed,  because  I 
know  it  will  gratify  yours  to  assist  me  in  it 
to  the  utmost  of  your  power. 

I have  sent  you  four  copies,  as  I have  no 
less  than  eight  dozen,  which  is  a great  deal 
more  than  I shall  ever  need. 

Be  sure  to  remember  a poor  poet  militant 
in  your  prayers.  He  looks  forward  with 
fear  and  trembling  to  that,  to  him,  important 
moment  which  stamps  the  die  with — with — 
with,  perhaps,  the  eternal  disgrace  of,  my 
dear  Sir,  your  humble,  afflicted,  tormented, 
Robert  Burns. 


no.  xv. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

Mossgiel , 20 th  April,  1786. 

Sir. — By  some  neglect  in  Mr.  Hamilton,  I 
did  not  hear  of  your  kind  request  for  a sub- 
scription paper  till  this  day.  I will  not 
attempt  any  acknowledgement  for  this,  nor 
the  manner  in  which  I see  your  name  in  Mr. 
Hamilton’s  subscription  list.  Allow  me 
only  to  say,  Sir,  I feel  the  weight  of  the  debt. 

I have  here,  likewise,  enclosed  a small 
piece,  the  very  latest  of  my  productions.  (4) 
I am  a good  deal  pleased  with  some  senti- 
ments myself,  as  they  are  just  the  native 
querulous  feelings  of  a heart,  which,  as  the 
elegantly  melting  Gray  says,  “ melancholy 
has  marked  out  for  her  own.” 

Our  race  comes  on  apace — that  much 
expected  scene  of  revelry  and  mirth : but 
to  me  it  brings  no  joy  equal  to  that  meeting 
with  which  you  last  flattered  the  expecta- 
tion of.  Sir,  your  indebted  humble  servant. 

R.  B. 


MO.  XVI. 

TO  JOHN  BALLANTINE,  OF  AYR. 

June,  1786. 

Honoured  Sir. — My  proposals  came  to 
hand  last  night,  and,  knowing  that  you 
would  wish  to  have  it  in  your  power  to  do 
me  a service  as  early  as  any  body,  I enclose 


you  half  a sheet  of  them.  I must  consult 
you,  first  opportunity,  on  the  propriety  of 
sending  my  quondam  friend,  Mr.  Aiken,  a 
copy.  If  he  is  now  reconciled  to  my  charac- 
ter as  an  honest  man,  I would  do  it  with  all 
my  soul ; but  I would  not  be  beholden  to 
the  noblest  being  ever  God  created,  if  he 
imagined  me  to  be  a rascal.  Apropos,  old 
Mr.  Armour  prevailed  with  him  to  mutilate 
that  unlucky  paper  yesterday.  Would  you 
believe  it? — though  I had  not  a hope,  nor 
even  a wish,  to  make  her  mine  after  her  con- 
duct, yet,  when  he  told  me  the  names  were 
all  out  of  the  paper,  my  heart  died  within 
me,  and  he  cut  my  veins  with  the  new9. 
Perdition  seize  her  falshood. 

R.  B. 


NO.  XVII. 

TO  MR  DAVID  BRICE.  (5) 

Mossgiel,  June  12,  1786. 

Dear  Brice. — I received  your  message 
by  G.  Paterson,  and  as  1 am  not  very 
strong  at  present,  I just  write  to  let  you 
know  that  there  is  such  a worthless,  rhyming 
reprobate,  as  your  humble  servant,  still  in 
the  land  of  the  living,  though  I can  scarcely 
say  in  the  place  of  hope.  I have  no  new* 
to  tell  you  that  will  give  me  any  pleasure  to 
mention,  or  you  to  hear. 

Poor  ill-advised,  ungrateful  Armour  came 
home  on  Friday  last.  (6)  You  have  heard 
all  the  particulars  of  that  affair,  and  a black 
affair  it  is.  What  she  thinks  of  her  conduct 
now  I don’t  know ; one  thing  I do  know— > 
she  has  made  me  completely  miserable. 
Never  man  loved,  or  rather  adored,  a woman 
more  than  I did  her ; and,  to  confess  a truth 
between  you  and  me,  I do  still  love  her  to 
distraction  after  all,  though  I won’t  tell  her 
so  if  I were  to  see  her,  which  I don’t  want 
to  do.  My  poor  dear  unfortunate  Jean! 
how  happy  have  I been  in  thy  arms ! 1 1 is 

not  the  losing  her  that  makes  me  so  unhappy, 
but  for  her  sake  I feel  most  severely : I 
foresee  she  is  in  the  road  to,  I am  afraid, 
eternal  ruin. 

May  Almighty  God  forgive  her  ingratitude 
and  perjury  to  me,  as  I from  my  very  soul 
forgive  her ; and  may  his  grace  be  with  her 
and  bless  her  in  all  her  future  life ! I can 
have  no  nearer  idea  of  the  place  of  eternal 
punishment  than  what  I have  felt  in  my  own 
breast  on  her  account.  I have  tried  often  to 
forget  her;  I have  run  into  all  kinds  of 
dissipation  and  riots,  mason-meetings,  drink- 
ing-matches, and  other  mischief,  to  drive  hef 
out  of  my  head,  but  all  in  vain.  And  non 


TO  MR.  DAVID  BRICE. 


27S 


mi  a grand  cure:  the  ship  is  on  her  way 
home  that  is  to  take  me  out  to  Jamaica; 
and  then,  farewell  dear  old  Scotland!  and 
farewell,  dear  ungrateful  Jean,  for  never, 
never  will  I see  you  more. 

You  will  have  heard  that  I am  going  to 
commence  poet  in  print ; and  to-morrow  my 
works  go  to  the  press.  I expect  it  will  be  a 
volume  of  about  200  pages — it  is  just  the 
last  foolish  action  I intend  to  do ; and  then 
turn  a wise  man  as  fast  as  possible.  Believe 
me  to  be,  dear  Brice,  your  fr;end  and  well- 
wisher,  it.  B. 


NO.  XVIIL. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP, 

OF  DUNLOP. 

Ayrshire,  July,  1786. 

Madam. — I am  truly  sorry  I was  not  at 
home  yesterday,  when  I was  so  much 
honoured  with  your  order  for  my  copies,  and 
incomparably  more  by  the  handsome  com- 
pliments you  are  pleased  to  pay  my  poetic 
abilities.  I am  fully  persuaded  that  there  is 
not  any  class  of  mankind  so  feelingly  alive 
to  the  titillations  of  applause  as  the  sons  of 
Parnassus : nor  is  it  easy  to  conceive  how 
the  heart  of  the  poor  bard  dances  with 
rapture,  when  those  whose  character  in  life 
gives  them  a right  to  be  polite  judges, 
honour  him  with  their  approbation.  Had 
you  been  thoroughly  “acquainted  with  me. 
Madam,  you  could  not  have  touched  my 
darling  heart-chord  more  sweetly  than  by 
noticing  my  attempts  to  celebrate  your 
illustrious  ancestor,  the  saviour  of  his 
country. 

Great  patriot  hero!  ill-  requited  chief! 

flie  first  book  I met  with  in  my  early  years, 

' which  I perused  with  pleasure,  was  “ The 
Life  of  Hannibal;”  the  next  was  "The 
History  of  Sir  William  Wallace ; ” for  several 
of  my  earlier  years  I had  few  other  authors ; 
and  many  a-  solitary  hour  have  I stole  out, 
after  the  laborious  vocations  of  the  day,  to 
. shed  a tear  over  their  glorious,  but  unfortu- 
J nate  stories.  In  those  boyish  days  I re- 
' member,  in  particular,  being  struck  with 
that  part  of  Wallace’s  story  where  these  hues 
occut  : — 

Syne  to  the  Leglen  wood,  when  it  was  late. 
To  make  a silent  and  a safe  retreat. 

I chose  a fine  summer  Sunday,  the  only  day 
my  line  of  life  allowed,  and  walked  half-a- 
dozen  of  miles  to  pay  my  respects  to  the 
Legten  wood,  wifh  as  mu<h  devout  enthu 


siasm  as  ever  pilgrim  did  to  Loretto ; and  as 
l explored  every  den  and  dell  where  I could 
suppose  my  heroic  countryman  to  have 
lodged,  I recollect  (for  even  then  I was  a 
rhymer)  that  my  heart  glowed  with  a wish 
to  be  able  to  make  a song  on  him  in  some 
measure  equal  to  his  merits.  R.  B. 


NO.  XIX. 

TO  JOHN  RICHMOND,  EDINBURGH. 

Mossgiel,  July  1786. 

With  the  sincerest  grief  I read  your 
letter.  You  a’-e  truly  a son  of  misfortune. 
1 shall  be  extremely  anxious  to  hear  from 
you  how  your  health  goes  on — if  it  is  any 
way  re-establishing,  or  if  Leith  promises  well 
— in  short,  how  you  feel  in  the  inner  man. 

I have  waited  on  Armour  since  her  return 
home ; mot  from  the  leas,  view  of  reconcilia- 
tion, but  merely  to  ask  for  her  health,  and, 
to  you  I will  confess  it,  from  a foolish 
hankering  fondness,  very  ill  placed  indeed. 
The  mother  forbade  me  the  house,  nor  did 
Jean  show  that  penitence  that  might  have 
been  expected.  However,  the  priest,  I am 
informed,  will  give  me  a certificate  as  a 
single  man,  if  I comply  with  the  rules  of  the 
church,  which,  for  that  very  reason,  I intend 
to  do. 

I am  going  to  put  on  sackcloth  and  ashes 
this  day.  I am  indulged  so  far  as  to  appear 
in  my  own  seat.  Peccavi,  pater;  miserere 
mei.  My  book  will  be  ready  in  a fortnight. 
If  you  have  any  subscribers,  return  them  by 
Connell  The  Lord  stand  with  the  righto-, 
ous — amen,  amen.  R.  B. 


NO.  XX. 

TO  MR.  DAVID  BRICE, 

SHOEMAKER,  GLASGOW. 

Mossgiel,  July  17 th,  1783. 

I have  been  so  throng  printing  my 
Poems,  that  I could  scarcely  find  as  much 
time  as  to  write  to  you.  Poor  Armour  is 
come  back  again  to  Mauchline,  and  I went 
to  call  for  her,  and  her  mother  forbade  me 
the  house,  nor  did  she  herself  express  much 
sorrow  for  what  she  has  done.  I have 
already  appeared  publicly  in  church,  and  was 
indulged  in  the  liberty  of  standing  in  my 
own  seat.  I do  this  to  get  a certificate  as  a 
. bachelor,  which  Mr.  Auld  has  promised  me. 
I I am  now  fixed  to  go  for  the  West  Indies  in 


274 


CORRESPOND  EN CE  OP  BURNS. 


October.  Jean  and  her  friends  insisted 
much  that  she  should  stand  along  with  me 
in  the  kirk,  but  the  minister  would  not  allow 
it,  which  bred  a great  trouble,  I assure  you, 
and  I am  blamed  as  the  cause  of  it,  though 
I am  sure  I am  innocent ; but  I am  very 
much  pleased,  for  all  that,  not  to  have  had 
her  company.  I have  no  news  to  tell  you 
that  I remember.  I am  really  happy  to 
hear  of  your  welfare,  and  that  you  are  so 
well  in  Glasgow.  I must  certainly  see  you 
before  I leave  the  "country.  I shall  expect 
to  hear  fmun  you  soon,  and  am,  dear  Brice, 
yours,  K.  B. 


NO.  XXI. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  RICHMOND. 

Old  Rome  Forest , July  30th,  1786. 

My  Dear  Richmond. — My  hour  is  now 
come — you  and  I will  never  meet  in  Britain 
more.  I have  orders  within  three  weeks  at 
farthest,  to  repair  aboard  the  Nancy,  Captain 
Smith,  from  Clyde  to  Jamaica,  and  to  call  at 
Antigua.  This,  except  to  our  friend  Smith, 
whom  God  long  preserve,  is  a secret  about 
Mauchline.  Would  you  believe  it?  Armour 
has  got  a warrant  to  throw  me  in  jail  till  I 
find  security  for  an  enormous  sum.  This 
they  keep  an  entire  secret,  but  I got  it  by  a 
channel  they  little  dream  of ; and  I am 
wandering  from  one  friend’s  house  to  another, 
and,  like  a true  son  of  the  gospel,  “ have  no- 
where to  lay  my  head.”  I know  you  will 
pour  an  execration  on  her  head,  but  spare 
the  poor,  ill-advised  girl,  for  my  sake; 
though  may  all  the  furies  that  rend  the 
injured,  enraged  mother’s  bosom,  await  her 
mother  until  her  latest  hour ! I write  in  a 
moment  of  rage,  reflecting  on  my  miserable 
situation — exiled,  abandoned,  forlorn.  I can 
write  no  more — let  me  hear  from  you  by  the 
return  of  coach.  I will  write  you  ere  I go. 
I am,  dear  Sir,  yours,  here  and  hereafter, 
R.B. 


NO.  XXII. 

TO  MR  ROBERT  MUIR,  KILMAR- 
NOCK. 

Mossgiel , Friday  Morning,  [Aug.  1786.] 

My  Friend,  my  Brother — Warm 
recollection  of  an  absent  friend  presses  so 
hard  upon  my  heart,  that  I send  him  the 
prefixed  bagatelle  (The  Calf),  pleased  with 
the  thought  that  it  will  greet  the  man  of  my 
bosom,  and  be  a kind  of  distant  language  of 
friendship.  1 


You  will  have  heard  that  poor  Armout 

has  repaid  me  double.  A very  fine  boy  and 
a girl  have  awakened  a thought  and  feelings 
that  thrill,  some  with  tender  pressure,  and 
some  with  foreboding  anguish,  through  my 
soul. 

The  poem  was  nearly  an  extemporaneous 
production,  on  a wager  with  Mr.  Hamilton, 
that  I would  not  produce  a poem  on  the 
subject  in  a given  time. 

If  you  think  it  worth  while,  read  it  to 
Charles  and  Mr  W.  Parker,  and  if  they 
choose  a copy  of  it,  it  is  at  their  service,  as 
they  are  men  whose  friendship  I shall  be 
proud  to  claim,  both  in  this  world  and  that 
which  is  to  come. 

I believe  all  hopes  of  staying  at  home,  will 
be  abortive ; but  more  of  this  when,  in  the 
latter  part  of  next  week,  you  shall  be  trou- 
bled with  a visit  from,  my  dear  Sir,  youf 
most  devoted,  R.  B. 


NO.  XXIII. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

Kilmarnock,  August,  1786, 

My  Dear  Sir. — Your  truly  facetious 
epistle  of  the  3rd  instant  gave  me  much 
entertainment.  I was  only  sorry  I had  not 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  as  I passed  your 
way,  but  we  shall  bring  up  all  our  lee-way 
on  Wednesday,  the  16th  current,  when  I 
hope  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  call  on  you, 
and  take  a kind,  very  probably,  a last  adieu, 
before  I go  to  Jamaica;  and  I expect  orders 
to  repair  to  Greenock  every  day.  I have  at 
last  made  my  public  appearance,  and  am 
solemnly  inaugurated  into  the  numerous 
class.  Could  I have  got  a carrier,  you 
should  have  had  a score  of  vouchers  for  my 
authorship;  but,  now  you  have  them,  let 
them  speak  for  themselves. 

Farewell,  dear  friend ! may  guid  luck  hit  you. 
And  ’mang  her  favourites  admit  you. 

If  e’er  Detraction  shore  to  smit  you. 

May  nane  believe  him. 

And  ony  deil  that  thinks  to  get  you. 

Good  Lord,  deceive  him. 

R.B. 


NO.  XXIV. 

TO  MR  BURNESS,  MONTROSE. 
Mossgiel,  Tuesday  noon,  Sept.  26,  1786. 

My  Dear  Sir. — I this  moment  receive 
yours — receive  it  with  the  honest  hospitable 
warmth  of  a friend’s  welcome.  W hate  vet 


TO  MR.  ROBERT  AIKEN. 


275 


form*  from  you  wakens  always  up  the  bet- 
ter blood  about  my  heart,  which  your  kind 
liU'le  recollections  of  my  parental  friends 
carried  as  far  as  it  will  go.  ’Tis  there  that 
man  is  blest ! — ’Tis  there,  my  friend,  man 
feeb  a consciousness  of  something  within 
him  above  the  trodden  clod!  The  grateful 
reverence  to  the  hoary  (earthly)  author  of 
his  being — the  burning  glow  when  he  clasp* 
the  woman  of  his  soul  to  his  bosom — the 
tender  yearnings  of  heart  for  the  little  angels 
to  whom  he  has  given  existence — these 
nature  has  poured  in  milky  streams  about 
the  human  heart ; and  the  man  who  never 
rouses  them  to  action,  by  the  inspiring  in- 
fluences of  their  proper  objects,  loses  by  far 
the  most  pleasurable  part  of  his  existence. 

My  departure  is  uncertain,  but  I do  not 
think  it  will  be  till  after  harvest.  I will  be 
on  very  short  allowance  of  time  indeed,  if  I 
do  not  comply  with  your  friendly  invitation. 
When  it  will  be,  I don’t  know,  but  if  I can 
make  my  wish  good,  I will  endeavour  to  drop 
you  a line  some  time  before.  My  best  com- 
pliments to  Mrs.  B.;  I should  be  equally 
mortified  should  I drop  in  when  she  is 
abroad ; but  of  that  I suppose  there  is  little 
chance. 

What  I have  wrote  Heaven  knows ; I have 
not  time  to  review  it ; so  accept  of  it  in  the 
beaten  way  of  friendship.  With  the  ordinary 
phrase  — perhaps  rather  more  than  the 
ordinary  sincerity — I am,  dear  Sir,  ever 
yours,  R.  B. 


no.  xxv. 

TO  MR  ROBERT  AIKEN.  (7) 

Ayrshire,  1786/ 

Sir. — I was  with  Wilson  my  printer  t’other 
day,  and  settled  all  our  bygone  matters  be- 
tween us.  After  I had  paid  him  all  demands, 

I made  him  the  offer  of  the  second  edition, 
on  the  hazard  of  being  paid  out  of  the  first 
and  readiest,  which  he  declines.  By  his 
account,  the  paper  of  1000  copies  would  cost 
about  twenty-seven  pounds,  and  the  printing 
about  fifteen  or  sixteen  ; he  offers  to  agree 
to  this  for  the  printing,  if  1 will  advance  for 
the  paper,  but  this  you  know,  is  out  of  my 
power ; so  farewell  hopes  of  a second  edition 
till  I grow  richer ! an  epoch  which  I think 
will  arrive  at  the  payment  of  the  British 
national  debt. 

There  is  scarcely  any  thing  hurt3  me  so 
much  in  being  disappointed  of  my  second 
edition,  as  not  having  it  in  my  power  to 
show  my  gratitude  to  Mi.  Ballantine,  by 

publishing  mj  poem  of  the  Brigs  of  Ayr. 

2 


I would  detest  myself  as  a wretch,  if  I 
thought  I were  capable,  in  a ver>  long  life  of 
forgetting  the  honest,  warm,  and  tender  deli 
cacy  with  which  he  enters  into  my  interests, 
I am  sometimes  pleased  with  myself  in  my 
grateful  sensations ; but  I believe,  on  the 
whole,  I have  very  little  merit  in  it,  as  my 
gratitude  is  not  a virtue,  the  consequence  of 
reflection,  but  sheerly  the  instinctive  emotion 
of  my  heart,  too  inattentive  to  allow  worldly 
maxims  and  views  to  settle  into  selfish  habits. 

I have  heen  feeling  all  the  various  rota- 
tions and  movements  within,  respecting  the 
excise.  There  are  many  things  plead  strongly 
against  it ; the  uncertainty  of  getting  soon 
into  business ; the  consequences  of  my  fol- 
lies, which  may  perhaps  make  it  impracticable 
for  me  to  stay  at  home ; and  besides,  I have 
for  some  time  been  pining  under  secret 
wretchedness,  from  causes  which  you  pretty 
well  know : — the  pang  of  disappointment,  the 
sting  of  pride,  with  some  wandering  stabs  of 
remorse,  which  never  fail  to  settle  on  my 
vitals  like  vultures,  w'hen  attention  is  not 
called  away  by  the  calls  of  society,  or  the 
vagaries  of  the  muse.  Even  in  the  hour  of 
social  mirth,  my  gaiety  is  the  madness  of  an 
intoxicated  criminal  under  the  hands  of  the 
executioner.  All  these  reasons  urge  me  to 
go  abroad,  and  to  all  these  reasons  I have 
only  one  answer — the  feelings  of  a father. 
This,  in  the  present  mood  I am  in,  over- 
balances every  thing  that  can  be  laid  in  the 
scale  against  it. 

You  may  perhaps  think  it  an  extravagant 
fancy,  but  it  is  a sentiment  wrhich  strikes 
home  to  my  very  soul ; though  sceptical  in 
some  points  of  our  current  belief,  yet  I think 
I have  every  evidence  for  the  reality  of  a life 
beyond  the  stinted  bourne  of  our  present 
existence : if  so,  then,  how  should  1 in  the 
presence  of  that  tremendous  Being,  the  Au- 
thor of  existence,  how  should  I meet  the 
reproaches  of  those  who  stand  to  me  in  the 
dear  relation  of  children,  whom  I deserted  in 
the  smiling  innocency  of  helpless  infancy  ? 
Oh  thou  great  unknown  Power ! — thou  Al- 
mighty God  ! who  hast  lighted  up  reason  in 
my  breast,  and  blessed  me  with  immortality ! 
— I have  frequently  wandered  from  that 
order  and  regularity  necessary  for  the  per- 
fection of  thy  'works,  yet  thou  hast  never  left 
me  nor  forsaken  me  ! 

Since  I wrote  the  foregoing  sheet,  I have 
seen  something  of  the  storm  of  mischief 
thickening  over  my  folly- devoted  head. 
Should  you,  my  friends,  my  benefactors,  be 
successful  in  your  applications  for  me  (8), 
perhaps  it  may  not  be  in  my  power  in  that 
way,  to  reap  the  fruit  of  your  friendly  effort* 

3 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


2*3 

Y’hat  f have  written  in  the  preceding  pages 
is  the  settled  tenor  of  my  present  resolution  ; 
but  should  inimical  circumstances  forbid  me 
closing  with  your  kind  offer,  or  enjoying  it 
only  threaten  to  entail  further  misery  * * * 

To  tell  the  truth,  I have  little  reason  for 
complaint ; as  the  world,  in  general,  has 
been  kind  to  me  fully  up  to  my  deserts.  I 
was,  for  some  time  past,  fast  getting  into 
the  pining,  distrustful  snarl  of  the  misan- 
thrope. I saw  myself  alone,  unfit  for  the 
struggle  of  life,  shrinking  at  every  rising 
cloud  in  the  chance-directed  atmosphere  of 
fortune,  while,  all  defenceless,  I looked  about 
in  vain  for  a cover.  It  never  occurred  to  me, 
at  least  never  with  the  force  it  deserved,  that 
this  world  is  a busy  scene,  and  man  a crea- 
ture destined  for  a progressive  struggle ; and 
that,  however  I might  possess  a warm  heart 
and  inoffensive  manners  (which  last,  by  the 
bye,  was  rather  more  than  I could  well 
boast),  still,  more  than  these  passive  quali- 
ties, there  was  something  to  be  done.  When 
all  my  school-fellows  and  youthful  compeers 
(those  misguided  few  excepted,  who  joined, 
to  use  a Gentoo  phrase,  the  “ hallachores”  of 
the  human  race)  were  striking  off  with  eager 
hope  and  earnest  intent,  in  some  one  or  other 
of  the  many  paths  of  busy  life,  I was  “ stand- 
ing idle  in  the  market-place,”  or  only  left 
the  chase  of  the  butterfly  from  flower  to 
flower,  to  hunt  fancy  from  whim  to  whnn. 

You  see.  Sir,  that  if  to  know  one’s  errors 
were  a probability  of  mending  them,  I stand 
a fair  chance ; but  according  to  the  reverend 
Westminster  divines,  though  conviction  must 
precede  conversion,  it  is  very  far  from  always 
implying  it.  R.  B. 


NO.  XXVI. 

TO  MRS.  STEWART,  OF  STAIR. 

1786. 

Madam. — The  hurry  of  my  preparations 
for  going  abroad  has  hindered  me  from  per- 
forming my  promise  so  soon  as  I intended. 

I have  here  sent  you  a parcel  of  songs,  &c., 
which  never  made  their  appearance,  except 
to  a friend  or  two  at  most.  Perhaps  some 
of  them  may  be  no  great  entertainment  to 
you,  but  of  that  I am  far  from  being  an  ade- 
quate judge.  The  song  to  the  tune  of  Ettrick 
Banks  (The  Bonnie  Lass  of  Ballochmyle), 
you  will  easily  see  the  impropriety  of  exposing 
much,  even  in  manuscript.  I think,  myself, 
it  has  some  merit,  both  as  a tolerable  des- 
cription of  one  of  nature’s  sweetest  scenes,  a 
July  evening,  and  one  of  the  finest  piece*  of  i 


nature’s  workmanship,  the  finest  indeed  we 
know  anything  of,  an  amiable,  beautiful 
young  woman  (9);  but  I' have  no  common 
friend  to  procure  me  that  permission,  with- 
out which  I would  not  dare  to  spread  the 
copy. 

I am  quite  aware,  Madam,  what  task  the 
world  would  assign  me  in  this  letter.  The 
obscure  bard,  when  any  of  the  great  conde- 
scend to  take  notice  of  him  should  heap  the 
altar  with  the  incense  of  flattery.  Their 
high  ancestry,  their  own  great  and  god-like 
qualities  and  'actions,  should  be  recounted 
with  the  most  exaggerated  description.  This, 
Madam,  is  a task  for  which  I am  altogether 
unfit.  Besides  a certain  disqualifying  pride 
of  heart,  I know  nothing  of  your  connexions 
in  life,  and  have  no  access  to  where  your 
real  character  is  to  be  found — the  company 
of  your  compeers;  and  more,  I am  afraid 
that  even  the  most  refined  adulation  is  by  no 
means  the  road  to  your  good  opinion. 

One  feature  of  your  character  I shall  ever 
with  grateful  pleasure  remember — the  recep- 
tion I got  when  I had  the  honour  of  waiting 
on  you  at  Stair.  I am  little  acquainted  with 
politeness,  but  I know  a good  deal  of  benevo- 
lence of  temper  and  goodness  of  heart.  Surely 
did  those  in  exalted  stations  know  how  happy 
they  could  make  some  classes  of  their 
inferiors  by  condescension  and  affability, 
they  would  never  stand  so  high,  measuring 
out  with  every  look  the  height  of  their  ele- 
vation, but  condescend  as  sweetly  as  did 
Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair.  R.  B. 


NO.  XXVII. 

In  the  name  of  the  NINE.  Amen. 

We,  Robert  Burns,  by  virtue  of  a warrant 
from  Nature,  bearing  date  the  twenty-fifth 
day  of  January,  anno  domini  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  fifty-nine  (10),  Poet 
La.ureat,  and  Bard-in-Chief.  in  and  over  the 
districts  and  count/ies  of  Kyle,  Cunningham, 
and  Carrick,  of  old  extent,  To  our  trusty  and 
well-beloved  William  Chalmers  and  John 
M’Adam,  students  and  practitioners  in  the 
ancient  and  mysterious  science  of  confound- 
ing wright  and  wrong. 

Right  Trusty — Be  it  known  unto  you. 
That  whereas  in  the  course  of  our  care  and 
watchings  over  the  order  and  police  of  all 
and  sundry  the  manufacturers,  retainers,  and 
venders  of  poesy ; bards,  poets,  poetasters 
rhymers,  jinglers,  songsters,  ballad-singers 
&c.  &c.  &c.  &c.,  male  and  female — We  hav- 
discovered  a certain  nefarious,  abominable 


TO  JOHN  BALLAT1NE,  ESQ. 


277 


and  waited  song  or  ballad,  a copy  whereof 
We  have  here  enclosed;  Our  Will  therefore 
is  that  ye  pitch  upon  and  appoint  the  most 
execrable  individual  of  that  most  execrable 
species,  known  by  the  appellation,  phrase, 
and  nickname  of  The  Deil’s  Yell  Nowte  (11): 
and  after  having  caused  him  to  kindle  a fire 
at  the  Cross  of  Ayr,  ye  shall,  at  noon-tide  of 
the  day,  put  into  the  said  wretch’s  merciless 
hands  the  said  copy  of  the  said  nefarious 
and  wicked  song,  to  be  consumed  by  fire  in 
presence  of  all  beholders,  in  abhorrence  of, 
and  terror  to,  all  such  compositions  and 
composers.  And  this  in  nowise  leave  ye  un- 
done, but  have  it  executed  in  every  point  as 
this  our  mandate  bears,  before  the  twenty- 
fourth  current,  when  in  person  We  hope  to 
applaud  your  faithfulness  and  zeal. 

Given  at  Maucliline  this  twentieth  day  of 
November,  anno  domini  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  eighty-six. 

God  save  the  Bard  1 


NO.  XXVIII. 

TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  Esa, 
MAUCHLINE. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  7th,  1786. 

Honoured  Sir. — I have  paid  every  at- 
tention to  your  commands,  but  can  only  say, 
what  perhaps  you  will  have  heard  before  this 
reach  you,  that  Muirkirklands  were  bought 
by  a John  Gordon,  W.  S.,  but  for  whom  I 
know  not ; Mauchlauds,  Haugh  Miln,  &c., 
by  a Frederick  Fotheringham,  supposed  to 
be  for  Ballochmyle  Laird ; And  Adam-hill 
and  Shawood  were  bought  for  Oswald’s  folks. 
This  is  so  imperfect  an  account,  and  will  be 
so  late  ere  it  reach  you,  that  were  it  not  to 
discharge  my  conscience  I would  not  trouble 
you  with  it;  but  after  all  my  diligence  I 
could  make  it  no  sooner  nor  better. 

For  my  own  affairs,  I am  in  a fair  way  of 
becoming  as  eminent  as  Thomas  a Kempis 
or  John  Bunyan  ; and  you  may  expect  hence- 
forth to  see  my  birth-day  inserted  among  the 
wonderiul  events,  in  the  Poor  Robin’s  and 
Aberdeen  Almanacks,  along  with  the  black 
Monday,  and  the  battle  of  Bothwell-bridge. 
My  Lord  Glencairn  and  the  Dean  of  Faculty, 
Mr.  H.  Erskme,  have  taken  me  under  their 
wing ; and  by  all  probability  I shall  soon  be 
the  tenth  worthy,  and  the*lfeighth  wise  man 
of  the  world.  Through  my  lord’s  influence, 
it  is  iuserted  in  the  records  of  the  Caledonian 
Hunt,  that  they  universally,  one  and  all, 
•ubscribe  for  the  second  edition.  My  sub- 
scription bills  come  out  to-morrow,  and  you 


shall  have  some  of  them  next  post.  1 have 
met  in  Mr.  Dairy  nyle  of  Orangefield,  tvhat 
Solomon  emphatically  calls  “a  friend  that 
sticketh  closer  than  a brother.”  The  warmth 
with  which  he  interests  himself  in  my  affairs 
is  of  the  same  enthusiastic  kind  which  you, 
Mr.  Aiken,  and  the  few  patrons  that  took 
notice  of  my  earlier  poetic  days,  showed  for 
the  poor  unlucky  devil  of  a poet. 

I always  remember  Mrs.  Hamilton  and 
Miss  Kennedy  in  my  poetic  prayers,  but  you 
both  in  prose  and  verse. 

May  cauld  ne’er  catch  you  but  a hap  (12), 

Nor  hunger  but  in  plenty’s  lap  ! 

Amen ! R.  B. 


NO.  XXIX. 

TO  JOHN  BALLANTINE,  Esa., 

BANKER,  AYR. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  13 th,  1786. 

My  Honoured  Friend. — I would  not 
write  you  till  I could  have  it  in  my  power  to 
give  you  some  account  of  myself  and  my 
matters,  which,  by  the  bye,  is  often  no  easy 
task.  I arrived  here  on  Tuesday  was  se’n- 
night,  and  have  suffered  ever  since  I came  to 
town  with  a miserable  head-ache  and  stomach 
complaint,  but  am  now  a good  deal  better. 
I have  found  a worthy  warm  friend  in  Mr. 
Dalrymple  of  Orangefield,  who  introduced 
me  to  Lord  Glencairn,  a man  whose  worth 
and  brotherly  kindness  to  me  I shall  remem- 
ber when  time  shall  be  no  more.  By  his 
interest  it  is  passed  in  the  "Caledonian 
Hunt,”  and  entered  in  their  books,  that  they 
are  to  take  each  a copy  of  the  second  edition, 
for  which  they  are  to  pay  one  guinea.  I 
have  been  introduced  to  a good  many  of  the 
noblesse,  but  my  avowed  patrons  and  patro- 
nesses are,  the  Duchess  of  Gordon — the 
Countess  of  Glencairn,  with  my  Lord,  and 
Lady  Betty  (13) — the  Dean  of  Faculty— 
Sir  John  Whitefoord.  I have  likewise  warm 
friends  among  the  literati ; Professors  Stew- 
art, Blair,  and  Mr.  Mackenzie — the  “ Man  of 
Feeling.”  An  unknown  hand  left  ten  guineas 
for  the  Ayrshire  bard  with  Mr.  Sibbald,  which 
I got.  I since  have  discovered  my  generous 
unknown  friend  to  be  Patrick  Miller,  Esq., 
brother  to  the  Justice  Clerk, — and  drank  a 
glass  of  claret  with  him  by  invitation  at  his 
own  house  yesternight.  I am  nearly  agieed 
with  Creech  to  print  my  book,  and  I suppose 
I will  begin  on  Monday.  I will  send  a 
subscription  bill  or  two,  next  post;  whea 
I intend  writing  to  my  first  kind  patron* 


*7S 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


Mr.  Aiken.  I saw  his  son  to-day,  and  he  is 
very  well. 

Dugald  Stewart,  and  some  of  my  learned 
friends,  put  me  in  the  periodical  paper  called 
the  Lounger  (14,)  a copy  of  which  I here 
enclose  you.  I was.  Sir,  when  I was  first 
honoured  with  your  notice,  too  obscure; 
now  1 tremble  lest  I should  be  ruined  by 
being  dragged  too  suddenly  into  the  glar* 
uf  polite  and  learned  observation. 

I shall  certainly,  my  ever-honoured  patron, 
write  you  an  account  of  my  every  step ; and 
belter  health  and  more  spirits  may  enable 
me  to  make  it  something  better  than  this 
stupid  matter-of-fact  epistle.  I have  the 
honour  to  be,  good  Sir,  your  ever  grateful 
humble  servant,  R.  B. 

If  any  of  my  friends  write  me,  my  direc- 
tion is,  care  of  Mr  Creech,  bookseller. 


NO.  xxx. 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  CHALMERS, 
WRITER,  AYR. 

Edinburgh , Dec.  27th,  1783, 
My  Dear  Friend. — I confess  I have 
sinned  the  sin  for  which  there  is  hardly  any 
forgiveness — ingratitude  to  friendship — in 
not  writing  you  sooner;  but  of  all  men 
living,  I bad  intended  to  have  sent  you  an 
entertaining  letter ; and  by  all  the  plodding, 
stupid  powers,  that  in  nodding  conceited 
majesty  preside  over  the  dull  routine  of 
business — a heavily-solemn  oath  this ! — I 
am  and  have  been,  ever  since  I came  to 
Edinburgh,  as  unfit  to  write  a letter  of 
humour  as  to  write  a commentary  on  the 
Revelation  of  St.  John  the  Divine,  who  was 
banished  to  the  Isle  of  Patmos  by  the  cruel 
and  bloody  Domitian,  son  to  Vespasian  and 
brother  to  Titus,  both  emperors  of  Rome, 
and  who  was  himself  an  emperor,  and  raised 
the  second  or  third  persecution,  I forget 
which,  against  the  Christians,  and  after 
throwing  the  said  Apostle  John,  brother  to 
the  Apostle  James,  commonly  called  James 
the  Greater,  to  distinguish  him  from  another 
James,  who  was  on  some  account  or  other 
known  by  the  name  of  James  the  Less — 
i»fter  throwing  him  into  a caldron  of  boiling 
oil,  from  wljich  he  was  miraculously  pre- 
served, he  banished  the  poor  son  of  Zebedee 
to  a desert  island  in  the  Archipelago,  where 
he  was  gifted  with  the  second  sight,  and  saw 
as  many  wild  beasts  as  I have  seen  since  I 
came  to  Edinburgh;  which,  a — circumstanc® 
not  very  uncommon  in  story-telling — brings 
me  back  to  where  I set  out. 

Tj  make  you  some  amends  for  what 


before  you  reach  this  paragraph,  you  wil 
have  suffered,  I enclose  you  two  poems  I 
have  carded  and  spun  since  I passed  Glen- 
buck. 

One  blank  in  the  Address  to  Edinburgh 

— “ Fair  B ,”  is  heavenly  Miss  Burnet, 

daughter  to  Lord  Monboddo,  at  whose 
house  I have  had  the  honour  to  be  more 
than  once  There  has  not  been  anything 
nearly  like  her  in  all  the  combinations  of 
beauty,  grace,  and  goodness,  the  great 
Creator  has  formed,  since  Milton’s  Eve  on 
the  first  day  of  her  existence. 

My  direction  is — care  of  Andrew  Bruce, 
merchant.  Bridge  Street.  R.  B. 


NO.  XXXI. 

TO  DR.  MACKENZIE,  MAUCHLINE  ; 

ENCLOSING  HIM  VERSES  ON  DINING 
WITH  LORD  DAER. 

Wednesday  Morning,  1787. 

Dear  Sir. — I never  spent  an  afternoon 
among  great  folks  with  half  that  pleasure, 
as  when,  in  company  with  you,  I had  the 
honour  of  paying  my  devoirs  to  that  plain, 
honest,  worthy  man,  the  professor  [Dugald 
Stewart].  I would  be  delighted  to  see  him 
perform  acts  of  kindness  and  friendship, 
though  I were  not  the  object;  he  does  it 
with  such  a grace.  I think  his  character, 
divided  into  ten  parts,  stands  thus — foil 
parts  Socrates — four  parts  Nathaniel — and 
two  parts  Shaikspeare’s  Brutus. 

The  foregoing  verses  were  really  ex- 
tempore, but  a little  corrected  since.  They 
may  entertain  you  a little,  with  the  help  of 
that  partiality  with  which  you  are  so  good 
as  to  favour  the  performances  of,  dear  Sir, 
your  very  humble  servant,  R.  B, 


NO.  XXXII. 

TO  JOHN  BALLANTINE,  Esq. 

January,  1787. 

While  here  I sit,  sad  and  solitary,  by 
the  side  of  a fire  in  a little  country  inn,  and 
drying  my  wet  clothes,  in  pops  a poor 
fellow  of  a sodger,  and  tells  me  is  going  to 
Ayr.  By  heavens ! say  I to  myself,  with  a 
tide  of  good  spirits  which  the  magic  of  that 
sound,  auld  toon  o’  Ayr,  conjured  up,  I will 
send  my  last  song  to  Mr.  Bailantine.  Her# 
it  is — 

Ye  flowery  banks  o’  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  biume  sae  fair  ; 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  bird*, 

Aud  I i&e  fu’  of  care ! — &<x  R B» 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


279 


NO.  XXXIII. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  EGLINTON. 

Edinburgh,  January,  1787. 

My  Lord. — As  I have  but  slender  pre- 
tensions to  philosophy,  I cannot  rise  to  the 
exalted  ideas  of  a citizen  of  the  world,  but 
have  all  those  national  prejudices  which, 
1 believe,  glow  peculiarly  strong  in  the  breast 
of  a Scotchman.  There  is  scarcely  anything 
to  which  I am  so  feelingly  alive  as  the 
honour  and  welfare  of  my  country ; and  as 
a poet,  I have  no  higher  enjoyment  than 
singing  her  sons  and  daughters.  Fate  had 
cast  my  station  in  the  veriest  shades  of 
life ; but  never  did  a heart  pant  more 
ardently  than  mine  to  be  distinguished, 
though  till,  very  lately,  I looked  in  vain  on 
every  side  for  a ray  of  light.  It  is  easy, 
then,  to  guess  how  much  I was  gratified 
with  the  countenance  and  approbation  of 
one  of  my  country’s  most  illustrious  sons, 
when  Mr.  Wauchope  called  on  me  yesterday 
on  the  part  of  your  lordship.  Your  mu- 
nificence, my  lord,  certainly  deserves  my 
very  grateful  acknowledgments ; but  your 
patronage  is  a bounty  peculiarly  suited  to 
my  feelings.  I am  not  master  enough  of 
the  etiquette  of  life  to  know,  whether  there 
be  not  some  impropriety  in  troubling  your 
lordship  with  my  thanks,  but  my  heart 
whispered  me  to  do  it.  From  the  emotions 
of  my  inmost  soul  I do  it.  Selfish  in- 
gratitude, I hope,  I am  incapable  of ; and 
mercenary  servility,  I trust,  I shall  ever  have 
so  much  honest  pride  as  to  detest.  R.  B. 


NO.  XXXIV. 

TO  JOHN  BALLANTINE,  Esa 
Edinburgh,  Jan.  14 th,  1787. 

My  Honoured  Friend. — It  gives  me  a 
secret  comfort  to  observe  in  myself  that  I 
am  not  yet  so  far  gone  as  Willie  Gaw’s 
Skate,  “ past  redemption (15)  for  I have 
still  this  favourable  symptom  of  grace,  that 
when  my  conscience,  as  in  the  case  of  this 
letter,  tells  me  I am  leaving  something 
undone  that  I ought  to  do,  it  teazes  me 
eternally  till  I do  it. 

I am  still  “dark  as  was  chaos”  in  respect 
to  futurity.  My  generous  friend,  Mr. 
Patrick  Miller,  has  been  talking  with  me 
about  a lea*e  of  some  farm  or  other  in  an 
estate  called  Dalswinton,  which  he  has 
lately  bought  near  Dumfries.  Some  life- 
rented  embittering  recollection#  whispf  r me 


that  I will  be  happier  anywhere  than  in  my 
old  neighbourhood,  but  Mr.  Miller  is  no 
judge  of  land ; aud  though  I dare  say  he 
means  to  favour  me,  yet  he  may  give  me,  in 
his  opinion,  an  advantageous  bargain  that  may 
ruin  me.  I am  to  take  a tour  by  Dumfries  as  1 
return,  and  have  promised  to  meet  Mi. 
Miller  on  his  lands  some  time  in  May. 

I went  to  a mason-lodge  yesternight, 
where  the  most  Worshipful  Grand  Master 
Chartres,  and  all  the  Grand  Lodge  of  Scot- 
land, visited.  The  meeting  was  numerous 
and  elegant ; all  the  different  lodges  about 
town  were  present,  in  all  their  pomp.  The 
Grand  Master,  who  presided  with  great 
solemnity  and  honour  to  himself  as  a gentle- 
man and  mason,  among  other  general  toasts, 
gave  “ Caledonia,  and  Caledonia’s  Bard, 
Brother  Burns,”  which  rang  through  the 
whole  assembly  with  multiplied  honours  and 
repeated  acclamations.  As  I had  no  idea 
such  a thing  would  happen,  I was  downright 
thunderstruck,  and,  trembling  in  every  nerve, 
made  the  best  return  in  my  power.  Just  as 
I had  finished,  some  of  the  grand  officers 
said  so  loud  that  I could  hear,  with  a most 
comforting  accent,  “ Very  well,  indeed  l” 
which  set  me  something  to  rights  again. 

I have  to-day  corrected  my  152nd  page. 
My  best  good  wishes  to  Mr.  Aiken. 
I am  ever,  dear  Sir,  your  much  indebted 
humble  servant,  R.  B. 


NO.  XXXV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  January  15fA,  1787. 

Madam. — Yours  of  the  9th  current,  which 
I am  this  moment  honoured  with,  is  a deep 
reproach  to  me  for  ungrateful  neglect.  I 
will  tell  you  the  real  truth,  for  I am  miser- 
ably awkward  at  a fib,  I wdshed  to  have 
written  to  Dr.  Moore  before  I wrote  to  you ; 
but,  though  every  day  since  I received  yours 
of  December  30th,  the  idea,  the  wish  to 
write  to  him,  has  constantly  pressed  on  my 
thoughts,  yet  I could  not  for  my  soul  set 
about  it.  I know  his  fame  and  character, 
and  I am  one  of  “ the  sons  of  little  men.” 
To  write  him  a mere  matter-of-fact  affair, 
like  a merchant’s  order,  would  be  disgracing 
the  little  character  I have ; and  to  write  the 
author  of  “ The  View  of  Society  and  Man- 
ners” a letter  6f  sentiment — I declare  every 
artery  runs  cold  at  the  thought.  I shall 
try,  however,  to  write  to  him  to-morrow  or 
next  lay.  His  kind  interposition  in  my 
behalf  1 have  already  experienced,  as  a geo* 


280 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


tleraan  waited  on  me  the  other  day,  on  the 
part  of  Lord  Eglinton,  with  ten  guineas,  by 
way  of  subscription  for  two  copies  of  my 
next  edition. 

The  word  you  object  to  in  the  mention  I 
have  made  of  my  glorious  countryman  and 
your  immortal  ancestor,  is  indeed  borrowed 
from  Thomson ; but  it  does  not  strike  me  as 
an  improper  epithet.  I distrusted  my  own 
judgment  on  your  finding  fault  with  it,  and 
applied  for  the  opinion  of  some  of  the 
literati  here  who  honour  me  with  their 
critical  strictures,  and  they  all  allow  it  to  be 
proper.  The  song  you  ask  I cannot  recol- 
lect, and  1 have  not  a copy  of  it.  I have 
not  composed  any  thing  on  the  great 
Wallace,  exeept  what  you  have  seen  in 
print,  and  the  enclosed,  which  I will  print  in 
this  edition.  You  will  see  I have  mentioned 
some  others  of  the  name.  When  I com- 
posed my  Vision  long  ago,  I had  attempted 
a description  of  Kyle,  of  which  the  addi- 
tional stanzas  are  a part  as  it  originally 
stood.  My  heart  glows  with  a wish  to  be  i 
able  to  do  justice  to  the  merits  of  the  i 
" saviour  of  his  country,”  which,  sooner  or  i 
later,  I shall  at  least  attempt. 

You  are  afraid  I shall  grow  intoxicated 
with  my  prosperity  as  a poet : alas  ! Madam, 
l know  myself  and  the  world  too  well.  I do 
Slot  mean  any  airs  of  atfected  modesty ; I 
am  willing  to  believe  that  my  abilities 
deserve  some  notice ; but  in  a most  en- 
lightened, informed  age  and  nation,  when 
poetry  is  and  has  been  the  study  of  men  of 
the  first  natural  genius,  aided  with  all  the 
powers  of  polite  learning,  polite  books,  and 
polite  company — to  be  dragged  forth  to  the 
full  glare  of  learned  and  polite  observation, 
with  all  my  imperfections  of  awkward  rus- 
ticity and  crude  unpolished  ideas  in  my 
head — I assure  you,  Madam,  I do  not  dis- 
semble when  I tell  you  I tremble  for  the 
consequences.  The  novelty  of  a poet  in  my 
obscure  situation,  without  any  of  those 
advantages  which  are  reckoned  necessary 
for  that  character,  at  least  at  this  time  of 
day,  has  raised  a partial  tide  of  public 
notice  which  has  borne  me  to  a height, 
where  I am  absolutely,  feelingly  certain,  my 
abilities  are  inadequate  to  support  me ; and 
too  surely  do  I see  that  time  when  the  same 
tide  will  leave  me,  and  recede,  perhaps,  as 
far  below  the  mark  of  truth.  I do  not  say 
this  in  the  ridiculous  affectation  of  self- 
abasement  and  modesty.  I have  studied 
myself,  aud  know  what  ground  I occupy; 
and  howerer  a friend  or  the  world  may  differ 
from  me  in  that  particular,  I stand  for  my 
own  opinion,  in  silent  resolve,  with  all  the 


tenaciousness  of  propriety.  I mention  thn 
to  you  once  for  all,  to  disburden  my  mind, 
and  I do  not  wish  to  hear  or  say  more  about 
it.  But, 

When  proud  fortune’s  ebbing  tide  recedes, 
you  will  bear  me  witness,  that  when  my 
bubble  of  fame  was  at  the  highest,  I stood 
unintoxicated,  with  the  inebriating  cup  in 
my  hand,  lool  in^  forward  with  rueful  resolve 
to  the  hastening  time  when  the  blow  of 
calumny  should  dash  it  to  the  ground,  with 
all  the  eagerness  of  vengeful  triumph. 

Your  patronising  me,  and  interesting 
yourself  in  my  fame  and  character  as  a poet, 
I rejoice  in — it  exalts  me  in  my  own  idea— 
and  whether  you  can  or  cannot  aid  me  in 
my  subscription,  is  a trifle.  Has  a paltry 
subscription-bill  any  charms  to  the  heart  of 
a bard,  compared  with  the  patronage  of  the 
descendant  of  the  immortal  Wallace  ? 

KB. 


NO.  XXXVI 

TO  DR.  MOORE.  (16) 

Edinburgh , Jan . 1787. 

Sir. — Mrs. Dunlop  has  been  so  kind  as  to 
send  me  extracts  of  letters  she  has  had  from 
you,  where  you  do  the  rustic  bard  the 
honour  of  noticing  him  and  his  works. 
Those  who  have  felt  the  anxieties  and 
solicitudes  of  authorship,  can  only  know 
what  pleasure  it  gives  to  be  noticed  in  such 
a manner,  by  judges  of  the  first  character. 
Your  criticisms.  Sir,  I receive  with  reverence ; 
only  I am  sorry  they  mostly  came  too  late ; 
a peccant  passage  or  two  that  1 would  cer- 
tainly have  altered,  were  gone  to  the  press. 

The  hope  to  be  admired  for  ages,  is,  in  by 
far  the  greater  part  of  those  even  who  are 
authors  of  repute,  an  unsubstantial  dream. 
For  my  part,  my  first  ambition  was,  and  still 
my  strongest  wish  is,  to  please  my  compeer*, 
the  rustic  inmates  of  the  hamlet,  while  ever- 
changing  language  and  manners  shall  allow 
me  to  be  relished  and  understood.  I am 
very  willing  to  admit  that  I have  some  poe- 
tical abilities ; and  as  few,  if  any  writers, 
either  moral  or  poetical,  are  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  the  classes  of  mankind  among 
whom  I have  chiefly  mingled,  I may  have 
seen  men  and  manners  in  a different  phasia 
from  what  is  common,  which  may  assist 
originality  of  thought.  Still  I know  very 
well  the  novelty  of  my  character  has  by  far 
the  greatest  share  in  the  learned  and  polite 
notice  I have  lately  had ; aud  in  a language 


28| 


TO  JAMES  DALRYMPLE,  ESQ. 


where  Pope  and  Churchill  have  raised  the 
laugh,  and  Shen stone  and  Gray  drawn  the 
tear ; where  Thomson  and  Beattie  have 
painted  the  landscape,  and  Lyttleton  and 
Collins  described  the  heart,  I am  not  vain 
enough  to  hope  for  distinguished  poetic 
fame.  K.  B. 


NO.  XXXVII. 

TO  THE  REV.  G.  LAWRIE, 

NEWMILLS,  NEAR  KILMARNOCK. 

Edinburgh,  Feb . 5th,  1787. 

Reverend  and  Dear  Sir. — When  I 
look  at  the  date  of  your  kind  letter,  my 
heart  reproaches  me  severely  with  ingrati- 
tude in  neglecting  so  long  to  answer  it.  I 
will  not  trouble  you  with  any  account,  by 
Vay  of  apology,  of  my  hurried  life  and  dis- 
tracted attention ; do  me  the  justice  to 
believe  that  my  delay  by  no  means  proceeded 
from  want  of  respect.  I feel,  and  ever  shall 
feel  for  you,  the  mingled  sentiments  for  a 
friend,  and  reverence  for  a father. 

I thank  you.  Sir,  with  all  my  soul,  for 
your  friendly  hints,  though  I do  not  need  them 
so  much  as  my  friends  are  apt  to  imagine. 
You  are  dazzled  with  newspaper  accounts 
and  distant  reports  ; but,  in  reality,  I have 
no  great  temptation  to  be  intoxicated  with 
the  cup  of  prosperity.  Novelty  may  attract 
the  attention  of  mankind  a while ; to  it  I 
owe  my  present  eclat ; but  I see  the  time 
not  far  distant  when  the  popular  tide,  wEich 
has  borne  me  to  a height  of  which  I am 
perhaps  unworthy,  shall  recede  with  silent 
celerity,  and  leave  me  a barren  waste  of 
Band,  to  descend  at  my  leisure  to  my  former 
station.  I do  not  say  this  in  the  affectation 
of  modesty;  I see  the  consequence  is  un- 
avoidable, and  am  prepared  for  it.  I had 
oeen  at  a good  deal  of  pains  to  form  a just, 
impartial  estimate  of  my  intellectual  powers 
before  I came  here ; I have  not  added,  since 
I came  to  Edinburgh,  any  thing  to  the 
account;  and  I trust  I shall  take  every  atom 
of  it  back  to  my  shades,  the  coverts  of  my 
unnoticed  early  years. 

In  Dr.  Blacklock,  whom  I see  very  often, 

I have  found  what  I would  have  expected 
in  our  friend,  a clear  head  and  an  excellent 
heart. 

By  far  (he  most  agreeable  hours  I spend 
in  Edinburgh,  must  be  placed  to  the  account 
of  Mis3  Lawrie  and  her  piano-forte.  I can-  i 
Hot  help  repeating  to  you  and  Mrs.  Lawrie  | 
a compliment  th?t  Mr.  Mackenzie,  the  I 


celebrated  “ Man  of  Feeling,”  paid  to  Miss 
Law'rie,  the  other  night,  at  the  concert.  J 
had  come  in  at  the  interlude,  and  sat  down 
by  him  till  I saw  Miss  Lawrie  in  a seat  not 
very  distant,  and  wrent  up  to  pay  my 
respects  to  her.  On  my  return  to  Mr. 
Mackenzie,  he  asked  me  who  she  was ; I 
told  him  ’twas  the  daughter  of  a reverend 
friend  of  mine  in  the  w^est  country.  He 
returned,  there  was  something  very  striking, 
to  his  idea,  in  her  appearance.  On  irt? 
desiring  to  know  what  it  Was,  he  was 
pleased  to  say,  “ She  has  a great  deal  of  the 
elegance  of  a wrell-bred  lady  about  her,  with 
all  the  sweet  simplicity  of  a country  girl.” 
My  compliments  to  all  the  happy  inmates 
of  St.  Margaret’s.  1 am,  my  dear  Sir,  yours 
most  gratefully,  Robert  Burns, 


NO.  XXXVIII. 

TO  JAMES  DAJjRYMPLE,  Esa. 
orangefield. 

Edinburgh,  1787. 

Dear  Sir. — I suppose  the  devil  is  so 
elated  with  his  success  with  you,  that  he  is 
determined,  by  a coup  de  main,  to  complete 
his  purposes  on  you  all  at  once,  in  making 
you  a poet.  I broke  open  the  letter  you 
sent  me — hummed  over  the  rhymes — and  as 
I saw  they  were  extempore,  said  to  myself, 
they  w ere  very  well ; but  wdien  I saw  at  the 
bottom  a name  that  I shall  ever  value  with 
grateful  respect,  “ I gapit  wide,  but  naething 
spak.”  I was  nearly  as  much  struck  as  the 
friends  of  Job,  of  affliction -bearing  memory, 
when  they  sat  down  with  him  seven  days 
and  seven  nights,  and  spake  not  a word. 

I am  naturally  of  a superstitious  cast,  and 
as  soon  as  my  wonder-scared  imagination 
regained  its  consciousness,  and  resumed  its 
functions,  I cast  about  what  this  mania  of 
yours  might  portend.  My  foreboding  ideas 
had  the  wide  stretch  of  possibility ; and 
several  events,  great  in  their  magnitude,  and 
important  in  their  consequences,  occurred  to 
my  fancy.  The  downfall  of  the  conclave,  or 
the  crushing  of  the  Cork  rumps — a ducal 
coronet  to  Lord  George  Gordon,  and  the 
Protestant  interest — or  St  Peter’s  keys  te 
* * * * * 

You  want  to  know  how  I come  on.  I am 
just  in  statu  quo,  or,  not  to  insult  a gentle- 
man with  my  Latin,  in  *'auld  use  and 
wont.”  The  noble  Earl  of  Glencairn  took 
me  uy  the  nund  to-day,  and  interested  hiufci 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


ielf  in  my  concerns,  with  a goodness  like 
that  benevolent  being  whose  image  he  so 
richly  bears.  He  is  a stronger  proof  of  the 
immortality  of  the  soul  than  any  that  phi- 
losophy ever  produced.  A mind  like  his 
can  never  die.  Let  the  worshipful  squire 
H.  L.,  or  the  reverend  Mast.  J.  M.  go  into 
their  primitive  nothing.  At  best,  they  are 
but  ill-digested  lumps  of  chaos,  only  one  of 
them  strongly  tinged  with  bituminous 
particles  and  sulphureous  effluvia.  But  my 
l oble  patron,  eternal  as  the  heroic  swell  of 
magnanimity,  and  the  generous  throb  of 
henevolence,  shall  look  on  with  princely  eye 
at  “the  war  of  elements,  the  wreck  of 
Blatter,  and  the  crash  of  worlds.”  R.  B. 


KO.  XXXIX. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Edinburgh,  February  15th,  1787. 

Sir. — Pardon  my  seeming  neglect  in 
delaying  so  long  to  acknowledge  the  honour 
you  have  done  me,  in  your  kind  notice  of  me, 
January  23rd*  Not  many  months  ago  I 
knew  no  other  employment  than  following 
the  plough,  nor  could  boast  any  thing  higher 
than  a distant  acquaintance  with  a country 
clergyman.  Mere  greatness  never  em- 
barasses  me ; I have  nothing  to  ask  from  the 
great,  and  I do  not  fear  their  judgment; 
but  genius,  polished  by  learning,  and  at  its 
proper  point  of  elevation  in  the  eye  of  the 
world,  this  of  late  I frequently  meet  with, 
and  tremble  at  its  approach.  I scorn  the 
affectation  of  seeming  modesty  to  cover  self- 
conceit.  That  I have  some  merit,  I do  not 
deny ; but  I see  with  frequent  wringings  of 
heart,  that  the  novelty  of  my  character,  and 
the  honest  national  prejudice  of  my  country- 
men. have  borne  me  to  a height  altogether 
untenable  to  my  abilities. 

For  the  honour  Miss  Williams  has  done 
me,  please,  Sir,  return  her  in  my  name  my 
most  grateful  thanks.  I have  more  than 
once  thought  of  paying  her  in  kind,  but  have 
hitherto  quitted  the  idea  in  hopeless  des- 
pondency. I had  never  before  heard  of 
her  ; but  the  other  day  I got  her  poems, 
which,  for  several  reasons,  some  belonging  to 
the  head,  and  others  the  offspring  of  the 
heart,  give  me  a great  deal  of  pleasure.  I 
have  little  pretensions  to  critic  lore ; there 
•re,  1 think,  two  characteristic  features  in 
her  poetry — the  unfettered  wild  flight  of 
native  genius,  and  the  querulous,  sombre 
tenderness  of  “ time-settled  sotrow.’’ 

I only  know  what  pleases  me,  often  with- 
out being  able  to  tell  why.  R.  B.  (17) 


NO.  XL. 

TO  JOHN  BALLANTINE,  Esq. 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  24,  1787. 

My  Honoured  Friend. — I will  soon 
be  with  you  now,  in  guid  black  prent — in  a 
week  or  ten  days  at  farthest.  I am  obliged, 
against  my  own  wish,  to  print  subscribers* 
names;  so  if  any  of  my  Ayr  friends  have 
subscription  bills,  they  must  be  sent  into 
Creech  directly.  I am  getting  my  phiz  done 
by  an  eminent  engraver,  and  if  it  can  be 
ready  in  time,  I will  appear  in  my  book, 
looking,  like  all  other  foots , to  my  title-page. 

R.  B. 


NO.  XL1. 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  DUNBAR.  (18.) 

Lawn  Market,  Monday  Morning,  1787. 

Dear  Sir. — In  justice  to  Spenser,  I must 
acknowledge  that  there  is  scarcely  a poet  in 
the  language  could  have  been  a more  agree- 
able present  to  me ; and  in  justice  to  you, 
allow  me  to  say,  Sir,  that  I have  not  met 
with  a man  in  Edinburgh  to  whom  I would 
so  willingly  have  been  indebted  for  the  gift. 
The  tattered  rhymes  I herewith  present  you, 
and  the  handsome  volumes  of  Spenser 
for  which  I am  so  much  indebted  to  youf 
goodness,  may  perhaps  be  not  in  proportion 
to  one  another ; but  be  that  as  it  may,  my 
gift,  though  far  less  valuable,  is  as  sincere  a 
mark  of  esteem  as  yours. 

The  time  is  approaching  when  I shall  re- 
turn to  my  shades ; and  I am  afraid  my 
numerous  Edinburgh  friendships  are  of  so 
tender  a construction,  that  they  will  not 
bear  carriage  with  me.  Yours  is  one  of  the 
few  that  I could  wish  of  a more  robust  con- 
stitution. It  is  indeed  very  probable  that 
when  I leave  this  city,  we  part  never  more 
to  meet  in  this  sublunary  sphere ; but  I 
have  a strong  fancy  that  in  some  future 
eccentric  planet,  the  comet  of  happier  sys- 
tems than  any  with  which  astronomy  is  yet 
acquainted,  you  and  I,  among  the  harum- 
scarum  sons  of  imagination  and  whim,  with 
a hearty  shake  of  a hand,  a metaphor  and  a 
laugh,  shall  recognise  old  acquaintance: 

Where  wit  may  sparkle  all  its  rays, 
Uncurst  with  caution’s  fears ; 

That  pleasure,  basking  in  the  blase. 
Rejoice  fo?  endless  years. 

I have  the  honour  to  be,  with  the  warm* 
est  sincerity,  d >ar  Sir,  Ac.  R.  B. 


283 


LETTER  TO 


NO.  XLIJ, 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 

Edinburgh,,  February,  1787. 

My  Lord. — I wanted  to  purchase  a pro" 
file  of  your  lordship,  which  I was  told  was  to 
be  got  in  town  ; but  I am  truly  sorry  to  see 
that  a blundering  painter  has  spoiled  a 

human  face  divine.”  The  enclosed  stanzas 
1 intended  to  have  written  below  a picture  or 
profile  or  your  lordship,  could  I have  been 
eo  happy  as  to  procure  one  with  any  thing 
of  a likeness. 

As  I will  soon  return  to  my  shades,  I 
wanted  to  have  something  like  a material 
object  for  my  gratitude ; I wanted  to  have  it 
in  my  power  to  say  to  a friend,  there  is  my 
noble  patron,  my  generous  benefactor.  Al- 
low me,  my  lord,  to  publish  these  verses.  I 
conjure  ycur  lordship,  by  the  honest  throe 
of  gratitude,  by  the  generous  wish  of  bene- 
volence, by  all  the  powers  and  feelings  which 
compose  the  magnanimous  mind,  do  not 
deny  me  this  petition.  I owe  much  to  your 
lcrdship ; and,  what  has  not  in  some  other 
instances  always  been  the  case  with  me,  the 
weight  of  the  obligation  is  a pleasing  load. 
I trust  I have  a heart  as  independent  as  your 
lordship’s,  than  which  I can  say  nothing 
more : and  I would  not  be  beholden  to 
favours  that  would  crucify  my  feelings. 
Your  dignified  character  in  life,  and  manner 
of  supporting  that  character,  are  flattering  to 
my  pride;  and  1 would  be  jealous  of  the 
purity  of  my  grateful  attachment,  where  I 
was  under  the  patronage  of  one  of  the  much- 
favoured  sons  of  fortune. 

Almost  every  poet  has  celebrated  his 
patrons,  particularly  when  they  were  names 
dear  to  fame,  and  illustrious  in  their  coun- 
try : allow  me,  then,  my  lord,  if  you  think 
the  verses  have  intrinsic  merit,  to  tell  the 
world  how  much  I have  the  honour  to  be, 
your  lordship's  highly  indebted,  and  ever 
grateful  humble  servant,  R.  B. 


NO.  XLIII. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  CANDLISH, 

fifUDENT  IN  PHYSIC,  GLASGOW  COLLEGE. 

Edinburgh,  March  21$£,  1787. 

My  Ever  Dear  Old  Acquaintance. 
— -I  was  equally  surprised  and  pleased  at 
your  letter,  though  I dare  say  you  will 
think,  by  my  delaying  so  long  to  write  to 
you,  that  I am  so  drowned  in  the  intoxica- 
tion of  goM  fortune  as  to  be  indifferent  to 


old,  and  once  dear  co ri  unions.  The  truth 

is,  I was  determined  to  write  a good  letter, 
full  of  argument,  amplification,  erudition, 
and,  as  Bayes  says,  all  *hat.  I thought  of 

it,  and  thought  of  it,  and  by  my  soul  I could 
not ; and,  lest  you  should  mistake  the  cause 
of  my  silence,  I just  sit  down  to  tell  you  so. 
Don’t  give  yourself  credit,  though,  that  the 
strength  of  your  logic  scares  me  : the  truth 
is,  I never  mean  to  meet  you  on  that  ground 
at  all.  You  have  shown  me  one  thing  which 
was  to  be  demonstrated:  that  strong  pride 
of  reasoning,  with  a little  affectation  of  sin- 
gularity, may  mislead  the  best  of  hearts.  I 
likewise,  since  you  and  I were  first  ac- 
quainted, in  the  pride  of  despising  old 
women’s  stories,  ventured  in  the  “daring 
path  Spinosa  trod but  experience  of  the 
weakness,  not  the  strength  of  human  powers, 
made  me  glad  to  grasp  at  revealed  religion. 

I am  still,  in  the  Apostle  Paul’s  phrase, 
“The  old  man  with  his  deeds,”  as  when  we 
were  sporting  about  the  “ Lady  Thorn.”  I 
shall  be  four  weeks  here  yet  at  least,  and  so 
1 shall  expect  to  hear  from  you;  welcome 
sense,  welcome  nonsense.  I am,  with  the 
warmest  sincerity,  yours,  &c.,  R.  B. 


NO.  XLIV. 

TO v 

ON  fergusson’s  headstone, 

Edinburgh,  March  1787. 

My  Dear  Sir. — You  may  think,  and 
too  justly,  that  I am  a selfish,  ungrate- 
ful fellow',  having  received  so  many  repeated 
instances  of  kindness  from  you,  and  yet 
never  putting  pen  to  paper  to  say  “thank 
you”;  but  if  you  knew  what  a devil  of  a life 
my  conscience  has  led  me  on  that  account, 
your  good  heart  would  think  yourself  too 
much  avenged.  By  the  bye,  there  is  nothing 
in  the  whole  frame  of  man  which  seems  to 
be  so  unaccountable  as  that  thing  called 
conscience.  Had  the  troublesome,  yelping 
cur  powers  sufficient  to  prevent  a mischief, 
he  might  be  of  use  ; but  at  the  beginning 
of  the  business,  his  feeble  efforts  are  to  the 
workings  of  passion  as  the  infant  frosts  of 
ail  autumnal  morning  to  the  unclouded 
fervour  of  the  rising  sun  : and  no  sooner  are 
the  tumultuous  doings  of  the  wicked  deed 
over,  than,  amidst  the  bitter  native  con- 
sequences of  folly  in  the  very  vortex  of  our 
horrors,  up  starts  conscience,  and  harrows 
us  with  the  feelings  of  the  damned. 

1 have  enclosed  you  by  way  of  expiation, 
somo  verses  and  prose,  that,  iff  they  merit  a 


284 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


place  in  your  tru1>  entertaining  miscellany, 
you  are  welcome  to.  The  prose  extract  is 
literally  as  Mr.  Sprott  sent  it  me. 

The  inscription  on  the  stone  is  as  fol- 
lows : — 

“Hl^RE  LIES  ROBERT  FERGUSSON, 
POET. 

Born,  September  5th,  1751 — Died,  16tli 
October,  1774. 

“No  sculptured  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 
‘No  storied  urn,  nor  animated  bust;’ 

This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia’s  way 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o’er  her  poet’s  dust.’  ” 

On  the  other  side  of  the  stone  is  as  fol- 
lows : — 

“By  special  grant  of  the  managers  to 
Robert  Burns,  who  erected  this  stone,  this 
burial-place  is  to  remain  for  ever  sacred  to 
to  the  memory  of  Robert  Eergusson.” 


Session-house  within  the  JcirJc  of  Ccmongatc, 

the  twenty -second  day  of  February , one 

thousand  seven  hundred  eighty-seven  years. 

Sederunt  of  the  Managers  of  the  Kirk  and 
Kirk-yard  funds  of  Canongate. 

Which  day,  the  treasurer  to  the  said  funds 
produced  a letter  from  Mr.  Robert  Burns,  of 
date  the  6th  current,  which  was  read  and 
appointed  to  be  engrossed  in  their  sederunt 
book,  and  of  which  letter  the  tenor  follows : — 

“ To  the  honourable  bailies  of  Canongate, 
Edinburgh. — Gentlemen,  I am  sorry  to  be 
told  that  the  remains  of  Robert  Fergusson, 
the  so  justly  celebrated  poet,  a man  whose 
talents  for  ages  to  come  will  do  honour  to 
our  Caledonian  name,  lie  in  your  church-yard 
among  the  ignoble  dead,  unnoticed  and  un- 
known. 

Some  memorial  to  direct  the  steps  of  the 
lovers  of  Scottish  song,  when  they  wish  to 
shed  a tear  over  the  ‘ narrow  house’  of  the 
bard  who  is  no  more,  is  surely  a tribute  due 
to  Fergusson’s  memory — a tribute  1 wish  to 
have  the  honour  of  paying. 

1 petition  you  then,  gentlemen,  to  permit 
me  to  lay  a simple  stone  over  his  revered 
ashes,  to  remain  an  unalienable  property  to 
his  deathless  fame.  I have  the  honour  to  be, 
gentlemen,  your  very  humble  servant,  (sic 
subscribitur)  Robert  Burns.” 

Therefore  the  said  managers,  in  considera- 
tion of  the  laudable  and  disinterested  mo- 
tion of  Mr  Burns,  and  the  propriety  of  his 
request,  did,  and  hereby  do,  unanimously, 
grant  power  and  liberty  to  the  said  Robert 


Burns  to  erect  a headstone  at  the  grave  of 
the  said  Robert  Fergusson,  and  to  keep  up 
and  preserve  the  same  to  his  memory  in  all 
time  coming.  Extracted  forth  of  the  recoid® 
of  the  managers,  by 

William  Sprott,  Clerk 


NO.  XLV. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 

My  Lord. — The  honour  your  lordship 
has  done  me,  by  your  notice  and  advice  in 
yours  of  the  1st  instant,  I shall  ever  grate- 
fully remember  : — 

Praise  from  thy  lips  ’tis  mine  with  joy  to 
boast. 

They  best  can  give  it  who  deserve  it  most. 

Your  lordship  touches  the  darling:  chord 
of  my  heart,  when  you  advise  me  to  fire  my 
muse  at  Scottish  story  and  Scottish  scenes. 
I wish  for  nothing  more  than  to  make  a 
leisurely  pilgrimage  through  my  native  coun- 
try ; to  sit  and  muse  on  those  once  hard- 
contended  fields,  where  Caledonia,  rejoicing, 
saw  her  bloody  lion  borne  through  broken 
ranks  to  victory  and  fame ; and  catching  the 
inspiration,  to  pour  the  deathless  names  in 
song.  But,  my  lord,  in  the  midst  of  these 
enthusiastic  reveries,  a long-visaged,  dry 
moral-looking  phantom  strides  across  my 
imagination,  and  pronounces  these  emphatic 
word  3 : — 

“I,  Wisdom,  dwell  with  Prudence.  Friend, 
I do  not  come  to  open  the  ill- closed  wounds 
of  your  follies  and  misfortunes,  merely  to 
give  you  pain  : I wish  through  these  wounds 
to  imprint  a lasting  lesson  on  your  heart 
I will  not  mention  how  many  of  my  salutary 
advices  you  have  despised ; I have  given  you 
line  upon  line  and  precept  upon  precept;  and 
while  I was  chalking  out  to  you  the  straight 
way  to  wealth  and  character,  with  audacious 
effrontery  you  have  zigzagged  across  the 
path,  contemning  me  to  my  face : you  know 
the  consequences.  It  is  not  yet  three  months 
since  home  was  so  hot  for  you  that  yru  were 
on  the  wing  for  the  western  shore  of  the 
Atlantic,  not  to  make  a fortune,  but  to  hide 
your  misfortune. 

“Now  that  your  dear-loved  Scotia  puts  it 
in  your  power  to  return  to  the  situation  of 
your  forefathers,  will  you  follow  these  will- 
o’-wisp  meteors  of  fancy  and  whim,  till  they 
bring  you  once  more  to  the  brink  of  ruin  ? 
I grant  that  the  utmost  ground  you  can  oc- 
cupy is  but  half  a step  from  the  veriest 
poverty ; but  still  it  is  half  a step  Lou  it* 


TO  MILS  DUNLOP. 


255 


If  all  that  I can  urge  b<  ineffectual,  let  her 
vi  ho  ‘seldom  calls  to  you  in  vain,  let  the  call 
of  pride  prevail  with  you.  You  know  how 
you  feel  at  the  iron  gripe  of  ruthless  oppres- 
sion : you  know  how  you  bear  the  galling 
sneer  of  contumelious  greatness.  I hold  you 
out  the  conveniences,  the  comforts  of  life, 
independence  and  character,  on  the  one 
hand;  I tender  you  servility,  dependence, 
and  wretchedness,  on  the  other.  I will  not 
insult  your  understanding  by  bidding  you 
make  a choice.” 

This,  my  lord,  is  unanswerable.  I must 
return  to  my  humble  station,  and  woo  my 
rustic  muse,  in  ray  wonted  way,  at  the 
plough-tail.  Still,  my  lord,  while  the  drops 
of  life  warm  my  heart,  gratitude  to  that 
dear-loved  country  in  which  I boast  my  birth, 
and  gratitude  to  those  her  distinguished 
sons  who  have  honoured  me  so  much  with 
their  patronage  and  approbation,  shall,  while 
stealing  through  my  humble  shades,  ever 
distend  my  bosom,  and  at  times,  as  now, 
draw  forth  the  swelling  tear.  R.  B. 


NO.  XLVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  March  2 2nd,  1737. 

Madam. — I read  your  letter  with  watery 
eyes.  A little,  very  little  while  ago,  I had 
scarce  a friend  but  the  stubborn  pride  of  my 
own  bosom ; now  I am  distinguished,  pa- 
tronised, befriended  by  you.  Your  friendly 
advices,  I will  not  give  them  the  cold  name 
of  criticisms,  I receive  with  reverence.  I 
have  made  some  small  alterations  in  what  I 
before  had  printed.  I have  the  advice  of 
some  very  judicious  friend  among  the  literati 
heie,  but  with  them  I sometimes  find  it 
necessary  to  claim  the  privilege  of  thinking 
for  myself.  The  noble  Earl  of  Glencairn, 
to  whom  I owe  more  than  to  any  man,  does 
me  the  honour  of  giving  me  his  strictures ; 
his  hints,  with  respect  to  impropriety  or 
indelicacy,  I follow  implicitly. 

You  kindly  interest  yourself  in  ray  future 
views  and  prospects ; there  I can  give  you 
no  light.  It  is  all 

Dark  as  was  chaos  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roll’d  together,  or  had  tried  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound. 

The  appellation  of  a Scottish  bard  is  by 
far  my  highest  pride ; to  continue  to  deserve 
it  is  my  most  exalted  ambition.  Scottish 
•eenes  and  Scottish  story  are  the  themes  I 


could  wish  t;>  sing.  I have  no  dearer  aim 
than  to  have  it  in  my  power,  unplagued  with 
the  routine  of  business,  for  which.  Heaven 
knows,  I am  unfit  enough,  to  make  leisurely 
pilgrimages  through  Caledonia;  to  sit  on 
the  fields  of  her  battles,  to  wander  on  the 
romantic  banks  of  her  rivers,  and  to  muse 
by  the  stately  towers  or  venerable  ruins, 
once  the  honoured  abodes  of  her  heroes. 

But  these  are  all  Utopian  thoughts ; 
have  dallied  long  enough  with  life  ; ’tis  time 
to  be  in  earnest.  I have  a fond,  an  aged 
mother  to  care  for,  and  some  other  bosom 
ties  perhaps  equally  tender.  Where  the 
individual  only  suffers  by  the  consequences 
of  his  own  thoughtlessness,  indolence,  or 
folly,  he  may  be  excusable — nay,  shining 
abilities,  and  some  of  the  nobler  virtues, 
may  half  sanctify  a heedless  character ; but 
where  God  and  nature  have  intrusted  the 
welfare  of  others  to  his  care — where  the 
trust  is  sacred,  and  the  ties  are  dear — that 
man  must  be  far  gone  in  selfishness,  or 
strangely  lost  to  reflection,  whom  these  con- 
nexions will  not  rouse  to  exertion. 

I guess  that  I shall  clear  between  two  and 
three  hundred  pounds  by  my  authorship; 
with  that  sum  I intend,  so  far  as  I may  be 
said  to  have  any  intention,  to  return  to  my 
old  acquaintance,  the  plough,  and,  if  I can 
meet  with  a lease  by  which  I can  live,  to 
commence  farmer.  I do  not  intend  to  give 
up  poetry;  being  bred  to  labour  secures  mo 
independence,  and  the  muses  are  my  chief, 
sometimes  have  been  my  only  enjoyment. 
If  my  practice  second  my  resolution,  I shall 
have  principally  at  heart  the  serious  business 
of  life ; but  while  following  my  plough,  c* 
building  up  my  shocks,  I shall  cast  a leisure 
glance  to  that  dear,  that  only  feature  of  my 
character,  which  gave  me  the  notice  of  my 
country,  and  the  patronage  of  a Wallace 

Thus,  honoured  Madam,  I have  given  you 
the  bard,  his  situation,  and  his  views,  native 
as  they  are  in  his  own  bosom.  R.  B. 


NO.  >LVIt. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  April  15 th,  17Q7. 

Madam. — There  is  an  affectation  of 
gratitude  which  I dislike.  The  periods  of 
Johnson  and  the  pauses  of  Sterne  may  hide 
a selfish  heart.  For  my  part,  Madam,  I 
trust  I have  too  much  pride  for  servility* 
and  too  little  prudence  for  selfishness.  | 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


have  this  moment  broken  open  your  letter, 
but 

Rude  am  I in  speech. 

And  therefore  little  can  I grace  my  cause 
Iu  speaking  for  myself — 

so  I shall  not  trouble  you  with  any  fine 
speeches  and  hunted  figures.  I shall  just 
lay  my  hand  on  my  heart  and  say,  I hope  I 
ahall  ever  have  the  truest,  the  warmest  sense 
of  your  goodness. 

I come  abroad,  in  print,  for  certain  on 
Wednesday.  Your  orders  I shall  punctually 
attend  to ; only,  by  the  way,  I must  tell  you 
that  I was  paid  before  for  Dr.  Moore’s  and 
Miss  Williams’s  copies,  through  the  medium 
of  Commissioner  Cochrane  in  this  place,  but 
that  we  can  settle  when  I have  the  honour 
of  waiting  on  you. 

Dr.  Smith  (19)  was  just  gone  to  London 
the  morning  before  I received  your  letter  to 
hint.  R.  B. 


M9.  XLVIII. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Edinburgh,  April , 23rd  1787. 

I received  the  books,  and  sent  the  one 
you  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  I am  ill 
skilled  in  beating  the  coverts  of  imagina- 
tion for  metaphors  of  gratitude.  I thank 
you.  Sir,  for  the  honour  vou  have  done  me, 
and  to  my  latest  hour  will  warmly  remember 
it.  To  be  highly  pleased  with  your  book  is, 
what  I have  in  common  with  the  world,  but 
to  regard  these  volumes  as  a mark  of  the 
author’s  friendly  esteem,  is  a still  more 
supreme  gratification. 

I leave  Edinburgh  in  the  course  of  ten 
days  or  a fortnight,  and,  after  a few  pilgrim- 
ages over  some  of  the  classic  ground  of 
Caledonia,  Cowdeu  Knowes,  Banks  of 
Yarrow,  Tweed,  &c.,  I shall  return  to  my 
rural  shades,  in  all  likelihood  never  more  to 
quit  them.  I have  formed  many  intimacies 
and  friendships  here,  but  I am  afraid  they 
are  all  of  too  tender  a construction  to  bear 
carriage  a hundred  and  fifty  miles.  To  the 
rich,  the  great,  the  fashionable,  the  polite,  I 
have  no  equivalent  to  offer ; and  I am  afraid 
ray  meteor  appearance  will  by  no  means 
:ntitle  me  to  a settled  correspondence  with 
any  of  you,  who  are  the  permanent  lights  of 
genius  and  literature. 

My  most  respectful  compliments  to  Miss 
Williams.  If  once  this  tangent  flight  of 
mine  were  over,  and  I were  returned  to  my 
wonted  leisurely  motion  in  my  old  circle,  J 


may  probably  endeavour  to  return  her  poetic 
compliment  in  kind.  R.  B.  (20) 


NO.  XLIX. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP 

Edinburgh,  April  30th,  1787. 

Your  criticisms,  Madam,  I under- 
stand very  well,  and  could  have  wished  to 
have  pleased  you  better.  You  are  right  m 
your  guess  that  I am  not  very  amenable  to 
counsel.  Poets,  much  my  superiors,  have 
so  flattered  those  who  possessed  the  adven- 
titious qualities  of  wealth  and  power,  that  I 
am  determined  to  flatter  no  created  being, 
either  in  prose  or  verse. 

I set  as  little  by  princes,  lords,  clergy, 
critics,  &c.,  as  all  these  respective  gentry  do 
by  my  hardship.  I know  what  I may  expect 
from  the  world  by  and  bye — illiberal  abuse, 
and  perhaps  contemptuous  neglect. 

I am  happy.  Madam,  that  some  of  my  own 
favourite  pieces  are  distinguished  by  your 
particular  approbation.  For  my  Dream, 
which  has  unfortunately  incurred  your  loyal 
displeasure,  I hope  in  four  weeks,  or  less,  to 
have  the  honour  of  appearing,  at  Dunlop,  in 
it3  defence  in  person.  R.  B. 


NO.  L. 

TO  JAMES  JOHNSON, 

EDITOR  OF  THE  SOOTS  MUSICAL 
MUSEUM. 

Lawnmarket,  Friday  Noon, 
May  3rd,  1787. 

Dear  Sir. — I have  sent  you  a song  never 
before  known  for  your  collection ; the  air  by 
M’Gibbon,  but  I know  not  the  author  of  the 
words,  as  I got  it  from  Dr.  Blacklock. 

Farewell,  my  dear  Sir ! I wished  to  hava 
seen  you,  but  I have  been  dreadfully 
throng  (21),  as  I march  to-morrow.  (22) 
Had  my  acquaintance  with  you  been  a little 
older,  I would  have  asked  the  favour  of  your 
correspondence,  as  I have  met  with  few 
people  w'hose  company  and  conversation 
gave  me  so  much  pleasure,  because  I have 
met  with  few  whose  sentiments  are  so  con- 
genial to  my  own. 

When  Dunbar  and  you  meet,  tell  him  that 
I left  Edinburgh  with  the  idea  of  him  hang- 
ing somewhere  about  my  heart. 

Keep  the  original  of  this  song  tiP  we  m *et 
again,  whenever  that  may  be.  R.  B. 


TO  MU.  PA  XTSON. 


287 


KO.  LI. 

TO  THE  REV.  DR.  HUGH  BLAIR. 

Lawnmarlcet,  Edinburgh, 
May  3rd , 1787. 

Rev.  and  much-Respected  Sir. — I 
leave  Edinburgh  to-morrow  morning,  but 
could  not  go  without  troubling  you  with 
half  aline,  sincerely  to  thank  you  for  the 
kindness,  patronage  and  friendship  you 
have  shown*  me.  I often  felt  the  embarrass- 
ment of  my  singular  situation  ; drawn  forth 
from  the  veriest  shades  of  life  to  the  glare 
of  remark,  and  honoured  by  the  notice  of 
those  illustrious  names  of  my  country,  whose 
works,  while  they  are  applauded  to  the  end 
of  time,  will  ever  instruct  and  mend  the 
heart.  However  the  meteor-like  novelty  of 
my  appearance  in  the  world  might  attract 
notice,  and  honour  me  with  the  acquaintance 
of  the  permanent  lights  of  genius  and  litera- 
ture, those  who  are  truly  benefactors  of  the 
immortal  nature  of  man,  I knew  very  well 
that  my  utmost  merit  was  far  unequal  to  the 
task  of  preserving  that  character  when  once 
the  novelty  was  over ; 1 have  so  made  up  my 
mind  that  abuse,  or  almost  even  neglect, 
Will  not  surprise  me  in  my  quarters. 

I have  sent  you  a proof  impression  of 
Beugo’s  work  (23)  for  me,  done  on  Indian 
paper,  as  a trifling  but  sincere  testimony  wdth 
what  heart-warm  gratitude  I am,  &c. 

R.  B.  (24) 


NO.  LI I. 

TO  WILLIAM  CREECH,  Es<l, 
EDINBURGH. 

Selkirk,  May  13th,  1787. 

My  Honoured  Friend. — The  enclosed 
I have  just  wrote  (25),  nearly  extempore,  in 
t solitary  inn  in  Selkirk,  after  a miserably 
wet  day’s  riding.  I have  been  over  most  of 
East  Lothian,  Berwick,  Roxburgh,  and 
Selkirk  shires,  and  next  week  I begin  a tour 
through  the  north  of  England.  Yesterday 
I dined  with  Lady  Harriet,  sister  to  my 
noble  patron  (26),  Quern  Dens  conservet! 
I would  write  till  I would  tire  you  as  much 
with  dull  prose,  as  I daresay  by  this  time 
you  are  with  wretched  verse;  but  I am 
jaded  to  death ; so,  with  a grateful  farewell, 
1 have  the  honour  to  be,  good  Sir,  yours 
tineerety,  R.  B. 


NO.  LIII. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  CANDUSH. 

Edinburgh,  1787. 

My  Dear  Friend. — If  once  I wer« 
gone  from  this  scene  of  hurry  and  dissipation, 
I promise  myself  the  pleasure  of  that  corres- 
pondence being  renewed  which  has  been  so 
long  broken.  At  present  I have  time  for 
nothing.  Dissipation  and  business  engross 
every  moment.  I am  engaged  in  assisting 
an  honest  Scotch  enthusiast  (27),  a friend  of 
mine,  who  is  an  engraver,  and  has  taken  it 
into  his  head  to  publish  a collection  of  all 
our  songs  set  to  music,  of  which  the  words 
and  music  are  done  by  Scotsmen.  This,  you 
will  easily  guess,  is  an  undertaking  exactly 
to  my  taste.  I have  collected,  begged,  bor- 
rowed, and  stolen,  all  the  songs  I could 
meet  with.  Pompey’s  Ghost,  words  and 
music,  I beg  from  you  immediately,  to  go 
into  his  second  number — the  first  is  already 
published.  I shall  show  you  the  first  num- 
ber when  I see  you  in  Glasgow,  which  will 
be  in  a fortnight  or  less.  Do  be  so  kind  as 
to  send  me  the  song  in  a day  or  two — you 
cannot  imagine  how  much  it  will  oblige  me. 

Direct  to  me  at  Mr.  W.  Cruikshank’s, 
St.  James’s  Square,  New  Town,  Edinburgh. 

JL  B. 


LIT. 

TO  MR.  PATISON,  BOOKSELLER* 
PAISLEY. 

Berry -well,  near  Dunse, 
May  nth , 1787. 

Dear  Sir. — I am  sorry  I was  out  of 
Edinburgh,  making*  a slight  pilgrimage  to 
the  classic  scenes  of  this  country,  when  I 
was  favoured  with  yours  of  the  11th  instant, 
enclosing  an  order  of  the  Paisley  Banking 
Company  on  the  Royal  Bank,  for  twenty-two 
pounds  seven  shillings  sterling,  payment  in 
full,  after  carriage  deducted,  for  ninety  copies 
of  my  book  I sent  you.  According  to  your 
motions,  I see  you  will  have  left  Scotland 
before  this  reaches  you,  otherwise  I would 
send  you  “ Holy  Willie”  with  all  my  heart. 
I was  so  hurried  that  I absolutely  forgot 
several  things  I ought  to  have  minded:— 
among  the  rest,  sending  books  to  Mr.  Cowan ; 
but  any  order  of  yours  will  be  answered  at 
Creech’s  shop.  You  will  please  remember 
that  non-subscribers  pay  six  shillings,  this  ia 
Creech’s  profit;  but  those  who  b-ve  sub- 
scribed,  though  their  names  have  heap 

26 


2S8 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


neglected  in  the  printed  list,  which  is  very 
incorrect,  are  supplied  at  the  subscription 
price.  I was  not  at  Glasgow,  nor  do  I 
intend  to  go  to  London ; and  I think  Mrs. 
Fame  is  very  idle  to  tell  so  many  lies  on  a poor 
poet.  When  you  or  Mr.  Cowan  write  for 
copies,  if  you  should  want  any,  direct  to  Mr. 
Kill,  at  Mr.  Creech’s  shop  (28),  a-nd  I write 
to  Mr.  Hill  by  this  post,  to  answer  either  of 
your  orders.  Hill  is  Mr.  Creech’s  first  clerk, 
and  Creech  himself  is  presently  in  London. 
I suppose  I shall  have  the  pleasure,  against 
your  return  to  Paisley,  of  assuring  you  how 
much  I am,  dear  Sir,  your  obliged,  humble 
servant,  R.  B. 


NO.  LT. 

TO  MR.  Wr.  NICOI* 

MASTER  OP  THE  HIGH  SCHOOL,  EDIN- 
BURGH. 

Carlisle , June  1,  1787. 

Kind  Honest-hearted  Willie — I’m 
sit  ten  down  here,  after  seven  ar.d  forty  miles 
ridm’,  e’en  as  forjesket  and  forniaw’d  as  a 
forfoughten  cock,  to  gie  you  some  notion  o’ 
my  land-lowperdike  stravaguin  sin’  the  sor- 
rowfu’  hour  that  I sheuk  hands  and  parted 
wi’  Auld  Reekie. 

My  auld,  ga’d  gleyde  o’  a meere  has  huch- 
yall’d  up  hill  and  down  brae,  in  Scotland 
and  England,  as  teugh  and  birnie  as  a very 
devil  wi’  me.  It’s  true  she’s  as  poor’s  a 
sangmaker  and  as  hard’s  a kirk,  and  tipper- 
taipers  when  she  taks  the  gate,  first  like  a 
lady’s  gentle-woman  in  a minuwae,  or  a hen 
on  a het  girdle  ; but  she’s  a yauld,  poutherie 
girran  for  a’  that,  and  has  a stomach  like 
Willie  Stalker’s  meere,  that  wad  hae  di- 
geested  tumbler-wheel3 — for  she’ll  whip  me 
aff  her  five  stimparts  o’  the  best  aits  at  a 
down-sittin,  and  ne’er  fash  her  thumb. 
"When  ance  her  ringbanes  and  spavies,  her 
crucks  and  cramps,  are  fairly  soupl’d,  she 
beets  to,  beets  to,  and  aye  the  hindmost  hour 
the  tightest.  I could  wager  her  price  to  a 
threttie  pennies,  that  for  twa  or  three  wooks 
Tidin’  at  fifty  mile  a-day,  the  deil-sticket  a five 
gallopers  acqueesh  Clyde  and  Whithorn 
could  cast  saut  on  her  tail.  (29) 

I hae  dander’d  owre  a’  the  kintra  frae 
Lumbar  to  Selcraig,  and  hae  forgather’d  wi’ 
mony  a guid  fallow,  and  mouy  a weelfar’d 
hizzie.  I met  wi’  twa  dink,  quines  in  par- 
ticular, ane  o’  them  a sonsie,  fine,  fodgel  lass 
— -baith,  braw  and  bonnie;  the  tither  was  a 
elean-shankit,  straught,  tight,  weel-far’d 
fcinch,  gs  blythe’s  a lint  white  oil  a flowqyie 


thorn,  and  as  sweet  and  modest's  a neva 
blawn  plum-rose  in  a hazle  shaw.  They 
were  baith  bred  to  mainers  by  the  beuk,  and 
onie  ane  o’  them  had  as  muckle  smeddum 
and  rumblegumption  as  the  half  o’  some 
presbytries  that  you  and  I baith  ken.  They 
play’d  me  sick  a deil  o’  a shavie,  that  I 
daur  say,  if  my  harigals  were  turn’d  out,  ye 
wad  see  twa  nicks  i’  the  heart  o’  me  like  the 
mark  o’  a kail-whittle  in  a castock. 

I was  gaun  to  write  you  a lang  pystle,  but 
God  forgie  me,  I gat  mysel  sae  noutouri- 
ously  bitchify’d  the  day,  after  kail-time,  that 
I can  hardly  stoiter  bot  and  ben. 

My  best  respeck3  to  the  guidwife  and  a* 
our  common  friens,  especially  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Cruikshank,  and  the  honest  guidman  o* 
Jock’s  Lodge. 

I’ll  be  in  Dumfries  the  morn  gif  the  beast 
be  to  the  fore,  and  the  branks  bide  hale, 
Guid  be  wi’  you,  Willie ! Amen  ! R.  B. 


NO.  LVI. 

TO  WILLIAM  NICOL,  Esq. 

Auchtertyre  (30),  June,  1787. 

My  Dear  Sir. — I find  myself  very  com- 
fortable here,  neither  oppressed  by  ceremony, 
nor  mortified  by  neglect.  Lady  Augusta  is 
a mo3t  engaging  woman,  and  very  happy  in 
her  family,  which  makes  one’s  outgoings  and 
incomings  very  agreeable.  I called  at  Mr. 
Ramsay’s  of  Auchtertyre  (31),  as  I came  up 
the  country,  and  am  so  delighted  with  him, 
that  I shall  certainly  accept  of  his  invitation 
to  spend  a day  or  two  with  him  as  I return. 
I leave  this  place  on  Wednesday  or  Thursday. 

Make  my  kind  compliments  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Cruikshank  and  Mrs.  Nicol,  if  she  ia 
returned.  I am  ever,  dear  Sir,  your  deeply 
indebted  R.  B. 


NO.  LVII. 

TO  MR.  W.  NICOL, 

MASTER  OP  THE  HIGH  SCHOOL,  EDIN- 
BURGH. 

Mauchline,  June  18,  1787. 

My  Dear  Friend. — I am  now  arrived 
safe  in  my  native  country,  after  a very  agree- 
able jaunt,  and  have  the  pleasure  to  find  all 
my  friends  well.  I breakfasted  with  your 
grey-headed,  reverend  friend,  Mr.  Smith ; 
and  was  highly  pleased  both  with  the  cordial 
welcome  he  gave  me,  and  his  most  excellent 
appearance  and  sterling  good  sense. 

I have  been  with  Mr.  Miller  at  Dalswiar 


TO  MR.  JOHN  RICHMOND. 


lor,  aid  am  to  meet  h*m  again  in  August. 
From  my  view  of  the  lands,  and  his  reception 
if  my  hardship,  my  hopes  in  that  business 
are  rather  mended;  but  still  they  are  but 
slender. 

I am  quite  charmed  with  Dumfries  folks : — 
Mr.  Burnside,  the  clergyman,  in  particular,  is 
a man  whom  I shall  ever  gratefully  remem- 
ber ; and  his  wife — guid  forgie  me  ! 1 had 

almost  broke  the  tenth  commandment  on 
her  account.  Simplicity,  elegance,  good 
sense,  sweetness  of  disposition,  good  humour, 
kind  hospitality,  are  the  constituents  of  her 
manner  and  heart:  in  short — but  if  I say 
one  word  more  about  her,  I shall  be  directly 
in  love  with  her. 

I never,  my  friend,  thought  mankind  very 
capable  of  anything  generous;  but  the  state- 
liness of  the  patricians  in  Edinburgh,  and 
the  civility  of  my  plebeian  brethren  (who 
perhaps  formerly  eyed  me  askance)  since  I 
returned  home,  have  nearly  put  me  out  of 
conceit  altogether  with  my  species.  I have 
bought  a pocket  Milton,  which  I carry  per- 
petually about  with  me,  in  order  to  study 
the  sentiments,  the  dauntless  magnanimity, 
the  intrepid,  unyielding  independence,  the 
desperate  daring,  and  noble  defiance  of  hard- 
ship in  that  great  personage,  Satan.  ’Tis 
true,  I have  just  now  a little  cash ; but  I am 
afraid  the  star  that  hitherto  has  shed  its 
malignant,  purpose-blasting  rays  full  in  my 
zenith, — that  noxious  planet,  so  baneful  in 
its  influences  to  the  rhyming  tribe, — I much 
dread  it  is  not  yet  beneath  my  horizon. 
Misfortune  dodges  the  path  of  human  life ; 
the  poetic  mind  finds  itself  miserably  de- 
ranged in,  and  unfit  for  the  walks  of  busi- 
ness ; add  to  all,  that  thoughtless  follies  and 
hair-brained  whims,  like  so  many  ignes  fatui 
eternally  diverging  from  the  right  line  of 
sober  discretion,  sparkle  with  step-bewitching 
blaze  in  the  idly-gazing  eyes  of  the  poor 
heedless  bard,  till  pop,  “ he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
never  to  hope  again.”  God  grant  that  this 
may  be  an  unreal  picture  with  respect  to  me! 
but  should  it  not,  I have  very  little  depend- 
ence on  mankind.  I will  close  my  letter  with 
this  tribute  my  heart  bids  me  pay  you — 
the  many  ties  of  acquaintance  and  friendship 
which  I have,  or  think  I have  in  life,  I have 
felt  along  the  lines,  and  damn  them,  they  are 
almost  all  of  them  of  such  frail  contextu,-e, 
that  I am  sure  they  would  not  stand  the 
Breath  of  the  least  adverse  breeze  of  fortune; 
but  from  you,  my  ever  dear  Sir,  I look  with 
confidence  for  the  apostolic  love  that  shall 
wait  on  me  “ through  good  report  and  bad 
report  ” — the  love  which  Solomon  emphati- 
cally says  u is  strong  as  death.”  My  com-  | 
0 


289 

pliments  to  Mrs.  Nicol,  and  all  the  circle  o i 
our  common  friends. 

P.  S.  I shall  be  in  Edinburgh  about  the 
latter  end  of  J uly.  R.  B. 


NO.  LVIII. 

TO  WILLIAM  CRUIKSIIANK.  (32) 
st.  james’s  square,  Edinburgh. 

Auchtertyre,  June , 1787. 

I have  nothing,  my  dear  Sir,  to  write  to 
you,  but  that  1 feel  myself  exceedingly  com- 
fortably situated  in  this  good  family — just 
notice  enough  to  make  me  easy  but  not  to 
embarrass  me.  I was  storm-staid  two  days 
at  the  foot  of  the  Ochill  Hills,  with  Mr.  Tait 
of  Herveyston  and  Mr.  Johnston  of  Alva, 
but  was  so  well  pleased  that  I shall  certainly 
spend  a day  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon  as  I 
return.  I leave  this  place  I suppose  on 
Wednesday,  and  shall  devote  a day  to  Mr. 
Ramsay,  at  Auchtertyre,  near  Stirling — a 
man  to  whose  worth  I cannot  do  justice. 
My  respectful  kind  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Cruikshank,  aud  my  dear  little  Jeanie,  and 
if  you  see  Mr.  Mastcrton,  please  remember 
me  to  him.  I am  ever,  my  dear  Sir,  &c. 

R.  B, 


KO.  L3X. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  RICHMOND. 

Mossgiel,  July  7th,  1787. 

My  Dear  Richmond. — I am  all  im- 
patience to  hear  of  your  fate  since  the  old 
confounder  of  right  and  wrong  has  turned 
you  out  of  place,  by  his  journey  to  answer 
his  indictment  at  the  bar  of  the  other  world. 
He  will  find  the  practice  of  the  court  so 
different  from  the  practice  in  which  he  has 
for  so  many  years  been  thoroughly  hack- 
neyed, that  his  friends,  if  he  had  any  con- 
nections truly  of  that  kind,  which  I rather 
doubt,  may  well  tremble  for  his  sake.  His 
chicane,  his  left-handed  wisdom,  which  stoc  d 
so  firmly  by  him,  to  such  good  purpose, 
here,  like  other  accomplices  in  robbery  and 
plunder,  will,  now  the  piratical  business  ia 
blown,  in  all  probability  turn  king’s  evi- 
dences, and  then  the  devil’s  bagpiper  will 
touch  him  off  “ Bundle  and  go.” 

If  he  has  left  you  any  legacy,  I beg 
your  pardon  for  all  this ; if  not,  I know 
you  will  swear  to  every  word  I said  about 
him. 

I have  lately  been  rambling  over  by  Dura* 


290 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


barton  and  Inverary,  and  running  a drunken 
race  on  the  side  of  Loch  Lomond  with  a 
^ild  Highlandman ; his  horse,  which  had 
never  known  the  ornaments  of  iron  or 
leather,  zigzagged  across  before  my  old 
spavin'd  hunter,  wiiose  name  is  Jenny 
Geides,  and  down  came  the  Highlandman, 
horse  and  all,  and  down  came  Jenny  and 
my  ladyship  ; so  I have  got  such  a skinful 
of  bruises  and  wounds,  that  I shall  be  at 
least  four  weeks  before  I dare  venture  on  my 
journey  to  Edinburgh. 

Not  one  new  thing  under  the  sun  has 
happened  in  Mauchline  since  you  left  it.  I 
hope  this  will  find  you  as  comfortably 
situated  as  formerly,  or,  if  Heaven  pleases, 
more  so  ; but,  at  all  events,  I trust  you  will 
let  me  know,  of  course,  how  matters  stand 
with  you,  well  or  ill.  *Tis  but  poor  con- 
solation to  tell  the  world  when  matters  go 
wrong  but  you  know  very  well  your  con- 
nection and  mine  stands  on  a different 
footing.  I am  ever,  my  dear  friend,  yours, 
R.  B. 


MO.  LX. 

TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE,  Esa 

Mauchline , July , 1787. 

My  Dear  Sir. — My  life,  since  I saw  you 
last,  has  been  one  continued  hurry;  that 
savage  hospitality  which  knocks  a man  down 
with  strong  liquors,  is  the  devil.  I have  a 
sore  warfare  in  this  world ; the  devil,  the 
world,  and  the  flesh,  are  three  formidable 
foes.  The  first  I generally  try  to  fly  from ; 
the  second,  alas ! generally  flies  from  me ; 
but  the  third  is  my  plague,  worse  than  the 
ten  plagues  of  Egypt. 

I have  been  looking  over  several  farms  in 
this  country;  one  in  particular,  in  Niths- 
dale,  pleased  me  so  well,  that,  if  my  offer  to 
the  proprietor  is  accepted,  I shall  commence 
farmer  at  Whitsunday.  If  farming  do  not 
appear  eligible,  I shall  have  recourse  to  my 
other  shift ; but  this  to  a friend. 

I set  out  for  Edinburgh  on  Monday 
morning ; how  long  I stay  there  is  uncertain, 
but  you  will  know  so  soon  as  I can  inform 
you  myself.  However  I deterrnine,  poesy 
must  be  laid  aside  for  some  time ; my  mind 
has  been  vitiated  with  idleness,  and  it  will 
take  a good  deal  of  effort  to  habituate  it  to 
the  routine  of  business  I am,  my  dear  Sir, 
yours  sincerely,  R.  B. 


NO.  LSI, 

TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE.  (33) 

Mauchline , July  2 3rd,  1787. 

My  Dear  Ainslie. — There  is  one  thi.g 
for  which  I set  great  store  by  you  as  a friend, 
and  it  is  this,  that  I have  not  a friend  upon 
eartk,  besides  yourself,  to  whom  I can  talk 
nonsense  without  forfeiting  some  degree  ol 
his  esteem.  Now,  to  one  like  me,  who 
never  cares  for  speaking  any  thing  else  but 
nonsense,  such  a friend  as  you  is  an  invalua- 
ble treasure.  I was  never  a rogue,  but  have 
been  a fool  all  my  life ; and,  in  spite  of  all 
my  endeavours,  I see  now  plainly  that  I 
shall  never  be  wise.  Now  it  rejoices  my 
heart  to  have  met  with  such  a fellow  as 
you,  who,  though  you  are  not  just  such  ft 
hopeless  fool  as  I,  yet  I trust  you  will  never 
listen  so  much  to  the  temptations  of  the 
devil,  as  to  grow  so  very  wise  that  you  will 
in  the  least  disrespect  an  honest  fellow  be- 
cause he  is  a fool.  In  short,  I have  set  you 
down  as  the  staff  of  my  old  age.,  when  the 
whole  list  of  my  friends  will,  after  a decent 
share  of  pity,  have  forgot  me. 

Though  in  the  morn  comes  sturt  and  strife, 
Yet  joy  may  come  at  noon ; 

And  I hope  to  live  a merry  merry  life 
When  a'  thir  days  are  done. 

Write  me  soon,  were  it  but  a few  lines 
just  to  tell  me  how  that  good,  sagacious 
man,  your  father,  is — that  kind  dainty  body 
your  mother — that  strapping  chiel  your 
brother  Douglas — and  my  friend  Rachel, 
who  is  as  far  before  Rachel  of  old,  as 
she  was  before  her  blear-eyed  sister  Leah. 

R.  B. 


MO.  LXIl. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  MUIR. 

Stirling,  August  26th,  1787. 

My  Dear  Sir. — I intended  to  have 
written  you  from  Edinburgh,  and  now 
write  you  from  Stirling  to  make  an  excuse. 
Here  am  I,  on  my  way  to  Inverness,  with 
a truly  original,  but  very  worthy  man,  ft 
Mr.  Nicol,  one  of  the  masters  of  the  High- 
school  in  Edinburgh. — I left  Auld  Reekie 
yesterday  morning,  and  have  passed,  besides 
by-excursions  Linlithgow,  Borrowstouness, 
Falkirk,  and  tere  am  I undoubtedly.  This 
morning  I knelt  at  the  tomb  of  Sir  John  tha 
Graham,  the  gallant  friend  of  the  immortal 
Wallace  and  two  hours  ago  I said  a fervsnt 


TO  GAVIN  Ri 

player  for  old  Caledonia  over  the  hole  in 
a blue  whinstone,  where  Robert  de  Bruce 
fixed  his  royal  standard  on  the  banks  of 
Bannockburn;  and  just  now,  from  Stirling 
Castle,  I have  seen  by  the  setting  sun  the 
glorious  prospect  of  the  windings  of  Forth 
through  the  rich  carse  of  Stirling,  and 
skirting  the  equally  rich  carse  of  Falkirk. 
The  crops  are  very  strong,  but  so  very  late 
that  there  is  no  harvest  except  a ridge  or 
two  perhaps  in  ten  miles,  all  the  way  I have 
travelled  from  Edinburgh. 

I left  Andrew  Bruce  (34)  and  family  all 
well.  I will  be  at  least  three  weeks  in 
making  my  tour,  as  I shall  return  by  the 
coast,  and  have  many  people  to  call  for. 

My  best  compliments  to  Charles,  our  dear 
kinsman  and  fellow-saint ; and  Messrs.  W. 
and  H.  Parker.  I hope  Hughoc  (35)  is 
going  on  and  prospering  with  God  and  Miss 
M'Causlin. 

If  I could  think  on  any  thing  sprightly,  I 
8hould  let  you  hear  every  other  post ; but 
a dull,  matter-of-fact  business  like  this 
scrawl,  the  less  and  seldomer  one  writes  the 
better. 

Among  other  matters-of-fact  I shall  add 
this,  that  I am  and  ever  shall  be,  my  dear 
Sir,  your  obliged  & B. 


NO.  LXIII. 

TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  Esq. 

Stirling,  August  28th,  1787. 

My  Dear  Sir — Here  am  I on  my  way 
to  Inverness.  I have  rambled  over  the  rich, 
fertile  carses  of  Falkirk  and  Stirling,  and 
am  delighted  with  their  appearance : richly 
waving  crops  of  wheat,  barley,  &c.,  but  no 
harvest  at  all  yet,  except  in  one  or  two  places 
an  old-wife’s  ridge.  Yesterday  morning  I 
rode  from  this  town  up  the  meandering  Devon’s 
banks,  to  pay  my  respects  to  some  Ayrshire 
folks  at  Harvieston.  After  breakfast,  we 
made  a party  to  go  and  see  the  famous 
Caudron-linn,  a remarkable  cascade  in  the 
Devon,  about  five  mile3  above  Harvieston  ; 
and  after  spending  one  of  the  most  pleasant 
days  I ever  had  in  my  life,  I returned  to 
Stirling  in  the  evening.  They  are  a family. 
Sir,  though  I had  not  had  any  prior  tie — 
though  they  had  not  been  the  brother  and 
sisters  of  a certain  generou.3  friend  of  mine — 
I would  never  forget  them.  I am  told  you 
have  not  seen  them  these  several  years,  so 
you  can  have  very  little  idea  of  what  these 
young  folks  are  now.  Your  brother  is  as  tall 
as  you  are,  but  slender  rather  than  other- 


MILTON,  ESQ.  2y* 

wise ; and  I have  the  satisfaction  to  inform 
you  that  he  is  getting  the  better  of  those 
consumptive  symptoms  which  I suppose  you 
know  were  threatening  him.  His  make,  and 
particularly  his  manner,  resemble  you,  but 
he  will  still  have  a finer  face.  (I  put  in  the 
word  still,  to  please  Mrs.  Hamilton.)  Good 
sense,  modesty,  and  at  the  same  time  a just 
idea  of  that  respect  that  man  owes  to  man, 
and  has  a right  in  his  turn  to  exact,  are 
striking  features  in  his  character ; and,  what 
with  me  is  the  Alpha  and  Omega,  he  has  a 
heart  that  might  adorn  the  breast  of  a poet ! 
Grace  has  a good  figure,  and  the  look  of 
health  and  cheerfulness,  but  nothing  else 
remarkable  in  her  person.  I scarcely  ever 
saw  so  striking  a likeness  as  is  between  her 
and  your  little  Beenie ; the  mouth  and  chin 
particularly.  She  is  reserved  at  first;  but 
as  we  grew  better  acquainted,  I was  delighted 
with  the  native  frankness  of  her  manner,  and 
the  sterling  sense  of  her  observation.  Of 
Charlotte  I cannot  speak  in  common  terms 
of  admiration : she  is  not  only  beautiful  but 
lovely.  Her  form  is  elegant;  her  features 
not  regular,  but  they  have  the  smile  of 
sweetness  and  the  settled  complacency  of 
good  nature,  in  the  highest  degree ; and  her 
complexion,  now*  that  she  has  happily  re- 
covered her  wonted  health,  is  equal  to  Miss 
Burnet’s.  After  the  exercise  of  our  riding 
to  the  Falls,  Charlotte  was  exactly  Dr. 
Donne’s  mistress : — 

Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 

Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought, 
That  one  would  almost  say  her  body  thought. 

Her  eyes  are  fascinating ; at  once  expressive 
of  good  sense,  tenderness,  and  a noble 
mind.  (36) 

I do  not  give  you  all  this  account,  my 
good  Sir,  to  flatter  you.  I mean  it  to  re- 
proach you.  Such  relations  the  first  peer  in 
the  realm  might  own  with  pride ; then  why 
do  you  not  keep  up  more  correspondence 
with  these  so  amiable  young  folks  ? I had 
a thousand  questions  to  answer  about  you. 
I had  to  describe  the  little  ones  with  the 
minuteness  of  anatomy.  They  were  highly 
delighted  when  I told  them  that  John  (37) 
was  so  good  a boy,  and  so  fine  a scho'ar,  and 
that  Willie  was  going  on  still  very  pretty : 
but  I have  it  in  commission  to  tell  her  from 
them  that  beauty  is  a poor,  silly  bauble 
without  she  be  good.  Miss  Chalmers  I had 
left  m Edinburgh,  but  I had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  with  Mrs.  Chalmers;  only  Lady 
Mackenzie,  being  rather  a little  alarmingly 
ill  of  a sore  throat,  somewhat  marred  cur 
enjoyment. 


292 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


I shall  not  be  in  Ayrshire  for  four  weeka 
My  most  respectful  compliments  to  Mrs, 
Hamilton,  Miss  Kennedy,  and  Dr.  Macken- 
zie. I shall  probably  write  him  from  some 
stage  or  other.  I am  ever.  Sir,  yours  most 
gratefully,  R.  B. 


NO.  LXIT. 

TO  MR.  WALKER, 

OP  BLAIR  ATHOL  E.  (38) 

Inverness , September  5th , 1787. 

My  Dear  Sir.-— I have  just  time  to 
write  the  foregoing  (39),  and  to  tell  you  that 
it  was  (at  least  most  part  of  it)  the  effusion 
of  a half-hour  I spent  at  Bruar.  I do  not 
mean  it  was  extempore,  for  I have  endea- 
voured to  brush  it  up  as  well  as  Mr.  Nicol’s 
chat  and  the  jogging  of  the  chaise  would 
allow.  It  eases  my  heart  a good  deal,  as 
rhyme  is  the  coin  with  which  a poet  pays  his 
debts  of  honour  or  gratitude.  What  I owe 
to  the  noble  family  of  Athole,  of  the  first 
kind,  I shall  ever  proudly  boast — what  I owe 
of  the  last,  so  help  me  God  in  my  hour  of 
need ! 1 shall  never  forget. 

The  “ little  angel-band !”  I declare  I 
prayed  for  them  very  sincerely  to-day  at  the 
Fall  of  Fyers.  I shall  never  forget  the  fine 
family-piece  I saw  at  Blair ; the  amiable, 
the  truly  noble  duchess  (40),  with  her  smiling 
little  seraph  in  her  lap,  at  the  head  of  the 
table — the  lovely  “ olive  plants,”  as  the 
Hebrew  bard  finely  says,  round  the  happy 
mother — the  beautiful  Mrs.  G— , the  lovely, 
sweet  Miss  C.,  &c.,  I wish  I had  the  powers 
of  Guido  to  do  them  justice!  My  Lord 
Duke’s  kind  hospitality — markedly  kind  in- 
deed : — Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry’s  charms  of 
conversation — Sir  W. Murray’s  friendship: — 
in  short,  the  recollection  of  all  that  polite, 
agreeable  company,  raises  an  honest  glow  in 
my  bosom.  R.  B. 


NO.  LXV. 

TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  17 th  September,  1787. 

My  Dear  Brother. — I arrived  here 
safe  yesterday  evening,  after  a tour  of 
twenty-two  days,  and  travelling  near  600 
miles,  windings  included.  My  farthest 
stretch  was  about  ten  miles  beyond  Inver- 
ness. I went  through  the  heart  of  the 
Highlands  by  Crief,  Taymouth,  the  famous 
seat  of  Lord  Breadalbane,  down  the  Tay, 


among  cascades  and  Druidical  circles  of 
stones,  to  Dunkeld,  a seat  of  the  Duke  of 
Athole ; thence  across  Tay,  and  up  one  of 
his  tributary  streams  to  Blair  of  Athole, 
another  of  the  Duke’s  seats,  where  I had  the 
honour  of  spending  nearly  two  days  with  his 
grace  and  family;  thence  many  miles 
through  a wild  country  among  cliffs,  grey 
with  eternal  snows  and  gloomy  savage  glens, 
till  I crossed  Spey  and  went  down  the  stream 
through  Strathspey, — so  famous  in  Scottish 
music  (41), — Badenoch,  &c.  till  I reached 
Grant  Castle,  where  I spent  half  a day  with 
Sir  James  Grant  and  family;  and  then 
crossed  the  country  for  Fort  George,  but 
called  by  the  way  at  Cawdor,  the  ancient 
seat  of  Macbeth;  there  I saw  the  identical 
bed  in  which  tradition  says  king  Duncan  was 
murdered;  lastly,  from  Fort  George  to  In- 
verness. 

I returned  by  the  coast,  through  Nairn, 
Forres,  and  so  on,  to  Aberdeen,  thence  to 
Stonehive  (42),  where  James  Burness,  from 
Montrose,  met  me  by  appointment.  I spent 
two  days  among  our  relations,  and  found  our 
aunts,  Jean  and  Isabel,  still  alive,  and  hale 
old  women.  John  Caird,  though  bom  the 
same  year  with  our  father,  walks  as  vigorously 
as  I can ; — they  have  had  several  letters  from 
his  son  in  New  York.  William  Brand  is 
likewise  a stout  old  fellow ; but  further 
particulars  I delay  till  I see  you,  which  will 
be  in  two  or  three  weeks.  The  rest  of  my 
stages  are  not  worth  rehearsing  ; warm  as  J 
was  from  Ossian’s  country,  where  I had  seen 
his  very  grave,  what  cared  I for  fishing-towns 
or  fertile  carses?  I slept  at  the  famous 
Brodie  of  Brodie’s  one  night,  and  dined  at 
Gordon  Castle  next  day,  with  the  duke, 
duchess,  and  family.  I am  thinking  to  cause 
my  old  mare  to  meet  me,  by  means  of  John 
Ronald,  at  Glasgow ; but  you  shall  hear 
farther  from  me  before  I leave  Edinburgh. 
My  duty  and  many  compliments  from  the 
north  t©  my  mother;  and  my  brotherly 
compliments  to  the  rest.  I have  been  trying 
for  a berth  for  William,  but  am  not  likely  to 
be  successful.  Farewell.  R.  B. 


NO.  LXVI. 

TO  MISS  MARGARET  CHALMERS.  (43) 
Sept.  26,  1787. 

I send  Charlotte  the  first  number  of  the 
songs ; I would  not  wait  for  the  second 
number;  I hate  delays  in  little  marks  of 
friendship,  as  I hate  dissimulation  in  the 
language  of  the  heart,  I am  determined  t« 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  SKINNER. 


293 


pay  Charlotte  a poetic  compliment,  if  I 
could  hit  on  some  glorious  old  Scotch  air,  in 
number  second.  (44)  You  will  see  a small 
attempt  on  a shred  of  paper  in  the  book ; 
but  though  Dr.  Blacklock  commended  it  very 
highly,  I am  not  just  satisfied  with  it  myself. 
I intend  to  make  it  a description  of  some  kind; 
the  whining  cant  of  love,  except  in  real  pas- 
sion, and  by  a masterly  hand,  is  to  me  as 
insufferable  as  the  preaching  cant  of  old 
Rather  Smeaton,  whig-minister  at  Kilmaurs. 
Darts,  flames,  Cupids,  loves,  graces,  and  all 

that  farrago,  are  just  a Mauchline  , 

a senseless  rabble. 

I got  an  excellent  poetic  epistle  yesternight 
from  the  old  venerable  author  of  “ Tulloch- 
gorum,”  “ John  of  Badenyon,”  &c.  (45).  I 
suppose  you  know  he  is  a clergyman.  It  is 
by  far  the  finest  poetic  compliment  I ever 
got.  I will  send  you  a copy  of  it. 

I go  on  Thursday  or  Friday  to  Dumfries, 
to  wait  on  Mr.  Miller  about  his  farms.  Do 
tell  that  to  Lady  Mackenzie,  that  she  may 
give  me  credit  for  a little  wisdom.  “ I, 
Wisdom,  dwell  with  Prudence.”  What  a 
blessed  fire-side ! How  happy  should  I be 
to  pass  a winter  evening  under  their  vene- 
rable roof ; and  smoke  a pipe  of  tobacco,  or 
drink  water-gruel  with  them ! With  solemn, 
lengthened,  laughter-quashing  gravity  of 
phiz  ! What  sage  remarks  on  the  good-for- 
nothing  sons  and  daughters  of  indiscretion 
and  folly  ! And  what  frugal  lessons,  as  we 
straitened  the  fire-side  circle,  on  the  uses  of 
the  poker  and  tongs  ! 

Miss  N.  is  very  well,  and  begs  to  be 
remembered  in  the  old  way  to  you.  I used 
all  ray  eloquence,  all  the  persuasive  flourishes 
of  the  hand,  and  heart-melting  modulation 
of  periods  in  my  power,  to  urge  her  out  to 
Harvieston,  but  all  in  vain.  My  rhetoric 
seems  quite  to  have  lost  its  effect  on  the 
lovely  half  of  mankind.  I have  seen  the  day 
— but  this  is  a “ tale  of  other  years  — On 
my  conscience  I believe  that  my  heart  has 
been  so  oft  on  fire  that  it  is  absolutely  vitri- 
fied. I look  on  the  sex  with  something  like 
the  admiration  with  which  I regard  the 
starry  sky  in  a frosty  December  night.  I 
admire  the  beauty  of  the  Creator’s  workman- 
ship; I am  charmed  with  the  wild  but 
graceful  eccentricity  of  their  motions,  and — 
wish  them  good  night.  I mean  this  with 
respect  to  a certain  passion  dontfai  eu  Uhon- 
neur  d’etre  un  miserable  esclave : as  for 
friendship,  you  and  Charlotte  have  given  me 
pleasure,  permanent  pleasure,  “ which  the 
world  cannot  give,  nor  take  away,”  I hope, 
and  which  will  outlast  the  heavens  and  the 
•nu'tk.  K B. 


NO.  LX VI i. 

TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  SKINNER, 
Edinburgh , October  25,  1787. 

Reverend  and  Venerable  Sir.-~ 
Accept,  in  plain  dull  prose,  my  most 
sincere  thanks  for  the  best  poetical  compli- 
ment I ever  received.  I assure  you.  Sir,  aa 
a poet,  you  have  conjured  up  an  airy  demon 
of  vanity  in  my  fancy,  which  the  best  abilities 
in  your  other  capacity  would  be  ill  able  to 
lay.  I regret,  and  wkile  I live  I shall  re- 
gret, that  when  I was  in  the  north,  I had 
not  the  pleasure  of  paying  a younger 
brother’s  dutiful  respect  to  the  author  of  the 
best  Scotch  song  ever  Scotland  saw — “ Tul- 
lochgorum’s  my  Delight !”  The  world  may 
think  slightingly  of  the  craft  of  song-making, 
if  they  please;  but,  as  Job  says,  “ Oh  that 
mine  adversary  had  written  a book!” — let 
them  try.  There  is  a certain  lomething  in 
the  old  Scotch  songs,  a wild  happiness  of 
thought  and  expression,  which  peculiarly 
marks  them,  not  only  from  English  songs, 
but  also  from  the  modern  efforts  of  song- 
wrights,  in  our  native  manner  and  language. 
The  only  remains  of  this  enchantment,  these 
spells  of  the  imagination,  rest  with  you. 
Our  true  brother,  Ross  of  Lochlee,  was  like- 
wise “owre  cannie” — “a  wild  warlock” — 
but  now  he  sings  among  the  “ sons  of  the 
morning.” 

I have  often  wished,  and  will  certainly 
endeavour,  to  form  a kind  of  common  ac- 
quaintance among  all  the  genuine  sons  of 
Caledonian  song.  The  world,  busy  in  low 
prosaic  pursuits,  may  overlook  most  of  us ; 
but  “ reverence  thyself.”  The  world  is  not 
our  'peers,  so  we  challenge  the  jury.  We 
can  lash  that  world,  and  find  ourselves  a 
very  great  source  of  amusement  and  happi- 
ness independent  of  that  world. 

There  is  a work  going  on  in  Edinburgh 
just  now,  which  claims  your  best  assistance. 
An  engraver  in  this  town  has  set  about  col- 
lecting and  publishing  all  the  Scotch  songs, 
with  the  music,  that  can  be  found.  Songs, 
in  the  English  language,  if  by  Scotchmen, 
are  admitted,  but  the  music  must  all  be 
Scotch.  Drs.  Beattie  and  Blacklock  are 
lending  a hand,  and  the  first  musician  in 
town  presides  over  that  department.  I iiave 
been  absolutely  crazed  about  it,  collecting 
old  stanzas,  and  every  information  remaining 
respecting  their  origin,  authors,  & c.,  &e. 
This  last  is  but  a very  fragment  business ; 
but  at  the  end  of  his  second  number — the 
first  is  already  published — a small  account 
will  be  given  of  the  authors,  particularly  us 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS* 


preserve  those  of  latter  times.  Your  three 
songs,  “Tullochgorum,”  “John  of  Badenyon,” 
and  “ Ewie  wi’  the  Crookit  Horn,”  go  in  this 
second  number.  I was  determined,  before  I 
got  your  letter,  to  write  you,  begging  that 
you  would  let  me  know  where  the  editions 
of  these  pieces  maj  be  found,  as  you  would 
wish  them  to  continue  in  future  times ; and 
if  you  would  be  so  kind  to  this  undertaking 
as  send  any  songs,  of  your  own  or  others, 
that  you  would  think  proper  to  publish, 
your  name  will  be  inserted  among  the  other 
authors — “nill  ye,  will  ye.”  One  half  of 
Scotland  already  give  your  songs  to  other 
authors.  Paper  is  done.  I beg  to  heai 
from  you ; the  sooner  the  better,  as  I leave 
Edinburgh  in  a fortnight  or  three  weeks.  I 
am,  with  the  warmest  sincerity.  Sir,  your 
obliged  humble  servant,  R.  B. 


KO.  LXVIII. 

TO  JAMES  IIOY,  Esa. 

GORDON  CASTLE.  (46) 

Edinburgh , October  30 th,  1787. 

Sir.— I will  defend  my  conduct  in  giving 
you  this  trouble,  on  the  best  of  Christian 
principles — “ Whatsoever  ye  would  that  men 
should  do  unto  you,  do  ye  even  so  unto 
them.”  I shall  certainly,  among  my  legacies 
leave  my  latest  curse  to  that  unlucky  pre- 
dicament which  hurried — tore  me  away  from 
Castle  Gordon.  May  that  obstinate  son  of 
Latin  prose  [Nicol]  be  curst  to  Scotch  mile 
periods,  and  damned  to  seven  league  para- 
graphs ; while  Declension  and  Conjugation, 
Gender,  Number  and  Tense,  under  the 
ragged  banners  of  Dissonance  and  Disar- 
rangement, eternally  rank  against  him  in 
hostile  array. 

Allow  me,  Sir,  to  strengthen  the  small 
claim  I have  to  your  acquaintance,  by  the 
following  request.  An  engraver,  James 
Johnson,  in  Edinburgh,  has,  not  from  mer- 
cenary views,  but  from  an  honest  Scotch 
enthusiasm,  set  about  collecting  all  our 
native  songs,  and  setting  them  to  music, 
particularly  those  that  have  never  been  set 
before.  Clarke,  the  well-known  musician, 
presides  over  the  musical  arrangement,  and 
Drs.  Beattie  and  Blacklock,  Mr.  Tytler  of 
Woodiiouselee,  and  your  humble  servant  to 
the  utmost  of  his  small  power,  assist  in 
collecting  Lie  old  poetry,  or  sometimes,  for 
a line  air,  make  a stanza  when  it  has  no 
troroa.  The  brats,  too  tedious  to  mention. 


claim  a parental  pang  from  my  hardship.  1 
suppose  it  will  appear  in  Johnson’s  second 
number — the  f.rst  was  published  before  my 
acquaintance  with  him.  My  request  is— 
“ Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen  ” is  one  intended 
for  this  number,  and  I beg  a copy  of  his 
Grace  of  Gordon’s  words  to  it,  which  you 
were  so  kind  as  to  repeat  to  me.  (47)  You 
may  be  sure  we  won’t  prefix  the  author’s 
name,  except  you  like,  though  I look  on  it  as 
no  small  merit  to  this  work  that  the  names 
of  so  many  of  the  authors  of  our  old  Scotch 
songs,  names  almost  forgotten,  will,  be  in- 
serted. I do  not  well  know  where  to  write 
to  you — I rather  write  at  you ; but  if  you 
will  be  so  obliging,  immediately  on  receipt  of 
this,  as  to  write  me  a few  lines,  I shall  per- 
haps pay  you  in  kind,  though  not  in  quality. 
Johnson’s  terms  are  : — each  number  a hand- 
some pocket  volume,  to  consist  of  at  least 
a hundred  Scotch  songs,  with  basses  for  the 
harpsichord,  &c.  The  price  to  subscribers, 
5s. ; to  non-subscribers,  6s.  He  will  have 
three  numbers,  I conjecture. 

My  direction  for  two  or  three  weeks  will 
be  at  Mr.  William  Cruikshank’s,  St.  James* 
Square,  New  Town,  Edinburgh.  I am,  Sir, 
yours  to  command,  R.  B. 


NO.  LXIX. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

GORDON  CASTLE. 

Edinburgh , November  6th,  1787. 

Dear  Sir. — I would  have  wrote  you 
immediately  on  receipt  of  your  kind  letter 
but  a mixed  impulse  of  gratitude  and  esteem 
whispered  to  me  that  I ought  to  send  you 
something  by  way  of  return.  When  a poet 
owes  anything,  particularly  when  he  is  in- 
debted for  good  offices,  the  payment  that, 
usually  recurs  to  him — the  only  coin  indeed 
in  which  he  is  probably  conversant — is 
rhyme.  Johnson  sends  the  books  by  the 
fly,  as  directed,  and  begs  me  to  enclose  hia 
most  grateful  thanks  ; my  return  I intended 
should  have  been  one  or  two  poetic  baga- 
telles which  the  world  have  not  seen,  or, 
perhaps,  for  obvious  reasons,  cannot  see. 
These  I shall  send  you  before  I leave  Edin- 
burgh. They  may  make  you  laugh  a little, 
which,  on  the  whole,  is  no  bad  way  of  spend- 
ing one’s  precious  hours  and  still  more  pre* 
cious  breath ; at  any  rate,  they  will  be, 
though  a small,  yet  a very  sincere,  mark  of 
my  respectful  esteem  for  a gentleman  whose 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIEX. 


29S 


farther  acquaintance  I should  look  upon  as  a 
peculiar  obligation. 

The  duke’s  song,  independent  totally  of 
nis  dukeship,  charms  me.  There  is  I know 
not  what  of  wild  happiness  of  thought  and 
expression  peculiarly  beautiful  in  the  old 
Scottish  song  style,  of  which  his  Grace,  old 
venerable  Skinner,  the  author  of  “ Tulloch- 
gorum,”  &c.,  and  the  late  Ross,  at  Lochlee, 
of  true  Scottish  poetic  memory,  are  the 
only  modern  instances  that  I recollect,  since 
Ramsay,  with  his  contemporaries,  and  poor 
Bob  Fergusson,  went  to  the  world  of  death- 
less existence  and  truly  immortal  song.  The 
mob  of  mankind,  that  many-headed  beast, 
would  laugh  at  so  serious  a speech  about  an 
old  song;  but  as  Job  says,  “Oh  that  mine 
adversary  had  written  a book ! ” Those  who 
think  that  composing  a Scotch  song  is  a 
trifling  business,  let  them  try. 

I wish  my  Lord  Duke  would  pay  a proper 
attention  to  the  Christian  admonition — 
“ Hide  not  your  candle  under  a bushel,”  but 
u Let  your  light  shine  before  men.”  I could 
name  half  a dozen  dukes  that  I guess  are  a 
devilish  deal  worse  employed ; nay,  I ques- 
tion if  there  are  half  a dozen  better : per- 
haps there  are  not  half  that  scanty  number 
whom  Heaven  has  favoured  with  the  tuneful, 
happy,  and  I will  say,  glorious  gift.  I 
am,  dear  Sir,  your  obliged  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


HO.  LXX. 

TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE,  Esq., 
EDINBURGH. 

Edinburgh,  Sunday  Morning , 
Nov.  23,  1787. 

T beg,  my  dear  Sir,  you  would  not  make 
any  appointment  to  take  us  to  Mr.  Ainslie’s 
to-night.  On  looking  over  my  engagements, 
constitution,  present  state  of  my  health, 
some  little  vexatious  soul  concerns,  &c.,  I 
find  I can’t  sup  abroad  to-night.  I shall  be 
in  to-day  till  one  o’clock,  if  you  have  a 
leisure  hour. 

You  will  think  it  romantic  when  I tell 
you,  that  I find,  the  idea  of  your  friendship 
almost  necessary  to  my  existence.  You 
assume*  a proper  length  of  face  in  my  bitter 
hours  of  blue-devilism,  and  you  laugh  fully 
up  to  my  highest  wishes  at  my  good  things. 
1 don’t  know,  upon  the  whole,  if  you  are 
one  of  the  first  fellows  in  God’s  world,  but 
jou  are  so  to  me  I tell  you  this  just  nou^, 
in  the  conviction  that  some  inequalities^ 


my  temper  and  manner  may  perhaps  some- 
times make  you  suspect  that  I am  not 
so  warmly  as  I ought  to  be  your  friend, 

R.  B. 


NO.  LXXI. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 

Edinburgh,  1787. 

My  Lord.  — I know  your  lordship  will 
disapprove  of  my  ideas  in  a request  I am 
going  to  make  .to  you  ; but  I have  weighed, 
long  and  seriously  weighed,  my  situation, 
my  hopes  and  turn  of  mind,  and  am  fully 
fixed  to  my  scheme,  if  I can  possibly  effectu- 
ate it.  I wish  to  get  into  the  Excise : I am 
told  that  your  lordship’s  interest  will  easily 
procure  me  the  grant  from  the  commission- 
ers ; and  your  lordship’s  patronage  and 
goodness,  which  have  already  rescued  me 
from  obscurity,  wretchedness  and  exile, 
embolden  me  to  ask  that  interest.  You 
have  likewise  put  it  in  my  power  to  save  the 
little  tie  of  home  that  sheltered  an  aged 
mother,  two  brothers,  and  three  sisters,  from 
destruction.  There,  my  lord,  you  have 
bound  me  over  to  the  highest  gratitude. 

My  brother’s  farm  is  but  a wretched 
lease,  but  I think  he  will  probably  weather 
out  the  remaining  seven  years  of  it ; and 
after  the  assistance  which  I have  given,  and 
will  give  him,  to  keep  the  family  together,  I 
think,  by  my  guess,  I shall  have  rather 
better  than  two  hundred  pounds,  and  instead 
of  seeking,  what  is  almost  impossible  at 
present  to  find,  a farm  that  I can  certainly 
live  by,  with  so  small  a stock,  I shall  lodge 
this  sum  in  a banking-house,  a sacred 
deposit,  excepting  only  the  calls  of  un- 
common distress  or  necessitous  old  age. 

These,  my  lord,  are  my  views:  I havt 
resolved  from  the  maturest  deliberation; 
and  now  I am  fixed,  I shall  leave  no  stone 
unturned  to  carry  my  resolve  into  execution. 
Your  lordship’s  patronage  is  the  strength  of 
my  hopes ; nor  have  I yet  applied  to  any- 
body else.  Indeed,  my  heart  sinks  within 
me  at  the  idea  of  applying  to  any  other  of 
the  great  who  have  honoured  me  with  their 
countenance.  I am  ill  qualified  to  dog  the 
heels  of  greatness  with  the  impertinence 
of  solicitation,  and  tremble  nearly  as  much 
at  the  thought  of  the  cold  promise  as  the 
cold  denial ; but  to  your  lordship  I have 
not  only  the  honour,  the  comfort,  but  the 
pleasure  of  being  your  lordship’s  muck 
obliged  and  deeply  indebted  humble  servant, 
R.  B. 


296 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


NO.  LXXII. 

TO  CHARLES  HAY,  Esq.,  ADVOCATE, 
(enclosing  verses  on  the  death  of 

LORD  PRESIDENT.)  (48) 

Sir. — The  enclosed  poem  was  written  in 
consequence  of  your  suggestion,  last  time  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  It  cost  me 
an  hour  or  two  of  next  morning’s  sleep,  but 
did  not  please  me ; so  it  lay  by,  an  ill-di- 
gested efiort,  till  the  other  day  that  I gave 
it  a critic  brush.  These  kind  of  subjects 
are  much  hackneyed;  and,  besides,  the 
wailings  of  the  rhyming  tribe  over  the  ashes 
of  the  great  are  cursedly  suspicious,  and  out 
of  all  character  for  sincerity.  These  ideas 
damped  my  muse’s  fire;  however,  I have 
done  the  best  I could,  and,  at  all  events,  it 
gives  me  an  opportunity  of  declaring  that  I 
have  the  honour  to  be.  Sir,  your  obliged 
humble  servant,  K.  B. 


NO.  LXXIII. 

TO  MISS  M N. 

Saturday  Noon,  No.  2,  St.  James’s  Square, 
New  Town , Edinburgh. 

Here  have  I sat,  my  dear  Madam,  in 
the  stony  altitude  of  perplexed  study  for 
fifteen  vexatious  minutes,  my  head  askew, 
bending  over  the  intended  card;  my  fixed 
eye  insensible  to  the  very  light  of  day 
poured  around  ; my  pendulous  goose-feather, 
loaded  with  ink,  hanging  over  the  future 
letter,  all  for  the  important  purpose  of 
writing  a complimentary  card  to  accompany 
your  trinket. 

Compliment  is  such  a miserable  Green- 
land expression,  lies  at  such  chilly  polar 
distance  from  the  torrid  zone  of  my  con- 
stitution, that  I cannot,  for  the  very  soul  of 
me,  use  it  to  any  person  for  whom  I have 
the  twentieth  part  of  the  esteem  every 
one  must  have  for  you  who  knows  you. 

As  I leave  town  in  three  or  four  days,  I 
can  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  on 
you  only  for  a minute.  Tuesday  evening,  some 
time  about  seven  or  after,  I shall  wait  on 
you  for  your  farewell  commands. 

The  hinge  of  your  box  I put  into  the  hands 
of  the  proper  connoisseur.  The  broken  glass, 
likewise,  went  under  review ; but  deliberate 
wisdom  thought  it  would  too  much  endanger 
the  whole  fabric.  I am,  dear  Madam,  with 
all  sincerity  of  enthusiasm,  your  very  obedi- 
ent servant,  R.  B. 


NO.  LXXIV. 

j TO  MISS  CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh , Nov.  21,  1787. 

I have  one  vexatious  fault  to  tie  kindly 
welcome  well-filled  sheet  which  1 owe  to 
your  and  Charlotte’s  (49)  goodness — it  con- 
tains too  much  sense,  sentiment  and  good- 
spelling. It  is  impossible  that  even  you 
two,  whom  I declare  to  my  God  I will  give 
credit  for  any  degree  of  excellence  the  sex 
are  capable  of  attaining — it  is  impossible  you 
can  go  on  to  correspond  at  that  rate ; so 
like  those  who,  Shenstone  says,  retire 
because  they  have  made  a good  speech,  I 
shall,  after  a few  letters,  hear  no  more  of 
you.  I insist  that  you  shall  write  whatever 
comes  first : what  you  see,  what  you  read, 
what  you  hear,  what  you  admire,  what  you 
dislike,  trifles,  bagatelles,  nonsense;  or  to 
fill  up  a corner,  e’en  put  down  a laugh  at 
full  length.  Now,  none  of  your  polite  hints 
about  flattery  ; I leave  that  to  your  lovers, 
if  you  have  or  shall  have  any  ; though,  thank 
Heaven,  I have  at  last  two  girls  who  can  be 
luxuriantly  happy  in  their  own  minds  and 
with  one  another,  without  that  commonly 
necessary  appendage  to  female  bliss — a 
lover. 

Charlotte  and  you  are  just  two  favourite 
resting-places  for  my  soul  in  her  wanderings 
through  the  weary,  thorny  wilderness  of  this 
world.  God  knows,  I am  ill-fitted  for  the 
struggle:  I glory  in  being  a poet,  and  I 
want  to  be  thought  a wise  man — I would 
fondly  be  generous,  and  I wish  to  be  rich. 
After  all,  I am  afraid  I am  a lost  subject. 
* Some  folk  hae  a hantle  o’  fauts,  and  I’m 
but  a ne’er-do-weel.” 

Afternoon. — To  close  the  melancholy  re- 
flections at  the  end  of  the  last  sheet,  I shall 
just  add  a piece  of  devotion,  commonly 
known  in  Carrick  by  the  title  of  the  “ Wab» 
ster’s  grace  : ” — 

Some  say  we’re  thieves,  and  e’en  sae  are  w$ 
Some  say  we  lie,  and  e’en  sae  do  we  ! 

Guid  forgie  us,  and  I hope  sae  will  he ! 

— — Up  and  to  your  looms,  lads  1 R.  B. 


NO.  LXXV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  12  1787 

I am  here  under  the  care  of  a surgeon, 
with  a bruised  limb  extended  on  a cushion ; 
and  the  tints  of  my  mind  vying  with  the 
livid  horror  preceding  a midnight  thunder* 


TO  MISS  CHALMERS. 


297 


itoini.  A drunken  coachman  ffas  the  cause 
of  the  first,  and  incomparably  the  lightest 
evil ; misfortune,  bodily  constitution,  hell, 
and  myself,  have  formed  a “ quadruple  alli- 
ance ” to  guarantee  the  other.  I got  my  fall 
on  Saturday,  and  am  getting  slowly  better. 

I have  taken  tooth  and  nail  to  the  Bible, 
and  am  got  through  the  five  books  of  Moses, 
and  half  way  in  Joshua.  It  is  really  a glo- 
rious book.  I sent  for  my  book-binder  to- 
day, and  ordered  him  to  get  me  an  octavo 
Bible  in  sheets,  the^best  paper  and  print  in 
town,  and  bind  it  with  all  the  elegance  of  his 
craft. 

I would  give  my  best  song  to  my  worst 
enemy — I mean  the  merit  of  making  it — to 
have  you  and  Charlotte  by  me.  You  are 
angelic  creatures,  and  would  pour  oil  and 
wine  into  my  wounded  spirit. 

I enclose  you  a proof  copy  of  the  “ Banks 
of  the  .Devon,”  which  present  with  my  best 
wishes  to  Charlotte.  The  “Ochil-hills  ’*  (50) 
you  shall  probably  have  next  week  for  your- 
self. None  of  your  fine  speeches ! R.  B. 


NO.  LXXVI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  19th,  1787. 

I begin  this  letter  in  answer  to  your’s 
of  the  17th  current,  which  is  not  yet  cold 
since  I read  it.  The  atmosphere  of  iny  soul 
is  vastly  clearer  than  when  I wrote  you  last. 
For  the  first  time,  yesterday  I crossed  the 
room  on  crutches.  It  would  do  your  heart 
good  to  see  my  hardship,  not  on  my  poetic, 
but  on  my  oaken  stilts ; throwing  my  best 
leg  with  an  air ! and  with  as  much  hilarity 
in  my  gait  and  countenance,  as  a May  frog 
leaping  across  the  newly  harrowed  ridge, 
enjoying  the  fragrance  of  the  refreshed  earth, 
after  the  long-expected  shower ! 

I can’t  say  I am  altogether  at  my  ease 
when  I see  anywhere  in  my  path  that  mea- 
gre, squalid,  famine-faced  spectre,  poverty ; 
attended,  as  he  always  is,  by  iron-fisted 
j oppression  and  leering  contempt;  but  I 
I have  sturdily  withstood  his  buffettings  many 
a hard-laboured  day  already,  and  still  my 
motto  is — I dare  ! My  worst  enemy  is 
moi  meme.  I lie  so  miserably  open  to  the 
inroads  and  incursions  of  a mischievous, 
light-armed,  well-mounted  banditti,  under 
the  banners  of  in^gi nation,  whim,  caprice 
and  patsion  ; and  me  heavy-armed  veteran 
regulars  of  wisdom,  prudence  and  fore- 
thought move  so  very,  very  slow,  that  I am 
almost  in  a state  of  perpetual  warfare,  and. 


alas ! frequent  defeat.  There  are  just  two 
creatures  I would  envy ; a horse  in  hi3  wild 
state  traversing  the  forests  of  Asia,  or  ail 
oyster  on  some  of  the  desert  shores  of 
Europe.  The  one  has  not  a wish  without 
enjoyment,  the  other  has  neither  wish  nor 
fear.  R.  B. 


NO.  LXXVI  I, 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.,  1787. 

Mv  Dear  Madam. — I just  now  have 
read  yours.  The  poetic  compliments  I pay 
cannot  be  misunderstood.  They  are  neither 
of  them  so  particular  as  to  point  you  out  to 
the  world  at  large ; and  the  circle  of  your 
acquaintances  will  allow  all  I have  said. 
Besides,  I have  complimented  you  chiefly, 
almost  solely,  on  your  mental  charms.  Shall 
I be  plain  with  you  ? I will ; so  look  to  it. 
Personal  attractions.  Madam,  you  have  much 
above  par;  wit,  understanding  and  worth, 
you  possess  in  the  first  class.  This  is  « 
cursed  flat  way  of  telling  you  these  truths, 
but  let  me  hear  no  more  of  your  sheepish 
timidity.  I know  the  world  a little.  I know 
what  they  will  say  of  my  poems — by  second 
sight,  I suppose — for  1 am  seldom  out  in  my 
conjectures ; and  you  may  believe  me,  my 
dear  Madam,  l would  not  run  any  risk  of 
hurting  you  by  any  ill-judged  compliment. 
I wish  to  show  the  world  the  odds  between 
a poet’s  friends  and  those  of  simple  prose- 
men. More  for  your  information,  both  the 
pieces  go  in.  One  of  them,  “ Where  braving 
angry  Winter’s  Storms,”  is  already  set — the 
tune  in  Neil  Gow’s  Lamentation  for  Aber- 
cairny ; the  other  is  to  be  set  to  an  old 
Highland  air  in  Daniel  Dow’s  collection  of 
ancient  Scots  music ; the  name  is  " Ha  a 
Chaillich  air  mo  Dheith .”  My  treacherous 
memory  has  forgot  every  circumstance  about 
Las  Incas ; only,  I think  you  mentioned 
them  as  being  in  Creech’s  possession.  I 
shall  ask  him  about  it.  I am  afraid  the  song 
of  “Somebody”  will  come  too  late — as  I 
shall  for  certain  leave  town  in  a week  for 
Ayrshire,  and  from  that  to  Dumfries,  but 
there  my  hopes  are.  slender.  I leave  my 
direction  in  town ; so  any  thing,  wherever  I 
am,  will  reach  me. 

I saw  yours  to ; it  is  not  too 

severe,  nor  did  he  tale  it  amiss.  On  the 
contrary,  like  a whipt  spaniel,  he  talks  of 
being  with  you  in  the  Christmas  days.  Mr. 

has  given  h'm  the  invitation,  and  lit 

is  determined  to  accept  of  it.  Oh  selfish* 


198 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


ness ! he  owns,  in  his  sober  moments,  that 

from  his  own  volatility  of  inclination,  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  is  situated,  and 
his  knowledge  of  his  father’s  disposition,  the 
whole  affair  is  chimerical — yet  he  will  gratify 
an  idle  penchant  at  the  enormous,  cruel 
expense,  of  perhaps  ruining  the  peace  of  the 
very  woman  for  whom  he  professes  the 
generous  passion  of  love  ! He  is  a gentle- 
man in  his  mind  and  manners — tant  pis! 
He  is  a volatile  school-boy — the  heir  of  a 
man’s  fortune  who  well  knows  the  value  of 
two  times  two ! 

Perdition  seize  them  and  their  fortunes, 
before  they  should  make  the  amiable,  the 

lovely  , the  derided  object  of  their 

purse-proud  contempt ! 

I am  doubly  happy  to  hear  of  Mrs. ’• 

recovery,  because  I really  thought  all  was 
over  with  her.  There  are  days  of  pleasure 
yet  awaiting  her : — 

As  I cam  in  by  Glenap, 

I met  with  an  aged  woman ; 

She  bade  me  cheer  up  my  heart, 

For  the  best  o’  my  days  was  comm.*  (51) 

This  day  will  decide  my  affairs  with  Creech. 
Things  are,  like  myself,  not  what  they  ought 
to  be;  yet  better  than  what  they  appear 
to  be. 

Heaven’s  Sovereign  saves  all  but  himself — 
That  hideous  sight — a naked  human  heart. 

Farewell ! remember  me  to  Charlotte. 

R.  B. 


KO.  LXXVII1. 

TO  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD. 

Edinburgh , December , 1787. 

Sir. — Mr  Mackenzie,  in  Mauchline,  my 
very  warm  and  worthy  friend  (52),  has  in- 
formed me  how  much  you  are  pleased  to 
interest  yourself  in  my  fate  as  a man,  and 
(what  to  me  is  incomparably  dearer)  my  fame 
»s  a poet.  I have,  Sir,  in  one  or  two  instances, 
been  patronised  by  those  of  your  character 
in  life,  when  I was  introduced  to  their  notice 
by  * * * « « frieiHis  to  them,  and  honoured 
acquaintances  to  me ; but  you  are  the  first 
gentleman  in  the  country  whose  benevolence 
and  goodness  of  heart  has  interested  him- 
self for  me,  unsolicited  and  unknown.  I am 
not  master  enough  of  the  etiquette  of  these 
matters  to  know,  nor  did  I stay  to  inquire, 
whether  formal  duty  bade,  or  cold  propriety 
disallowed,  my  thanking  you  in  this  manner, 
na  1 aai  convinced,  from  the  light  in  which 


you  kindly  view  me,  that  you  will  do  ma 
the  justice  to  believe  this  letter  is  not  the 
manoeuvre  of  the  needy,  sharping  author, 
fastening  on  those  in  upper  life  who  honour 
him  with  a little  notice  of  him  and  his  works. 
Indeed,  the  situation  of  poets  is  generally 
such,  to  a proverb,  as  may,  in  some  measure, 
palliate  that  prostitution  of  heart  and  talents 
they  have  at  times  been  guilty  of.  I do  not 
think  prodigality  is,  by  any  means,  a necessary 
concomitant  of  a poetic  Jura,  but  I believe  a 
careless,  indolent  inattention  to  economy  is 
almost  inseparable  from  it ; then  there  must 
be  in  the  heart  of  every  bard  of  Nature’s 
making  a certain  modest  sensibility,  mixed 
with  a kind  of  pride,  that  will  ever  keep  him 
out  of  the  way  of  those  windfalls  of  fortune 
which  frequently  light  on  hardy  impudence 
and  foot-licking  servility.  It  is  not  easy  to 
imagine  a more  helpless  state  than  his  whose 
poetic  fancy  unfits  him  for  the  world,  and 
whose  character  as  a scholar  gives  him  some 
pretin sions  to  the  politessse  of  life — yet  is 
as  poor  as  I am. 

For  my  part,  I thank  Heaven  my  star  has 
been  kinder ; learning  never  elevated  my 
ideas  above  the  peasant’s  shed,  and  I have 
an  independent  fortune  at  the  plough-tail. 

I was  surprised  to  hear  that  any  one  who 
pretended  in  the  least  to  the  manners  of  the 
gentleman,  should  be  so  foolish,  or  worse,  as 
to  stoop  to  traduce  the  morals  of  such  a one 
as  I am,  and  so  unhumanly  cruel,  too,  as  to 
meddle  with  that  late  most  unfortunate,  un- 
happy part  of  my  story.  With  a tear  of 
gratitude,  I thank  you.  Sir,  for  the  warmth 
with  which  you  interposed  in  behalf  of  my 
conduct.  I am,  I acknowledge,  too  frequently 
the  sport  of  whim,  caprice  and  passion ; but 
reverence  to  God,  and  integrity  to  my  fellow- 
creatures,  I hope  I shall  ever  preserve.  I 
have  no  return,  Sir,  to  make  you  for  your 
goodness  but  one — a return  which,  I am  per* 
suaded,  will  not  be  unacceptable — the  honest, 
warm  wishes  of  a grateful  heart  for  your 
happiness,  and  every  one  of  that  lovely  flock 
who  stand  to  you  in  a filial  relation.  If  ever 
calumny  aim  the  poisoned  shaft  at  them, 
may  friendship  be  by  to  ward  the  blow ! 

R.  B. 


NO.  LXXIX. 

MISS  MARGARET  CHALMERS. 

^December,  1787. 

I have  been  at  Dumfries,  and  at  one  visit 
more  shall  be  decided  about  a farm  in  that 
county.  I am  rather  hopeless  in  it;  bvt  at 


TO  MISS  WILLIAMS. 


299 


my  brother  is  an  excellent  farmer,  and  is, 
besides,  an  exceedingly  prudent  sober  man 
(qualities  which  are  only  a younger  brother’s 
fortune  in  our  family),  I am  determined,  if 
my  Dumfries  business  fail  me,  to  remove  into 
partners] lip  with  him,  and  at  our  leisure  take 
another  farm  in  the  neighbourhood. 

1 assure  you  I look  for  high  compliments 
from  you  and  Charlotte  on  this  very  sage 
instance  of  my  unfathomable,  incomprehen- 
sible  wisdom. — Talking  of  Charlotte  I must 
tell  her  that  I have,  to  the  best  of  my 
power,  paid  her  a poetic  compliment  now 
completed.  The  air  is  admirable ; true  old 
Highland.  It  was  the  tune  of  a Gaelic 
song  which  an  Inverness  lady  sang  me  when 
I was  there ; I was  so  charmed  with  it,  that 
I begged  her  to  write  me  a set  of  it  from  her 
singing,  for  it  had  never  been  set  before.  I 
am  fixed  that  it  shall  go  in  Johnson’s  next 
number;  so  Charlotte  and  you  need  not 
spend  your  precious  time  in  contradicting 
me.  I won’t  say  the  poetry  is  first-rate, 
though  I am  convinced  it  is  very  well ; and, 
what  is  not  always  the  case  with  compli- 
ments to  ladies,  it  is  not  only  sincere,  but 
just.  R.  B. 


NO.  LXXX. 

TO  MISS  WILLIAMS  (53), 

ON  READING  THE  POEM  OF  THE  SLAVE- 
TRADE. 

Edinburgh , Dec .,  1787. 

I know  very  little  of  scientific  criticism, 
so  all  I can  pretend  to  in  that  intricate  art  is 
merely  to  note,  as  I read  along,  what  passages 
strike  me  as  being  uncommonly  beautiful, 
and  where  the  expression  seems  to  be  per- 
plexed or  faulty. 

The  poem  opens  finely.  There  are  none 
of  those  idle  prefatory  lines  which  one  may 
skip  over  before  one  comes  to  the  subject. 
Verses  9th  and  10th  in  particular, 

Where  ocean’s  unseen  bound 

Leaves  a drear  world  of  waters  round, 

are  truly  beautiful.  The  simile  of  the  hur- 
ricane is  likewise  fine ; and,  indeed,  beautiful 
as  the  poem  is,  almost  all  the  similes  rise 
decidedly  above  it.  From  verse  31st  to  verse 
50th  is  a pretty  eulogy  on  Britain.  Verse 
36  th,  “ That  foul  drama  deep  with  wrong,” 
is  nobly  expressive.  Verse  46th,  I am  afraid, 
is  rather  unworthy  of  the  rest ; “ to  dare  to 
feel,”  is  an  idea  that  I do  not  altogether  like. 
The  contrast  of  valour  and  mercy,  from  tbe 
4tfth  verse  to  the  50th,  is  admirable. 


Either  my  apprehension  is  dull,  or  there 
is  something  a little  confused  in  the  apos- 
trophe to  Mr.  Pitt.  Verse  55th  is  the  ante- 
cedent to  verses  57th  and  58,  but  in  verse 
58th  the  connection  seems  ungrammatical 

Powers  • • • 

* • # * 

With  no  gradations  mark’d  their  flight. 

But  rose  at  once  to  glory’s  height. 

Ris’n  should  be  the  word  instead  of  rose. 
Try  it  in  prose.  “ Powers — their  flight  mar- 
ked by  no  gradations,  but  [the  same  powers] 
risen  at  once  to  the  height  of  glory.”  Like- 
wise, verse  53rd,  “For  this,”  is  evidently 
meant  to  lead  on  the  sense  of  the  verses 
59th,  60th,  61st  and  62nd;  but  let  us  try 
how  the  thread  of  connection  runs — 

For  this  • • • 

* * • • 

The  deed  of  mercy,  that  embrace, 

A distant  sphere,  an  alien  race. 

Shall  virtue’s  lips  record,  and  claim 

The  fairest  honours  of  thy  name. 

I beg  pardon  if  I misapprehend  the  matter, 
but  this  appears  to  me  the  only  impe.fect 
passage  in  the  poem.  The  comparison  of  tiie 
sun  beam  is  fine. 

The  compliment  to  the  Duke  of  Richmond 
is,  I hope,  as  just  as  it  i3  certainly  elegant. 
The  thought. 

Virtue  • • • 

Sends  from  her  unsullied  source. 

The  gems  of  thought  their  purest  force, 

is  exceedingly  beautiful.  The  idea,  from 
verse  81st  to  the  85th,  that  the  “ blest 
decree”  is  like  the  beams  of  morning  ushering 
in  the  glorious  day  of  liberty,  ought  not  to 
pass  unnoticed  or  unapplauded.  From  verse 
85th  to  verse  108,  is  an  animated  contrast 
between  the  unfeeling  selfishness  of  the  op- 
pressor on  the  one  hand,  and  the  misery  of 
the  captive  on  the  other.  Verse  88th  might 
perhaps  be  amended  thus  : — “Nor  ever  quit 
her  narrow  maze.”  We  are  said  to  pass  a 
bound,  but  we  quit  a maze.  Verse  100th  is 
exquisitely  beautiful : — 

They,  whom  wasted  blessings  tire. 

Verse  110th  is,  I doubt,  a clashing  of  meta. 
phors ; “ to  load  a span  ” is,  I am  afraid,  ail 
unwarrantable  expression.  In  verse  114th, 
“ Cast  the  universe  in  shade,”  is  a fine  idea. 
From  the  115th  verse  to  the  142nd  is  a 
striking  description  of  the  wrongs  of  the 
poor  African.  Verse  12Qth,  “The  load  of 
unrechtted  pain,”  is  a remarkable,  strong 


300  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


expression.  The  address  to  the  advocates  | 
for  abolishing  the  slave-trade,  from  verse  j 
143rd  to  verse  208th,  is  animated  with  the 
true  life  of  genius.  The  picture  of  oppres- 
sion— 

While  she  links  her  impious  chain. 

And  calculates  the  price  of  pain; 

Weighs  agony  in  sordid  scales. 

And  marks  if  death  or  life  prevails— 

Is  nobly  executed. 

What  a tender  idea  is  4n  verse  180th! 
Indeed,  that  whole  description  of  home  may 
vie  with  Thomson’s  description  of  home, 
somewhere  in  the  beginning  of  his  Autumn. 

I do  not  remember  to  have  seen  a stronger 
expression  of  misery  than  is  contained  in 
these  verses : — 

Condemned,  severe  extreme,  to  live 

When  all  is  fled  that  life  can  give. 

The  comparison  of  our  distant  joys  to  distant 
objects  is  equally  original  and  striking. 

The  character  and  manners  of  the  dealer 
in  the  infernal  traffic  is  a well  done,  though 
a horrid  picture.  I am  not  sure  how  far 
introducing  the  sailor  was  right ; for  though 
the  sailor’s  common  characteristic  is  gene- 
rosity, yet,  in  this  case,  he  is  certainly  not 
only  an  unconcerned  witness,  but,  in  some 
degree,  an  efficient  agent  in  the  business. 
Verse  224th  is  nervous  and  expressive — 

“ The  heart  convulsive  anguish  breaks.” 
The  description  of  the  captive  wretch  when 
he  arrives  in  the  West  Indies,  is  carried  on 
with  equal  spirit.  The  thought  that  the 
oppressor’s  sorrow,  on  seeing  the  slave  pine, 
is  like  the  butcher’s  regret  when  his  destined 
lamb  dies  a natural  death,  is  exceedingly 
Une. 

I am  got  so  much  into  the  cant  of  criti- 
cism, that  I begin  to  be  afraid  lest  I have 
nothing  except  the  cant  of  it ; and  instead 
of  elucidating  my  author,  am  only  benighting 
myself.  For  this  reason,  I will  not  pretend 
to  go  through  the  whole  poem.  Some  few 
remaining  beautiful  lines,  however,  I cannot 
pass  over.  Verse  280th  is  the  strongest 
description  of  selfishness  I ever  saw.  The 
comparison  in  verses  285th  and  286th  is 
new  and  fine;  and  the  line,  “Your  arms  to 
penury  you  lend,”  is  excellent. 

In  verse  317th,  “like”  should  certainly  be 
“as”  or  “ so ; ” for  instance : — 

His  sway  the  hardened  bosom  leads 
To  cruelty’s  remorseless  deeds : 

As  (or,  so)  the  blue  lightning  when  it  springs 
With  fury  on  its  livid  wings, 

Darts  on  the  goal  with  rapid  force, 

Nor  heteds  that  ruin  marks  its  course. 


If  you  insert  the  word  “like”  where  f 
have  placed  “as,”  you  must  alter  “darts* 
to  “ darting,”  and  “heeds”  to  “heeding,”  ia 
order  to  make  it  grammar.  A tempest  is  a 
favourite  subject  with  the  poets,  but  I d© 
not  remember  any  thing,  even  in  Thomson’s 
winter,  superior  to  your  verses  from  the 
347th  to  the  351st.  Indeed,  the  last  simile, 
beginning  with  “Fancy  may  dress,”  &c., 
and  ending  with  the  350th  verse,  is,  in  my 
1 opinion,  the  most  beautiful  passage  in  the 
poem ; it  would  do  honour  to  the  greatest 
names  that  ever  graced  our  profession. 

I will  not  beg  your  pardon,  Madam,  for 
these  strictures,  as  my  conscience  tells  me, 
that  for  once  in  my  life  I have  acted  up  to 
the  duties  of  a Christian,  in  doing  as  I would 
be  done  by.  R.  B. 


NO.  LXXXI. 

TO  MR.  RICHARD  BROWN, 
IRVINE.  (54) 

Edinburgh , Dec.  30 th,  1787. 

My  Dear  Sir. — I have  met  with  few 
things  in  life  which  have  given  me  more 
pleasure  than  Fortune’s  kindness  to  you 
since  those  days  in  which  we  met  in  the  vale 
of  misery;  as  I can  honestly  say,  that  I 
never  knew  a man  who  more  truly  deserved 
it,  or  to  whom  my  heart  more  truly  wished 
it.  I have  been  much  indebted  since  that 
time  to  your  story  and  sentiments  for 
steeling  my  mind  against  evils,  of  which  I 
have  had  a pretty  decent  share.  My  will-o’- 
wisp  fate  you  know:  do  you  recollect  a 
Sunday  we  spent  together  in  Eglinton 
woods?  You  told  me,  on  my  repeating 
some  verses  to  you,  that  you  wondered  I 
could  resist  the  temptation  of  sending  verses 
of  such  merit  to  a magazine.  It  was  from 
this  remark  I derived  that  idea  of  my  owu 
pieces  which  encouraged  me  to  endeavour  at 
the  character  of  a poet.  I am  happy  to 
hear  that  you  will  be  two  or  three  months 
at  home.  As  soon  as  a bruised  limb  will 
permit  me,  I shall  return  to  Ayrshire,  and 
we  shall  meet ; “ and  faith,  I hope  we’ll  not 
sit  dumb,  nor  yet  cast  out ! ” 

I have  much  to  tell  you  “ of  men,  their 
manners,  and  their  ways,”  perhaps  a little  of 
the  other  sex.  Apropos,  I beg  to  be  reinem* 
bered  to  Mrs.  Brown.  There,  I doubt  not, 
my  dear  friend,  but  you  have  found  sub- 
stantial happiness.  I expect  to  find  you 
something  of  an  altered,  but  not  a different 
man  ; the  wild,  bold,  generous  young  fellow 
composed  into  the  steady,  affectionate 


TO  CLAItINDA 


SOI 


husband,  and  the  fond  careful  parent.  For 
me,  I am  just  the  same  will-o’-wisp  being  I 
used  to  be.  About  the  first  and  fourth 
quarters  of  the  moon,  I generally  set  in  for 
the  trade-wind  of  wisdom ; but  about  the 
full  and  change,  I am  the  luckless  victim  of 
mad  tornadoes,  which  blow  me  into  chaos. 
Almighty  love  still  reigns  and  revels  in  my 
bosom ; and  I am,  at  this  moment,  ready  to 
hang  myself  for  a young  Edinburgh  widow 
(55),  who  has  wit  and  wisdom  more  murde- 
rously fatal  than  the  assassinating  stiletto  of 
the  Sicilian  bandit,  or  the  poisoned  arrow  of 
the  savage  African.  My  Highland  dirk, 
that  used  to  hang  beside  my  crutches,  I have 
gravely  removed  into  a neighbouring  closet, 
the  key  of  which  I cannot  command  in  case 
of  spring-tide  paroxysms.  You  may  guess 
of  her  wit  by  the  following  verses,  which  she 
sent  me  the  other  day : — 

Talk  not  of  love,  it  gives  me  pain. 

For  love  has  been  my  foe; 

He  bound  me  with  an  iron  chain. 

And  plunged  me  deep  in  woe ! 

But  friendship’s  pure  and  lasting  joys. 

My  heart  was  formed  to  prove — 

There,  welcome,  win  and  wear  the  prize. 

But  never  talk  of  love  1 

Your  friendship  much  can  make  me  blest — 
Oh,  why  that  bliss  destroy  ? 

Why  urge  the  odious  one  request. 

You  know  I must  deny? 

My  best  compliments  to  our  friend  Allan. 
Adieu  1 B.  B. 


NO.  LXXXII. 

TO  MB.  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 

Edinburgh , Dec.,  1787. 

My  Dear  Sir. — It  is  indeed  with  the 
1 ighest  pleasure  that  I congratulate  you  on 
the  return  of  days  of  ease  and  nights  of 
pleasure,  after  the  horrid  hours  of  misery  in 
which  I saw  you  suffering  existence  when 
last  in  Ayrshire.  I seldom  pray  for  any- 
body— “ I’m  baith  dead-sweer  and  wretched 
ill  o’t;”  but  most  fervently  do  I beseeeh 
the  Power  that  directs  the  world,  that  you 
may  live  long  and  be  happy,  but  live  no 
longer  than  you  are  happy.  It  is  needless 
for  me  to  advise  you  to  have  a reverend  care 
of  your  health.  I know  you  will  make  it  a 
point  never  at  one  time  to  drink  more  than 
a pint  of  wine  (I  mean  an  English  pint),  and 
that  you  will  uever  be  witness  to  more  than 
BBe  bowl  cf  punch  at  a time,  and  that  c old 


drams  you  will  never  more  taste ; and,  above 
all  things,  I am  convinced,  that  after  drinking 
perhaps  boiling  punch  you  will  never  mount 
your  horse  and  gallop  home  in  a chill  late 
hour.  Above  all  things,  as  I understand  you 
are  in  habits  of  intimacy  with  that  Boanerges 
of  gospel  powers.  Father  Auld,  be  earnest 
with  him  that  he  will  wrestle  in  prayer  for 
you,  that  you  may  see  the  vanity  of  vanities 
in  trusting  to,  or  even  practising,  the  casual 
moral  works  of  charity,  humanity,  generosity, 
and  forgiveness  of  things,  which  you  practised 
so  flagrantly,  that  it  was  evident  you  de- 
lighted in  them,  neglecting,  or  perhaps  pro- 
fanely despising,  the  wholesome  doctrine  of 
faith  without  works,  the  only  author  of 
salvation.  A hymn  of  thanksgiving  would, 
in  my  opinion,  be  highly  becoming  from  you 
at  present,  and  in  my  zeal  for  your  well- 
being, I earnestly  press  on  you  to  be  diligent 
in  chanting  over  the  two  enclosed  pieces  of 
sacred  poesy.  My  best  compliments  to  Mrs, 
Hamilton  and  Miss  Kennedy.  Yours,  &c. 

B.  B. 


NO.  LXXXII!. 

TO  CLARINDA. 

Thursday  Evening. 

Madam,  (56) — I had  set  no  small  store 
by  my  tea-drinking  to-night,  and  have  not 
often  been  so  disappointed.  Saturday  even- 
ing I shall  embrace  the  opportunity  with 
the  greatest  pleasure.  I leave  this  town 
this  day  sen’night,  and,  probably  for  a 
couple  of  twelvemonths;  but  must  ever  re- 
gret that  I so  lately  got  an  acquaintance  I 
shall  ever  highly  esteem,  and  in  whose 
welfare  I shall  ever  be  warmly  interested. 

Our  worthy  common  friend,  in  her  usual 
pleasant  way,  rallied  me  a good  deal  on  my 
new  acquaintance,  and  in  the  humour  of  her 
ideas  I wTrote  some  lines,  which  I enclose 
you,  as  I think  they  have  a good  deal  of 

poetic  merit ; and  Miss tells  me  you  are 

not  only  a critic,  but  a poetess.  Fiction, 
you  know,  is  the  native  region  of  poetry; 
and  I hope  you  will  pardon  my  vanity  in 
sending  you  the  bagatelle  as  a tolerable  off- 
hand jeu-d’esprit.  I have  several  poetic 
trifles,  which  I shall!  gladly  leave  with  Mis# 

or  you,  if  they  were  worth  house- 

room  ; as  there  are  scarcely  two  people  on 
earth  by  whom  it  would  mortify  me  more  to 
be  forgotten,  though  at  the  distance  of  nine- 
score  miles. — I am.  Madam,  with  the  highest 
respect,  yonr  very  humble  servant, 

& B, 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


NO.  LXXXIV. 

TO  TIIE  SAME.  (57) 

Saturday  Evening 

T CAN  say  with  truth,  Madam,  that  I 
Bever  met  with  a personju  my  life  whom  I 
more  anxiously  wished  to  meet  again  than 
yourself.  To-night  1 was  to  have  had  that 
very  great  pleasure ; I was  intoxicated  with 
the  idea,  but  an  unlucky  fall  from  a coach 
lias  so  bruised  one  of  my  knees  that  I can’t 
stir  my  leg ; so  if  I don’t  see  you  again,  I 
•hall  not  rest  in  my  grave  for  chagrin.  I 
was  vexed  to  the  soul  I hai  not  seen  you 
sooner ; I determined  to  cultivate  your 
friendship  with  the  enthusiasm  of  religion ; 
but  thus  has  Fortune  ever  served  me.  I 
cannot  bear  the  idea  of  leaving  Edinburgh 
without  seeing  you.  I know  not  how  to 
account  for  it — I am  strangely  taken  with 
some  people,  nor  am  I often  mistaken.  You 
are  a stranger  to  me;  but  I am  an  odd 
being;  some  yet  unnamed  feelings,  things, 
not  principles,  but  better  than  whims,  carry 
me  farther  than  boasted  reason  ever  did  a 
philosopher. — Farewell  1 every  happiness  be 
your*  1 


NO.  LXXXV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Friday  Evening , Dec.  22nd,  1787. 

I beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  “ Clarinda,” 
for  the  fragment  scrawl  I sent  you  yester- 
day. (58)  I really  do  not  know  what  I 
wrote.  A gentleman,  for  whose  character, 
abilities,  and  critical  knowledge,  I have  the 
highest  veneration,  called  in  just  as  I had 
begun  the  second  sentence,  and  I would  not 
make  the  porter  wait.  I read  to  my  much 
respected  friend  some  of  my  own  bagatelles, 
and,  among  others,  your  lines,  which  I had 
copied  out.  He  began  some  criticisms  on 
them  as  on  the  other  pieces,  when  I informed 
him  they  were  the  work  of  a young  lady  in 
this  town,  which,  I assure  you,  made  him 
Btare.  My  learned  friend  seriously  pro- 
tested that  he  did  not  believe  any  young 
woman  in  Edinburgh  was  capable  of  such 
lines : and  if  you  know  anything  of  Pro- 
fessor Gregory,  you  will  neither  doubt  of 
his  abilities  nor  his  sincerity.  I do  love  you, 
if  possible,  still  better  for  having  so  fine  a 
tasce  and  turn  for  poesy.  I have  again  gone 
wrong  in  my  usual  unguarded  way,  but  you 
may  erase  the  word,  and  put  esteem,  respect, 
» any  other  tame  Dutch  expression  you 


please  in  its  place.  1 believe  there  is  ua 
holding  converse,  nor  carrying  on  corres- 
pondence, with  an  amiable  woman,  much 
less  a gloriously  amiable,  fine  woman,  with- 
out some  mixture  of  that  delicious  passion* 
whose  most  devoted  slave  I have  more  than 
once  had  the  honour  of  being. — But  why 
be  hurt  or  offended  on  that  account  ? Can 
no  honest  man  have  a prepossession  for  a 
fine  woman,  but  he  must  run  his  head 
against  an  intrigue?  Take  a little  of  the 
tender  witchcraft  of  love,  and  add  it  to  the 
generous,  the  honourable  sentiments  of 
manly  friendship : and  I know'  but  one  more 
delightful  morsel,  which  few,  few  in  any 
rank  ever  taste.  Such  a composition  is  like 
adding  cream  to  strawberries ; it  not  only 
gives  the  fruit  a more  elegant  richness, 
but  has  a peculiar  deliciousness  of  its 
own. 

I enclose  you  a few  lines  I composed  on 
a late  melancholy  occasion.  I will  not  give 
above  five  or  six  copies  of  it  at  all,  and  I 
would  be  hurt  if  any  friend  should  give  any 
copies  without  my  consent. 

You  cannot  imagine,  Clarinda  (I  like  the 
idea  of  Arcadian  names  in  a commerce  of 
this  kind),  how  much  store  I have  set  by  the 
hopes  of  your  future  friendship.  I do  not 
know  if  you  have  a just  idea  of  my  charac- 
ter, but  I wish  you  to  see  me  as  I am.  I 
am,  as  most  people  of  my  trade  are,  a strange 
will-o’-wisp  being ; the  victim,  too  fre- 
quently, of  much  imprudence  and  many 
follies.  My  great  constituent  elements  are 
pride  and  passion.  The  first  I have  en- 
deavoured to  humanize  into  integrity  and 
honour  ; the  last  makes  me  a devotee  to  the 
warmest  degree  of  enthusiasm,  in  love 
religion,  or  friendship — either  of  them,  op 
all  together,  as  I happen  to  be  inspired. 
’Tis  true,  I never  saw  you  but  once ; but 
how  much  acquaintance  did  I form  with  you 
in  that  once ! Do  not  think  I flatter  you, 
or  have  a design  upon  you,  Clarinda ; 1 have 
too  much  pride  for  the  one,  and  too  little 
cold  contrivance  for  the  other;  but  of  all 
God’s  creatures  I ever  could  approach  in  the 
beaten  way  of  my  acquaintance,  you  struck 
me  with  the  deepest,  the  strongest,,  the 
most  permanent  impression.  I say,  the 
most  permanent,  because  I know  myself 
well,  and  how  far  I can  promise  either  in 
my  prepossessions  or  powers.  Why  are 
you  unhappy?  And  why  are  so  many  of 
our  fellow-creatures,  unworthy  to  belong  to 
the  same  species  with  you,  blest  with  all 
they  can  .wish  ? You  have  a hand  alb 
benevolent  to  give ; why  are  you  denied 
the  pleasure  ? You  have  a heart  formed— >• 


Tt  CLARTKDA 


303 


gloriously  formed — for  all  the  most  refined 
luxuries  of  love — Why  was  that  heart  ever 
wrung"?  O Clarinda!  shall  we  not  meet 
in  a state,  some  yet  unknown  state  of  being, 
where  the  lavish  hand  of  plenty  shall 
minister  to  the  highest  wish  of  benevolence ; 
and  where  the  chill  north- wind  of  prudence 
shall  never  blow  over  the  flowery  flelds  of 
enjoyment?  If  we  do  not,  man  was  made 
in  vain!  I deserved  most  of  the  unhappy 
hours  that  have  lingered  over  my  head; 
they  were  the  wages  of  my  labour:  but 
what  unprovoked  demon,  malignant  as  hell, 
stole  on  the  confidence  of  unmistrusting 
busy  Fate,  and  dashed  your  cup  of  life  with 
undeserved  sorrow  ? 

Let  me  know  how  long  your  stay  will  be 
out  of  town ; I shall  count  the  hours  till 
you  inform  me  of  your  return.  Cursed 
etiquette  forbids  your  seeing  me  just  now ; 
and  so  soon  as  I can  walk  I must  bid  Edin- 
burgh adieu.  Lord,  why  was  I born  to  see 
misery  which  I cannot  relieve,  and  to  meet 
with  friends  whom  I cannot  enjoy  ? I look 
back  with  the  pang  of  unavailing  avarice  on 
my  loss  in  not  knowing  you  sooner : all  last 
winter,  these  three  months  past,  what  luxury 
of  intercourse  have  I not  lost ! Perhaps, 
though,  ’twas  better  for  my  peace.  You  see 
I am  either  above,  or  incapable  of,  dissimu- 
lation. I believe  it  is  want  of  that  particu- 
lar genius.  I despise  design,  because  I want 
either  coolness  or  wisdom  to  be  capable  of  it. 
I am  interrupted. — Adieu!  my  dear  Clarinda! 

Sylvandeh. 


NO.  LXXXYI.  (59) 

TO  THE  SAME 

You  are  right,  my  dear  Clarinda;  a 
fnendiy  correspondence  goes  for  nothing, 
except  one  writes  his  or  her  undisguised  sen- 
timents. Yours  please  me  for  their  intrinsic 
merit,  as  well  as  because  they  are  yours, 
which,  I assure  you,  is  to  me  a high  recom- 
mendation. Your  religious  sentiments, 
Madafii,  I revere.  If  you  have,  on  some 
suspicious  evidence,  from  some  lying  oracle, 
learned  that  I despise  or  ridicule  so  sacredly 
important  a matter  as  real  religion,  you  have, 
my  Clarinda,  much  misconstrued  your  friend. 
* I am  not  mad,  most  noble  Festus  !”  Have 
you  ever  met  a perfect  character  ? Do  we 
not  sometimes  rather  exchange  faults  than 
get  rid  of  them  ? For  instance,  I am  perhaps 
tired  with,  and  shocked  at,  a life  too  much 
the  prey  of  giddy  inconsistencies  and 


thoughtless  follies;  by  degrees  I grow  sober, 
prudent,  and  statedly  pious — I say  statedly, 
because  the  most  unaffected  devotion  is  not 
at  all  inconsistent  with  my  first  character— 
I join  the  world  in  congratulating  myself  on 
the  happy  change.  But  let  me  pry  more 
narrowly  into  this  affair.  Have  I,  at  bot- 
tom, any  thing  of  a secret  pride  in  these 
endowments  and  emendations?  Have  I 
nothing  of  a presbyterian  sourness,  an  hypo- 
critical severity,  when  I survey  my  less 
regular  neighbours  ? In  a word,  have  I 
missed  all  those  nameless  and  numberless 
modifications  of  indistinct  selfishness,  which 
are  so  near  our  ov/n  eyes  that  we  can  scarcely 
bring  them  within  the  sphere  of  our  vision, 
and  which  the  known  spotless  cambric  of  our 
character  hides  from  the  ordinary  observer  ? 

My  definition  of  worth  is  short;  truth  and 
humanity  respecting  our  fellow-creatures; 
reverence  and  humility  in  the  presence  of 
that  Being,  my  Creator  and  Preserver,  and 
who,  I have  every  reason  to  believe,  will  one 
day  be  my  Judge.  The  first  part  of  my 
definition  is  the  creature  of  unbiassed  in- 
stinct ; the  last  is  the  child  of  after  reflection. 
Where  I found  these  two  essentials,  I would 
gently  note,  and  slightly  mention,  any  at- 
tendant flaws — flaws,  the  marks,  the  conse- 
quences, of  human  nature. 

I can  easily  enter  into  the  sublime 
pleasures  that  your  strong  imagination  and 
keen  sensibility  must  derive  from  religion, 
particularly  if  a little  in  the  shade  of  mis- 
fortune : but  I own  I cannot,  without  a 
marked  grudge,  see  Heaven  totally  engross 
so  amiable,  so  charming,  a woman  as  my 
friend  Clarinda;  and  should  be  very  well 
pleased  at  a circumstance  that  would  put  it 
in  the  power  of  somebody  (happy  somebody!) 
to  divide  her  attention,  with  all  the  delicacy 
and  tenderness  of  an  earthly  attachment. 

You  will  not  easily  persuade  me  that  you 
have  not  a grammatical  knowledge  of  trie 
English  language.  So  far  from  being  inac- 
curate, you  are  eloquent  beyond  any  woman 
of  my  acquaintance,  except  one,  whom  I wish 
you  knew. 

Your  last  verses  to  me  have  so  delighted 
me  that  I have  got  an  excellent  old  Scots  air 
that  suits  the  measure,  and  you  shall  see 
them  in  print  in  the  Scots  Musical  Museum, 
a work  publishing  by  a friend  of  mine  in  this 
town.  I want  four  stanzas ; yr  u gave  me 
but  three,  and  one  of  them  alluded  to  a* 
expression  in  my  former  letter;  so  I have 
taken  your  first  two  verses,  with  a 
slight  alteration  in  the  second,  and  have 
added  a third  ; but  you  must  help  me  to  a 
fourth.  Here  they  : the  latter  half  of 


804 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


the  first  stanza  would  have  been  worthy  of 
Sappho ; I am  in  raptures  with  it. 

Talk  not  of  love,  it  gives  me  pain. 

For  love  has  been  my  foe  ; 

He  bound  me  with  an  iron  chain, 

And  sunk  me  deep  in  woe. 

But  Friendship’s  pure  and  lasting  joys 
My  heart  was  formed  to  prove ; 

There,  welcome,  win,  and  wear  the  prize. 
But  never  talk  of  love. 

Your  friendship  much  can  make  me  blest, 

O why  that  bliss  destroy  ! 

[only] 

Why  urge  the  odious  one  request, 

[will] 

You  know  I must  deny. 

The  alteration  in  the  second  stanza  is  no 
improvement,  but  there  was  a slight  inaccu- 
racy in  your  rhyme.  The  third  I only  offer 
to  your  choice,  and  have  left  two  words  for 
your  determination.  The  air  is  ‘ The  Banks 
of  Spey/  and  is  most  beautiful. 

To-morrow  evening  I intend  taking  a 
chair,  and  paying  a visit  at  Park  Place  to  a 
much-valued  old  friend.  If  I could  be  sure 
of  finding  you  at  home  (and  I will  send  one 
of  the  chairmen  to  call),  I would  spend  from 
five  to  six  o’clock  with  you,  as  I go  past.  I 
sannot  do  more  at  this  time,  as  I have  some- 
thing on  my  hand  that  hurries  me  much.  I 
propose  giving  you  the  first  call,  my  old 

friend  the  second,  and  Miss  as  I 

return  home.  Do  not  break  any  engage- 
ment for  me,  as  I will  spend  another  evening 
with  you,  at  any  rate,  before  I leave  town. 

Do  not  tell  me  that  you  are  pleased  when 
your  friends  inform  you  of  your  faults.  I am 
gnorant  what  they  are  ; but  I am  sure  they 
must  be  such  evanescent  trifles,  compared 
with  your  personal  and  mental  accomplish- 
ments, that  I would  despise  the  ungenerous 
narrow  soul  who  would  notice  any  shadow  of 
imperfections  you  may  seem  to  have,  any 
other  way  than  in  the  most  delicate,  agree- 
able raillery.  Coarse  minds  are  not  aware 
how  much  they  injure  the  keenly  feeling  tie 
of  bosom  friendship,  when,  in  their  foolish 
officiousness,  they  mention  what  nobody 
cares  for  recollecting.  People  of  nice  sensi- 
ability  and  generous  minds  have  a certain  in- 
trinsic dignity  that  fires  at  being  trifled 
with,  or  lowered,  or  even  too  nearly  ap- 
proached. 

You  need  make  no  apology  for  long  let- 
ters : I am  even  with  you.  Many  happy 
new  years  to  you,  charming  Clarinda ! I 
can’t  dissemble,  were  it  to  shun  perdition.  I 
Hb  who  sees  you  as  1 have  doub,  and  doaa  I 


not  love  you,  deserves  to  be  damn’d  for  hit 
stupidity  ! He  who  loves  you,  and  would 
injure  you,  deserves  to  be  doubly  damn’d  for 
his  villiany ! Adieu.  Sylvander. 

P.  S.  What  would  you  think  of  this  for  a 
fourth  stanza? 

Your  thought,  if  love  must  harbour  there. 
Conceal  it  in  that  thought. 

Nor  cause  me  from  my  bosom  teal 
The  very  friend  I sought. 


NO.  LXXXVII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Monday  Evening , 11  o' clocks 
Januanj  21s#,  1788. 

Why  have  I not  heard  from  you,  Clarinda  ? 
To-day  I expected  it;  and  before  supper, 
when  a letter  to  me  was  announced,  my 
heart  danced  with  rapture;  but  behold,  ’twas 
some  fool  who  had  taken  it  in  his  head  to 
turn  poet,  and  made  me  an  offering  of  the 
first-fruits  of  his  nonsense.  “ It  is  not 
poetry,  but  prose  run  mad.”  Did  I ever 
repeat  to  you  an  epigram  I made  on  a Mr. 
Elphinstone,  who  has  given  a translation  of 
Martial,  a famous  Latin  poet  ? — The  poetry 
of  Elphinstone  can  only  equal  his  prose 
notes.  I was  sitting  in  the  shop  of  a mer- 
chant of  my  acquaintance,  waiting  some- 
body; he  put  Elphinstone  into  my  hand,  and 
asked  my  opinion  of  it ; I begged  leave  to 
write  it  on  a blank  leaf,  which  I did. 

TO  MR.  ELPHINSTONE,  &c. 

O thou,  whom  poesy  abhors  ! 

Whom  prose  has  turned  out  of  doors ! 
Heard’st  thou  that  groan?  proceed  no  further; 
*Twas  laurel’d  Martial  roaring  Murther. 

I am  determined  to  see  you,  if  at  all  pos- 
sible, on  Saturday  evening.  Next  week  I 
must  sing — 

The  night  is  my  departing  night, 

The  morn’s  the  day  I maun  awa ; 

There’s  neither  friend  nor  foe  o’  mine. 

But  wishes  that  I were  awa ! 

What  I hae  done,  for  la  k o’  wit, 

I never,  never,  can  reca’ ; 

I hope  ye’re  a’  my  friends  as  yet, 

Guid  night,  and  joy  be  wi’  you  a’ ! 

If  I could  see  you  sooner,  I would  be  so 
much  the  happier;  but  I would  not  purchase 
the  dearest  gratification  on  earth,  if  it  must 
be  at  your  expense  in  worldly  censure,  far 
less  inward  peace ! 

I shall  certainly  be  ashamed  of  thus 


TO  CLARINDA. 


305 


•crawling  whole  sheets  ot  incoherence.  The 
only  unity  (a  sad  word  with  poets  and  critics!) 
in  my  ideas  is  Clarinda.  There  my  heart 
**  reigns  and  revels.” 

••What  art  thou.  Love?  whence  are  those 
charms, 

That  thus  thou  bear’st  an  universal  rule? 
For  thee  the  soldier  quits  his  arms. 

The  king  turns  slave,  the  wise  man  fool. 

In  vain  we  chase  thee  from  the  field, 

And  with  cool  thoughts  resist  thy  yoke; 
Next  tide  of  blood,  alas!  we  yield  ; 

And  all  those  high  resolves  are  broke!” 

I like  to  have  quotations  for  every  occasion. 
They  give  one’s  ideas  so  pat,  and  save  one 
the  trouble  of  finding  expression  ade'quate 
to  one’s  feelings.  I think  it  is  one  of  the 
greatest  pleasures,  attending  a poetic  genius, 
that  we  can  give  our  woes,  cares,  joys,  loves, 
&c.,  an  embodied  form  in  verse,  which  to  me 
is  ever  immediate  ease.  Goldsmith  says 
finely  of  his  Muse : — 

*Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 
Thou  found’st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep’st 
me  so.” 

My  limb  has  been  so  well  to-day,  that  I 
have  gone  up  and  down  stairs  often  without 
my  staff.  To-morrow  I hope  to  walk  once 
again  on  my  own  legs  to  dinner.  It  is  only 
next  street — Adieu. 

Sylvander. 


NO.  LXXXVIII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Saturday  Noon,  January  26th,  1788. 

Some  days,  some  nights,  nay,  some  hours, 
like  the  “ ten  righteous  persons  in  Sodom,” 
save  the  rest  of  the  vapid,  tiresome,  miser- 
able months  and  years  of  life.  One  of  these 
hours,  my  dear  Clarinda  blessed  me  with 
yesternight. 

“ One  well  spent  hour. 

In  such  a tender  circumstance  for  friends. 

Is  better  than  an  age  of  common  time ! ” 
Thomson. 

My  favourite  feature  in  Milton’s  Satan  id 
his  manly  fortitude  in  supporting  what  can- 
not be  remedied — in  short,  the  wild  broken 
fragments  of  a noble  exalted  mind  in  ruins. 
I meant  no  more  by  saying  he  was  a favourite 
hero  of  mine. 

I mentioned  to  you  my  letter  to  Dr. 
Moore,  giving  an  account  of  my  life : it  is 

x 


trutn,  every  word  of  it ; and  will  give  you 
the  just  idea  of  a man  whom  you  have  hon- 
oured with  your  friendship.  1 am  afraid  you 
will  hardly  be  able  to  make  sense  of  so  torn 
a piece. — Your  verses  I shall  muse  on  deli- 
ciously, as  I gaze  on  your  image  in  my 
mind's  eye,  in  my  heart’s*  core ; they  will  be 
in  time  enough  for  a week  to  come.  I am 
truly  happy  your  head-ache  is  better. — O, 
how  can  pain  or  evil  be  so  daringly,  unfeel- 
ingly, cruelly  savage  as  to  wound  so  noble  a 
mind,  so  lovely  a form ! 

My  little  fellow  is  all  my  name-sake.— 
Write  me  soon.  My  every,  strongest  good 
wishes  attend  you,  Clarinda ! 

Sylvander. 

I know  not  what  I have  written — I am 
pestered  with  people  around  me. 


NO.  LXXXIX. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Sunday  Night,  January  27th,  1788. 

The  impertinence  of  fools  has  joined  with 
a return  of  an  old  indisposition,  to  make  me 
good  for  nothing  to-day.  The  paper  has 
lain  before  me  all  this  evening,  to  write  to 
my  dear  Clarinda,  but— 

“ Fools  rush’d  on  fools,  as  waves  succeed  to 
waves.” 

I cursed  them  in  my  soul ; they  sacrilegi- 
ously disturbed  my  meditations  on  her  who 
holds  m$  heart.  What  a creature  is  man  1 
A little  alarm  last  night  and  to-day,  that  ] 
am  mortal,  has  made  such  a revolution  ou 
my  spirits!  There  is  no  philosophy,  no 
divinity,  comes  half  so  home  to  the  mind. 
I have  no  idea  of  courage  that  braves  heaven. 
’Tis  the  wild  ravings  of  an  imaginary  hero 
in  bedlam. 

I can  no  more,  Clarinda ; I can  scarcely 
hold  up  my  head ; but  I am  happy  you  do 
not  know  it,  you  would  be  so  uneasy. 

Svlvander. 


Monday  Morning,  January  28 tli,  1788. 

I am,  my  lovely  friend,  much  better  this 
morning  on  the  whole ; but  I have  a horrid 
langour  on  my  spirits. 

“ Sick  of  the  world,  and  all  its  joys. 

My  soul  in  pining  sadness  mourn#  j 
Dark  scenes  of  woe  my  mind  employs. 
The  past  and  present  in  their  turns.** 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


Have  yoi  ever  met  with  a saving  of  the 
great,  anil  likewise  good  Mr.  Locke,  author 
of  the  famous  Essay  on  the  Human  Under- 
standing r He  wrote  a letter  to  a friend, 
directing  it  “ not  to  be  delivered  till  after 
my  decease  : ” it  ended  thus — “ 1 know  you 
loved  me  when  living,  and  will  preserve  my 
memory  now  1 am  dead.  All  the  use  to  be 
made  of  it  is,  that  this  life  affords  no  solid 
satisfaction,  but  in  the  consciousness  of 
having  done  well,  and  the  hopes  of  another 
life.  Adieu ! I leave  my  best  wishes  with 
you. — J.  Locke/* 

Clarinda,  may  I reckon  on  your  friendship 
for  life?  I think  I may.  Thou  Almighty 
Preserver  of  men  ! thy  friendship,  which 
hitherto  I have  too  much  neglected,  to  secure 
it,  shall  all  the  future  days  and  nights  of  my 
life,  be  my  steady  care  1 The  idea  of  my 
Clarinda  follows — 

•'Hide  it  my  heart,  within  that  close  disguise. 
Where  mix’d  with  God’s,  her  lov’d  idea  lies.” 

But  I fear  that  inconstancy,  the  conse- 
quent imperfection  of  human  weakness. 
Shall  I meet  with  a friendship  that  defies 
years  of  absence,  and  the  chances  and  changes 
of  fortune  ? Perhaps  “ such  things  are 
one  honest  man  I have  great  hopes  from  that 
way  : but  who,  except  a romance  writer, 
would  think  on  a love  that  could  promise 
for  life,  in  spite  of  distance,  absence,  chance, 
and  change ; and  that,  too,  with  slender 
hopes  of  fruition  ? For  my  own  part,  1 can 
say  to  myself  in  both  requisitions,  “Thou 
art  the  man  !”  I dare,  in  cool  resolve  I dare, 
declare  myself  that  friend,  and  that  lover. 
If  womankind  is  capable  of  such  things, 
Clarinda  is.  I trust  that  she  is ; and  feel  I 
•hall  be  miserable  if  she  be  not.  There  is 
not  one  virtue  which  gives  worth,  nor  one 
sentiment  which  does  honour  to  the  sex,  that 
she  does  not  possess,  superiorly  to  any  woman 
1 ever  sawr : her  exalted  mind,  aided  a little, 
perhaps,  by  her  situation,  is,  I think,  capable 
of  that  nobly-romantic  love-enthusiasm. 

May  I see  you  on  Wednesday  evening,  my 
dear  angel?  The  next  Wednesday  again 
will,  I conjecture,  be  a hated  day  to  us  both. 
I tremble  for  censorious  remark,  f'M*  your 
sake ; but  in  extraordinary  cases,  may  not 
usual  and  useful  precaution  be  a little. dis- 
pey  sed  with  ? Th  ee  evenings,  three  swift- 
winged evenings,  with  pinions  of  down,  are 
all  the  past ; 1 dare  not  calculate  the  future. 
I shall  call  at  Miss  — -- ’s  to  morrow  evening: 
•twill  be  a farewell  call. 

1 have  written  out  my  last  sheet  of  paper, 
M 1 am  reduced  to  my  last  half-sheet. 


What  9 strange  mysterious  faculty  is  that 
thing  called  imagination ! We  have  no 
ideas  almost  at  all  of  another  world ; but  I 
have  often  amused  myself  with  visionary 
schemes  of  what  happiness  might  be  enjoyed 
by  small  alterations — alterations  that  we 
can  fully  enter  into,  in  this  present  state  of 
existence.  For  instance,  suppose  you  and  l, 
just  as  we  are  at  present;  the  same  reason- 
ing powers,  sentiments,  and  even  desires; 
the  same  fond  curiosity  for  knowledge  and 
remarking  observation  in  our  minds ; and 
imagine  our  bodies  free  from  pain  and  the 
necessary  supplies  for  the  w ants  of  nature 
at  all  times,  and  easily  within  our  reach: 
imagine  further,  that  we  were  set  free  from 
the  laws  of  gravitation,  which  bind  us  to 
this  globe,  and  could  at  pleasure  fly,  without 
inconvenience,  through  all  the  yet  uncon- 
jectured  bounds  of  creation,  what  a life  of 
bliss  would  we  lead,  in  our  mutual  pursuit 
of  virtue  and  knowledge,  and  our  mutual 
enjoyment  of  friendship  and  love  I 

1 see  you  laughing  at  my  fairy  fancies,  and 
calling  me  a voluptuous  Mahometan  ; but  I 
am  certain  I would  be  a happy  creature, 
beyond  any  thing  we  call  bliss  here  below ; 
nay,  it  would  be  a paradise  congenial  to  you 
too.  Don’t  you  see  us,  hand  in  hand,  or 
rather,  my  arm  about  your  lovely  waist, 
making  our  remarks  on  Sirius,  the  nearest 
of  the  fixed  stars ; or  surveying  a comet, 
flaming  innoxious  by  us,  as  we  just  now 
would  mark  the  passing  pomp  of  a tra- 
velling monarch ; or  in  the  shady  bower  of 
Mercury  or  Venus,  dedicating  the  hour  to 
love,  in  mutual  converse,  relying  honour,  and 
revelling  endearment,  whilst  the  most  exalted 
strains  of  poesy  and  harmony  would  be  the 
ready,  spontaneous  language  of  our  souls ! 
Devotion  is  the  favourite  employment  of 
your  heart;  so  it  is  of  mine:  what  incentives 
then  to,  and  powers  for,  reverence,  gratitude, 
faith,  and  hope,  in  all  the  fervours  of  adora- 
tion and  praise  to  that  Being,  whose  un- 
searchable wisdom,  power  and  goodness,  so 
pervaded,  so  inspired,  every  sense  and 
feeling ! — By  vhis  time,  I dare  say,  you  will 
be  blessing  the  neglect  of  the  maid  that 
leaves  me  destitute  of  paper ! 

Sylvandeb 


wo.  xc.  (CO) 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Tuesday  Night,  1 788. 

I am  delighted,  charming  Clarinda,  with 
your  honest  enthusiasm  for  religion.  Those 


TO  CLARINDA. 


307 


©f  either  sex,  but  particularly  the  female, 
who  are  lukewarm  in  that  most  important  of 
all  things,  “ O my  soul,  come  not  thou  into 
their  secrets!” — I feel  myself  deeply  inter- 
ested in  your  good  opinion,  and  will  lay 
before  you  the  outlines  of  my  belief.  He 
who  is  our  Author  and  Preserver,  and  will 
one  day  be  our  Judge,  must  be  (not  for  his 
sake  in  the  way  of  duty,  but  from  the  native 
impulse  of  our  hearts,)  the  object  of  our 
reverential  awe  and  grateful  adoration : He 
is  Almighty  and  all-bounteous,  we  are  weak 
and  dependent;  hence  prayer  and  every 

other  sort  of  devotion. “ He  is  not  willing 

that  any  should  perish,  but  that  all  should 
come  to  everlasting  life;”  consequently,  it 
must  be  in  every  one’s  power  to  embrace  his 
offer  of  “everlasting  life;”  otherwise  he 
could  not,  in  justice,  condemn  those  who 
did  not.  A mind  pervaded,  actuated,  and 
governed  by  purity,  truth  and  charity, 
though  it  does  not  merit  heaven,  yet  is  an 
absolutely  necessary  pre-requisite,  without 
which  heaven  can  neither  be  obtained  nor 
enjoyed ; and,  by  divine  promise,  such  a 
mind  shall  never  fail  of  attaining  “ever- 
lasting life;”  hence  the  impure,  the  deceiv- 
ing, and  the  uncharitable  exclude  themselves 
from  eternal  bliss,  by  their  unfitness  for 
enjoying  it.  The  Supreme  Being  has  put 
the  immediate  administration  of  all  this,  for 
wise  and  good  ends  known  to  himself,  into 
the  hands  of  Jesus  Christ,  a great  personage, 
whose  relation  to  him  we  cannot  compre- 
hend, but  whose  relation  to  us  is  a guide 
and  Saviour ; and  who,  except  for  our  own 
obstinacy  and  misconduct,  w ill  bring  us  all, 
through  various  ways,  and  by  various  means, 
to  bliss  at  last. 

These  are  my  tenets,  my  lovely  friend; 
and  which,  I think,  cannot  be  well  disputed. 
My  creed  is  pretty  nearly  expressed  in  the 
last  clause  of  Jamie  Dean’s  grace,  an  honest 
weaver  in  Ayrshire:  “Lord,  gran/  that  we 
may  lead  a guid  life ! for  a guid  life  maks  a 
guid  end,  at  least  it  helps  weel ! ” 

I am  flattered  by  the  entertainment  you 
tell  me  you  have  found  in  my  packet.  You 
see  me  as  I have  been,  you  know  me  as  I am, 
and  may  guess  at  what  I am  likely  to  be.  I 
too  may  say,  “ Talk  not  of  love,”  &c.,  for 
indeed  he  has  “plunged  me  deep  in  woe!” 
Not  that  I ever  saw  a woman  who  pleased 
unexceotionably,  as  my  Clarinda  elegantly 
says,  “in  the  companion,  the  friend,  and  the 
mistress.”  One  indeed  I could  except — One , 
before  passion  threw  its  mists  over  my 
discernment,  I knew  the  first  of  women ! 
Her  name  is  indelibly  written  in  my  heart’s 
tfore — but  1 dare  aot  look  in  on  it— a degree 


of  agon / would  be  the  consequence.  Oh  l 
tho.i  perfidous,  cruel,  mischief-making  demon, 
who  presidest  over  that  frantic  passion— 
thou  mayest,  thou  dost  poison  my  peace, 
but  thou  shalt  not  taint  my  honour — 1 
would  not,  for  a single  moment,  give  an 
asylum  to  the  most  distant  imagination  that 
would  shadow  the  faintest  outline  of  a 
selfish  gratification,  at  the  expense  of  her 
whose  happiness  is  twisted  with  the  threads 

of  my  existence. May  she  be  as  happy 

as  she  deserves ! And  if  my  tenderest, 
faithfulest  friendship  can  add  to  her  bliss,  I 
shall,  at  least,  have  one  solid  mine  of  enjoy- 
ment in  my  bosom!  Don't  guess  at  these 
ravings ! 

I watched  at  our  front  window  to-day, 
but  was  disappointed.  It  has  been  a day  of 
disappointments.  I am  just  risen  from  a 
two  hours’  bout  after  supper,  with  silly  or 
sordid  souls,  who  could  relish  nothing  in 

common  with  me  but  the  port. One 

’Tis  now  “witching  time  of  night;”  and 
whatever  is  out  of  joint  in  the  foregoing 
scrawl,  impute  it  to  enchantments  and  spelts ; 
for  I can’t  look  over  it,  but  will  seal  it  up 
directly,  as  I don’t  care  for  to-morrow’s 
criticisms  on  it. 

You  are  by  this  time  fast  asleep,  Clarinda ; 
may  good  angels  attend  and  guard  you 
as  constantly  and  faitlifully  as  my  good 
wishes  do ! 

" Beauty,  which,  whether  waking  or  asleep. 
Shot  forth  peculiar  graces.” 

John  Milton,  I wish  thy  soul  better  rest 
than  I expect  on  my  pillow  to-night ! O for 
a little  of  the  cart-horse  part  of  human 
nature  1 Good  night,  my  dearest  Clarinda  I 
Sylvan  Dili  it. 


NO.  *XCI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Tuesday  Noon , January  17 th,  1788. 

I am  certain  I saw  you,  Clarinda ; bat  you 
don’t  look  to  the  proper  story  for  a poet’# 
lodging— 

" Where  speculation’s  roosted  near  the  sky.H 

I could  almost  have  thrown  myself  over 
for  very  vexation.  Why  did’ut  you  look 
higher?  It  hfis  spoiled  my  peace  for  this 
day.  To  be  so  near  my  charming  Clarinda; 
to  miss  her  look  when  it  was  searching  for 
me — I am  sure  the  soul  is  capable  of  disease, 
for  mine  has  convulsed  itself  into  an  iniiaia- 
matoiy  fever. 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


You  have  convert  el  me,  Clarinda.  I 
shall  love  that  name  while  I live : there  is 
heavenly  music  in  it.  Booth  and  Amelia  I 
know  well.  (61)  Your  sentiments  on  that 
subject,  as  they  are  on  every  subject,  are 
just  and  noble.  “To  be  feelingly  alive  to 
kindness  and  to  unkindness,”  is  a charming 
female  character. 

W hat  I said  in  my  last  letter,  the  powers 
of  fuddling  sociality  only  know  for  me.  By 
yours,  I understand  my  good  star  has  been 
partly  in  my  horizon,  when  I got  wild  in  my 
reveries.  Had  that  evil  planet,  which  has 
almost  all  my  life  shed  its  baneful  rays  on 
my  devoted  head,  been,  as  usual,  in  my 
zenith,  I had  certainly  blabbed  something 
that  would  have  pointed  out  to  you  the  dear 
object  of  my  tenderest  friendship,  and,  in 
spite  of  me,  something  more.  Had  that 
fatal  information  escaped  me,  and  it  was 
merely  chance,  or  kind  stars,  that  it  did  not, 
I had  been  undone ! You  would  never  have 
written  me,  except  perhaps  once  more ! O, 
I could  curse  circumstances,  and  the  coarse 
tie  of  human  laws,  which  keep  fast  what 
common  sense  would  loose,  and  which  bars 
that  happiness  itself  cannot  give — happiness 
which  otherwise  Love  and  Honour  would 
warrant ! But  hold — I shall  make  no  more 
hair  breadth  ’scapes.” 

My  friendship,  Clarinda,  is  a life-rent 
business.  My  likings  are  both  strong  and 
eternal.  I told  you  i had  but  one  male 
friend:  I have  but  two  female.  I should 
have  a third,  but  she  is  surrounded  by  the 
blandishments  of  flattery  and  courtship. 
* * * I register  in  my  heart’s  core — * * * *. 

Miss  N can  tell  how  divine  she  is.  She 

is  worthy  of  a place  in  the  same  bosom  with 
my  Clarinda.  That  is  the  highest  compli- 
ment I can  pay  her. 

Farewell,  Clarinda ! Remember 

Sylvanjdsr 


ko.  xeii. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Saturday  Morning , January  \9th,  1788. 

Your  thoughts  on  religion,  Clarinda, 
shall  be  welcome.  You  may  perhaps  distrust 
me,  when  1 say  ’tis  also  my  favourite  topic ; 
but  mine  is  the  religion  of  the  bosom.  1 
hate  the  very  idea  of  a controversial  divinity ; 
as  I ilrmly  believe  that  every  honest  upright 
man,  of  whatever  sect,  will  be  accepted  of 
the  Deity.  If  your  verses,  as  you  seem  to 
bint,  contain  censure,  except  you  want  an 


occasion  to  break  with  me,  don’t  send  them, 
I have  a little  infirmity  in  my  disposition, 
that  where  I fondly  love,  or  highly  esteem, 
I cannot  bear  reproach. 

“ Reverence  thyself  ” is  a sacred  maxim, 
and  I wish  to  cherish  it.  1 think  I .old  you 
Lord  Bolingbroke’a  saying  to  Swift : — ■ 
" Adieu,  dear  Swift,  with  all  thy  faultr  I love 
thee  entirely;  make  an  effort  to  love  me 
with  all  mine.”  A glorious  sentiment,  and 
without  which  there  can  be  no  friendship ! 
I do  highly,  very  highly  esteem  you  indeed, 
Clarinda — you  merit  it  all  1 Perhaps,  too — > 
I scorn  dissimulation! — I could  fondly  love 
you : judge  then,  what  a maddening  sting 
your  reproach  would  be.  “ O ! I have  sins 
to  Heaven,  but  none  to  you  /” — With  what 
pleasure  would  I meet  you  to-day,  but  I 
cannot  walk  to  meet  the  fly.  I hope  to  be 
able  to  see  you  on  foot  about  the  middle  of 
next  week. 

I am  interrupted — perhaps  you  are  not 
sorry  for  it,  you  will  tell  me — but  I won’t 
anticipate  blame.  O,  Clarinda!  did  you 
know  how  dear  to  me  is  your  look  of  kind- 
ness, your  smile  of  approbation ! you  would 
not,  either  in  prose  or  verse,  risk  a censo- 
rious remark. 

“ Curst  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe’er  it  flow. 
That  tends  to  make  one  worthy  man  my 
foe  l ” 

Sylvander. 


NO.  XCI1I. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh , January  21$f,  1788. 

After  six  weeks’  confinement  I am  be- 
ginning to  walk  across  the  room.  They 
have  been  six  horrible  weeks ; anguish  and 
low  spirits  made  me  unfit  to  read,  write,  or 
think. 

1 have  a hundred  times  wished  that  one 
could  resign  life  as  an  oflicer  resigns  a com- 
mission : for  1 would  not  take  in  any  poor, 
ignorant  wretch,  by  selling  out.  Lately  X 
was  a sixpenny  private,  and,  God  knows,  a 
miserable  soldier  enough ; now  I march  to 
the  campaign,  a starving  cadet — a little  more 
conspicuously  wretched. 

1 am  ashamed  of  all  this ; for  though  I do 
want  bravery  for  the  warfare  of  life,  i could 
wish,  like  some  other  soldiers,  to  have  a? 
much  fortitude  or  cunning  as  to  dissemble  or 
tonceal  my  cowardice. 

As  soon  as  I can  bear  the  journey,  whicb 


TO  CLARINDA 


309 


rill  be,  I suppose,  about  the  middle  of  next 
reek,  I leave  Edinburgh ; and  soon  after  I 
*hall  pay  my  grateful  duty  at  Dunlop- House. 

It.  B. 


NO.  XCIY. 

TO  CLARINDA. 

Tuesday  Morning , January  20th , 1788. 

I cannot  go  out  to-day,  my  dearest  Cla- 
rinda,  without  sending  you  half  a line,  by 
way  of  a sin-offering  ; but,  believe  me,  ’twas 
the  sin  of  ignorance.  Could  you  think  that 
I intended  to  hurt  you  by  any  thing  I said 
yesternight?  Nature  has  been  too  kind  to 
you  for  your  happiness,  your  delicacy,  your 
sensibility. — O why  should  such  glorious 
qualifications  be  the  fruitful  source  of  woe ! 
You  have  “murdered  sleep”  to  me  last  night. 
I went  to  bed,  impressed  with  an  idea  that 
you  were  unhappy:  and  every  time  I closed 
my  eyes,  busy  Fancy  painted  you  in  such 
scenes  of  romantic  misery  that  I would 
almost  be  persuaded  you  were  not  well  this 
morning. 

“ If  I unwittingly  have  offended. 

Impute  it  not  ” 

■ “But  while  we  live. 

But  one  short  hour,  perhaps,  between  us  two 
Let  there  be  peace.” 

If  Mary  is  not  gone  by  the  time  this 
peaches  you,  give  her  my  best  compliments. 
She  is  a charming  girl,  and  highly  worthy  of 
the  noblest  love. 

I send  you  a poem  to  read,  till  I call  on 
you  this  night,  which  will  be  about  nine.  I 
wish  I could  procure  some  potent  spell,  some 
fairy  charm  that  would  protect  injury,  or 
restore  to  rest  that  bosom-chord,  “trem- 
blingly alive  all  o’er,”  on  which  hangs  your 
peace  of  mind.  I thought,  vainly,  I fear, 
thought  that  the  devotion  of  love — love 
strong  as  even  you  can  feel — love  guarded, 
invulnerably  guarded,  by  all  the  purity  of 
' virtue,  and  all  the  pride  of  honour;  1 thought 
such  a love  would  make  you  happy — will  I 
be  mistaken  ? I can  no  more  for  hurry  * 

• • * 


NO.  XCY. 

TO  THE  SAME. 


of  ideas,  my  sentiments  of  love  and  friencU 
ship,  I next  devote  myself  to  you.  Yesterday 
night  I was  happy — happiness  “that  the 
world  cannot  give.” — I kindle  at  the  recol- 
lection ; but  it  is  a flame  where  innocence 
looks  smiling  on,  and  honour  stands  by  a 
sacred  guard. — Your  heart,  your  fondest 
wishes,  your  dearest  thoughts,  these  are 
yours  to  bestow  : your  person  is  unapproach- 
able by  the  laws  of  your  country ; and  he 
loves  not  as  I do  who  would  make  you  mise- 
rable. 

You  are  an  angel,  Clarinda ; you  are 
surely  no  mortal  that  “ the  earth  owns.”— 
To  kiss  your  hand,  to  live  on  your  smile,  is 
to  me  far  more  exquisite  bliss  that  the  dear- 
est favours  that  the  fairest  of  the  sex,  your- 
self excepted,  can  bestow. 

Sunday  Evening. 

You  are  the  constant  companion  of  my 
thoughts.  How  wretched  is  the  condition 
of  one  who  is  haunted  with  conscious  guilt, 
and  trembling  under  the  idea  of  dreaded 
vengeance  ! and  what  a placid  calm,  what  a 
charming  secret  enjoyment  it  gives,  to  bosom 
the  kind  feelings  of  friendship,  and  the  fond 
throes  of  love ! Out  upon  the  tempest  of 
anger,  the  acrimonious  gall  of  fretiul  impa- 
tience, the  sullen  frost  of  louring  resentment, 
or  the  corroding  poison  of  withered  envy  ! 
They  eat  up  the  immortal  part  of  man  ! If 
they  spent  their  fury  only  on  the  unfortunate 
objects  of  them,  it  would  be  something  in  their 
favour : but  these  miserable  passions,  like 
traitor  Iscariot,  betray  their  lord  and  master. 

Thou  Almighty  Author  of  peace,  and 
goodness,  and  love!  do  tb|ta  give  me  the 
social  heart  that  kindly  tastes  of  every  man’s 
cup  ! — Is  it  a draught  of  joy  ? — warm  and 
open  my  heart  to  share  it  with  cordial,  uncn- 
vying  rejoicing ! Is  it  the  bitter  potion  of 
sorrow  ? — melt  my  heart  with  sincerely  sym- 
pathetic woe  ! Above  all,  do  thou  give  me 
the  manly  mind  that  resolutely  exemplifies,  ■ 
in  life  and  manners,  those  sentiments  which 
I wrould  wish  to  be  thought  to  possess! 
The  friend  of  my  soul — there,  may  I never 
deviate  from  the  firmest  fidelity  and  most 
active  kindness  ! Clarinda,  the  dear  object 
of  my  fondest  love;  there  may  the  most 
sacred,  inviolate  honour,  the  most  faithfu, 
kindling  constancy,  ever  watch  and  animate 
my  every  thought  and  imagination ! 

Did  you  ever  meet  with  the  following 
lines  spoken  of  Religion,  your  darling  topic? 


Sunday  Miming,  February  3rd,  1788. 

I have  just  been  before  the  throne  of  my 
Gal,  Clarinda ; according  to  my  association 


“ *Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morm- 
ing  bright ! 

* Tie  this  that  gilds  the  horrors  of  our  night ; 


810  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


When  wealth  forces  us,  and  when  friends 
are  few,  [pursue ; 

When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes 
*Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the  i 
smart, 

Disarms  affliction,  or  repels  its  dart : 

Within  the  breast  bids  purest  rapture  rise. 
Bids  smiling  Conscience  spread  her  cloud- 
less skies.” 

I met  with  these  verses  very  early  in  life, 
and  was  so  delighted  with  them  that  I have 
them  by  me,  copied  at  school. 

Good  night  and  sound  rest,  my  dearest 
Clarinda!  Sylvander. 


NO.  XCVI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I was  on  the  way,  my  Love,  to  meet  you, 
(I  never  do  things  by  halves)  when  I got 
your  card.  M goes  out  of  town  to- 

morrow morning  to  see  a brother  of  his  who 
is  newly  arrived  from . I am  deter- 

mined that  he  and  I shall  call  on  you  to- 
gether ; so,  look  you,  lest  I should  never  see 
to-morrow,  we  will  call  on  you  to-night! 

•  and  you  may  put  off  tea  till  about 

seven;  at  which  time,  in  the  Galloway  phrase, 

* an  the  beast  be  to  the  fore,  an  the  branks 
bide  hale/ expect  the  humblest  of  your  humble 
servants,  and  his  dearest  friend.  We  propose 
8tayingonly  half  an  hour,  ‘for  ought  we  ken/ 
I could  suffer  the  lash  of  misery  eleven 
months  in  the  year,  were  the  twelfth  to  be 
composed  of  hours  like  yesternight.  You 
are  the  soul  of  my  enjoyment : all  else  is  of 
the  stuff  and  stocks  of  stones. 

Sylvander. 


HO.  XCVII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Thursday  Morning,  February  7th,  1788. 

•*  Unlavish  Wisdom  never  works  in  vain.” 

I have  been  tasking  my  reason,  Clarinda, 
shy  a woman  who  for  native  genius,  poig- 
nant wit,  strength  of  mind,  generous  sin- 
cerity of  soul,  and  the  sweetest  female 
tenderness,  is  without  a peer,  and  whose 
personal  charms  have  few,  very,  very  few 
parallels  among  her  sex ; why,  or  how  she 
thould  fall  to  the  blessed  lot  of  a poor 
harum  scaruir  poet,  whom  Fortune  had 
kept  for  hex  particular  use,  to  wreak  her 


temper  on  whenever  she  was  in  ill-humour. 
One  time  I conjectured  that,  as  Fortune  fa 
the  most  capricious  jade  ^ver  known,  shl 
may  have  taken,  not  a fit  of  remorse,  but  a 
paroxysm  of  whim,  to  raise  the  poor  devil 
out  of  the  mire,  where  he  had  so  often  and 
so  conveniently  served  her  as  a stepping 
stone,  and  given  him  the  most  glorious 
boon  she  ever  had  in  her  gift  merely 
for  the  maggot’s  sake,  to  see  how 
this  fool  head  and  his  fool  heart  will 
bear  it.  At  other  times  I was  vain  enough 
to  think  that  Nature,  who  has  a great  deal 
to  say  with  Fortune,  had  given  the  coquet- 
tish goddess  some  such  hint  as,  “ Here  is  a 
paragon  of  female  excellence,  whose  equal, 
in  all  my  former  compositions,  I never  was 
lucky  enough  to  hit  on,  and  despair  of  ever 
doing  so  again  ; you  have  cast  her  rather  in 
the  shades  of  life ; there  is  a certain  poet  of 
my  making;  among  your  frolics  it  would 
not  be  amiss  to  attach  him  to  this  master- 
piece of  my  hand,  to  give  her  that  immortality 
among  mankind  which  no  woman  of  any 
age  ever  more  deserved,  and  which  few 
rhymsters  of  this  age  are  better  able  to 
confer.” 

Evening,  9 o'clock. 

I am  here,  absolutely  unfit  to  finish  my 
letter — pretty  hearty  after  a bowl,  which  has 
been  constantly  plied  since  dinner  till  this 
moment.  I have  been  with  Mr.  Schetki, 
the  musician,  and  he  has  set  it  (62)  finely. 

1 have  no  distinct  ideas  of  anything, 

but  that  I have  drunk  your  health  twice 
to-night,  and  that  you  are  all  my  soul 
holds  dear  in  this  world. 

Sylvander. 


no.  XCVIII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Saturday  Morning , February  9th,  1788. 

There  is  no  time,  my  Clarinda,  when 
the  conscious  thrilling  chords  of  Love  and 
Friendship  give  such  delight  as  in  the  pen- 
sive hours  of  what  our  favourite,  Thomson, 
calls  “Philosophic  Melancholy.”  The  sportive 
insects  who  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  prospe- 
rity ; or  the  worms  that  luxuriant  crawl 
amid  their  ample  wealth  of  earth — they  need 
no  Clarinda : they  would  despise  Sylvander 
— if  they  durst.  The  family  of  Misfortune, 
a numerous  group  of  brothers  and  sisters » 
they  need  a resting-place  to  their  souls : 
unnoticed,  often  condemned  by  the  world  J 


TO  CLARINDA, 


m 


in  §©nie  decree,  perhaps,  condemned  by 
themselves,  they  feel  the  full  enjoyment  of 
ardent  love,  delicate  tender  endearments, 
mutual  esteem,  and  mutual  reliance. 

In  this  light  I have  often  admired  religion. 
In  proportion  as  we  are  wrung  with  grief,  or 
distracted  with  anxiety,  the  ideas  of  a com- 
y assionate  Deity,  an  Almighty  Protector,  are 
coubly  dear. 

" Tis  this,  my  Friend,  that  streaks  our 
morning  bright ; 

*Tis  this  that  gilds  the  horrors  of  our 
night.” 

I have  been  this  morning  taking  a peep 
through,  as  Young  finely  says,  “the  dark 
postern  of  time  long  elaps’d ; ” and,  you 
will  easily  guess,  ’twas  a rueful  prospect. 
What  a tissue  of  thoughtlessness,  weakness, 
and  folly ! My  life  reminded,  me  of  a 
ruined  temple  ; what  strength,  what  pro- 
portion in  some  parts  ! what  unsightly  gaps, 
what  prostrate  ruins  in  others ! I kneeled 
down  before  the  Father  of  mercies,  and  said, 
“ Father,  I have  sinned  against  Heaven,  and 
in  thy  sight,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be 

called  thy  son ! ” I rose,  eased  and 

strengthened.  I despise  the  superstition 
of  a fanatic,  but  I love  the  .religion  of  a 
man.  “The  future,”  said  I to  myself,  “is 
still  before  me ; ” there  let  me 

“ On  reason  build  resolve. 

That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man  ! w 

“I  have  difficulties  many  to  encounter,” 
said  I;  “but  they  are  not  absolutely  in- 
superable : and  where  is  firmness  of  mind 
shewn  but  in  exertion  ? mere  declamation  is 
bombastic  rant.”  Besides,  wherever  I am, 
or  in  whatever  situation  I may  be— 

* *Tis  nought  to  me  : 

Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt. 

In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 

And  where  He  vital  breathes,  there  must  be 

joy!” 

Saturday  Night — half-after  Ik... 

What  luxury  of  bliss  I was  enjoying  this 
time  yester-night ! My  ever-dearest  Cla- 
rinda,  you  have  stolen  away  my  soul : but 
you  have  refined,  you  have  exalted  it : you 
have  given  it  a stronger  sense  of  virtue,  and 
% stronger  relish  for  piety. — Clariuda,  first 
of  your  sex,  if  ever  I am  the  veriest  wretch 
on  earth  to  forget  you  ; if  ever  your  lov  ely 
image  is  effaced  from  my  soul, 

"May  I be  lost,  no  eye  to  weep  my  end ; 
And  find  uo  earth  that’s  base  enough  to 

$ury  ine  I ” 


What  trifling  silliness  is  the  childish  fond-, 
ness  of  the  every-day  children  of  the  world  r 
’tis  the  unmeaning  toying  of  the  younglings 
of  the  fields  and  forests : but  where  Senti- 
ment and  Fancy  unite  their  sweets , where 
Taste  and  Delicacy  refine;  where  Wit  adds 
the  flavour,  and  Goodness  gives  strength 
and  spirit  to  all,  what  a delicious  draught  ia 
the  hour  of  tender  endearment ! — Beauty 
and  Grace,  in  the  arms  of  Truth  and  Honour, 
in  all  the  luxury  of  mutual  love. 

Clarinda,  have  you  ever  seen  the  picture 
realized  ? Not  in  all  its  very  richest  colour- 
ing- • 

Last  night,  Clarinda,  but  for  one  slight 
shade,  was  the  glorious  picture. 

Inn  ocence 

Look’d  gaily  smiling  on  ; while  rosy  Pleasure 
Hid  young  Desire  amid  her  flowery  wreath. 
And  pour’d  her  cup  luxuriant;  mantling 
high. 

The  sparkling  heavenly  vintage.  Love  and 
Bliss! 

Clarinda,  when  a poet  and  poetess  of 
Nature’s  making — two  of  Nature’s  noblest 
productions  ! — when  they  drink  together  of 
the  same  cup  of  Love  and  Bliss,  attempt 
not,  ye  coarser  stuffs  of  human  nature, 
profanely  to  measure  enjoyment  ye  never 
can  know! — Good  night,  my  dear  Clarinda! 

Sylvan  der. 


wo.  xeix. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

February,  1788. 

My  ever  Dearest  Clarinda.  — I 
make  a numerous  dinner  party  wait  me 
wb  .ie  I read  yours,  and  write  this.  Do  not 
r.quire  that  I should  cease  to  love  you,  to 
adore  you  in  my  soul — ’tis  to  me  impossible ; 
— your  peace  and  happiness  are  to  me  dearer 
than  my  soul;  name  the  terms  on  which 
you  wish  to  see  me,  to  correspond  with 
me,  and  you  have  them;  I must  love, 
pine,  mourn,  and  adore  in  secret — this 
you  must  not  deny  me;  you  will  ever  be 
to  me — 

“ Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes. 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my 
heart !” 

I have  not  patience  to  read  the  puritanic 
scrawl. — Vile  sophistry ! — Ye  heavens ! thou 
God  of  nature ! thou  Redeemer  of  mankind! 
ye  look  down  with  approving  eyes  on  % 


S12 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


passion  inspired  by  the  purest  flame,  and 
guarded  by  truth,  delicacy,  and  honour ; but 
the  half-inch  soul  of  an  unfeeling,  cold-blooded 
pitiful,  presbyterian  bigot  cannot  forgive  any 
thing  above  his  dungeon  bosom  and  foggy 
head. 

Farewell;  I’ll  be  with  you  to-morrow 
evening  ; and  be  at  rest  in  your  mind  ; — I 
will  be  yours  in  the  way  you  think  most  to 
your  happiness ! I dare  not  proceed — I 
love,  and  will  love  you,  and  will  with  joyous 
confidence  approach  the  throne  of  the  Al- 
lnighty Judge  of  men,  with  your  dear  idea, 
and  will  despise  the  scum  of  sentiment,  and 
the  mist  of  sophistry. 

Sylvandeb. 


NO.  0. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Tuesday  Evening,  Feb.  12 th,  1788. 

That  you  have  faults,  my  Clarinda,  I 
pever  doubted  ; but  I knew  not  where  they 
existed,  and  Saturday  night  made  me  more 
in  the  dark  than  ever.  O Clarinda,  why  will 
you  wound  my  soul,  by  hinting  that  last 
night  must  have  lessened  my  opinion  of 
you  ? True,  I was  “ behind  the  scenes  with 
you but  what  did  I see  ? A bosom  glow- 
ing with  honour  and  benevolence  : a mind 
ennobled  by  genius,  informed  and  refined  by 
education  and  reflection,  and  exalted  by  na- 
tive religion,  genuine  as  in  the  climes  of 
heaven  ; a heart  formed  for  all  the  glorious 
meltings  of  friendship,  love  and  pity.  These 
I saw. — I saw  the  noblest  immortal  soul 
creation  ever  showed  me. 

I looked  long,  ipy  dear  Clarinda,  for  your 
letter ; and  am  vexed  that  you  are  complain- 
ing. I have  not  caught  you  so  far  wrong  as 
in  your  idea,  that  the  commerce  you  have 
with  one  friend  hurts  you,  if  you  cannot  tell 
every  tittle  of  it  to  another.  Why  have  you 
bo  injurious  a suspicion  of  a good  God, 
Clarinda,  as  to  think  that  Friendship  and 
Love,  on  the  sacred  inviolate  principles  of 
Truth,  Honour,  and  Religion,  can  be  any 
thing  else  than  an  object  of  His  divine 
approbation  ? 

I have  mentioned,  in  some  of  my  former 
scrawls,  Saturday  evening  next.  Do  allow 
me  to  wait  on  you  that  evening.  Oh,  my 
angel ! how  soon  must  we  part ! and  when 
can  we  meet  again  ! I looked  forward  on  the 
horrid  interval  witli  tearful  eyes ! What 
have  I lost  by  not  knowing  you  sooner  ! I 
fear,  I fear  my  acquaintance  with  you  is  too 


short  to  make  that  lasting  impression  tm 
your  heart  I could  wish. 

Sylvandeb, 


NO.  Cl. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

"I  am  distressed  for  thee,  my  brother 
Jonathan!”  I have  suffered,  Clarinda,  from 
your  letter.  My  soul  was  in  arms  at  the 
sad  perusal ; I dreaded  that  I had  acted 
wrong.  If  I have  robbed  you  of  a friend, 
God  forgive  me ! But,  Clarinda,  be  com- 
forted : let  us  raise  the  tone  of  our  feelings 
a little  higher  and  bolder.  A fellow-creature 
who  leaves  us,  who  spurns  us  without  just 
cause,  though  once  our  bosom  friend — up 
with  a little  honest  pride — let  hirr  go!  How 
shall  I comfort  you,  who  am  the  cause  of  the 
injury  ? Can  I wish  that  I had  never  seen 
you?  that  we  had  never  met?  No!  I never 
will.  But  have  I thrown  you  friendless?— 
there  is  almost  distraction  in  that  thought. 

Father  of  mercies ! against  Thee  often 
have  I sinned ; through  Thy  grace  I will  en- 
deavour to  do  so  no  more ! She  who,  Thou 
knowest,  is  dearer  to  me  than  myself,  pour 
Thou  the  balm  of  peace  into  her  past  wounds, 
and  hedge  her  about  with  Thy  peculiar  care, 
all  her  future  days  and  nights ! Strengthen 
her  tender  noble  mind,  firmly  to  suffer,  and 
magnanimously  to  bear ! Make  me  worthy 
of  that  friendship  she  honours  me  with. 
May  my  attachment  to  her  be  pure  as  devia- 
tion, and  lasting  as  immortal  life ! O 
Almighty  Goodness,  hear  me!  Be  to  her  at 
all  times,  particularly  in  the  hour  of  distress 
or  trial,  a Friend  and  Comforter,  a Guide 
and  Guard. 

“ How  are  Thy  servants  blest,  O Lord, 
How  sure  is  their  defence ! 

Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide. 

Their  help,  Omnipotence !” 

Forgive  me,  Clarinda,  the  injury  I have 
done  you ! To-night  I shall  be  with  you ; 
as  indeed  I shall  be  ill  at  ease  till  I see  you, 
Sylvandeb. 


NO.  CII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Two  o'clock. 

I just  now  received  your  first  letter  of 
yesterday,  bj  the  careless  negligence  of  tho 
penny-post.  Clarinda,  matters  are  grewn 


TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  ESQ.  813 


Tery  serious  with  us ; then  seriously  hear  I 
me,  and  hear  me,  Heaven  : — I met  you,  my 
dear  * * * *,  by  far  the  first  of  woman- 

kind, at  least  to  me ; I esteemed,  I loved 
you  at  first  sight , the  longer  I am  acquainted 
v/ith  you,  the  more  innate  amiableness  and 
worth  I discover  in  you. — You  have  suffered 
a loss,  I confess,  for  my  sake : but  if  the 
firmest,  steadiest,  warmest  friendship, — if 
every  endeavour  to  oe  worthy  of  your  friend- 
ship,— if  a love,  strong  as  the  ties  of  nature, 
and  holy  as  the  duties  of  religion — if  all 
these  can  make  anything  like  a compensation 
for  the  evil  I have  occasioned  you,  if  they 
be  worth  your  acceptance,  or  can  in  the  least 
add  to  your  enjoyments — so  help  Sylvander, 
ye  Powers  above,  in  his  hour  of  need,  as  he 
freely  gives  these  all  to  Clarinda ! 

I esteem  you,  1 love  you  as  a friend ; I 
admire  you,  I love  you  as  a woman,  beyond 
any  one  in  all  the  circle  of  creation  ; I know 
I shall'  continue  to  esteem  you,  to  love  you, 
to  pray  for  you,  nay,  to  pray  for  myself  for 
your  sake. 

Expect  me  at  eight. — And  believe  me  to 
be  ever,  my  dearest  Madam,  yours  most 
entirely,  Sylvander. 


NO.  CIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  February  12 th,  1788. 

Some  things  in  your  late  letters  hurt  me : 
Dot  that  you  say  them,  but  that  you  mistake 
me.  Religion,  my  honoured  Madam,  has 
not  only  been  all  my  life  my  chief  dependence, 
but  my  dearest  enjoyment.  I have,  indeed, 
been  the  luckless  victim  of  wayward  follies ; 
but,  alas  ! I have  ever  been  “ more  fool  than 
knave.”  A mathematician  without  religion 
is  a probable  character;  an  irreligious  poet 
is  a monster,  . R.  B. 


NO.  CIV. 

TO  CLARINDA. 

February  14  th,  1783. 

When  matters,  my  love,  are  desperate, 
V'e  must  put  on  a desperate  face : — 

On  reason  build  resolve, 

That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man.” 


Or,  as  the  same  author  finely  says  in 
another  place — - 

“ Let  thy  soul  spring  up, 

And  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  him  that 
made  thee.” 

I am  yours,  Clarinda,  for  life.  Never  be 
discouraged  at  all  this.  Look  forward  ; in  a 
few  weeks  I shall  be  somewhere  or  other  out 
of  the  possibility  of  seeing  you  : till  then,  I 
shall  write  you  often,  but  visit  you  seldom. 
Your  fame,  your  welfare,  your  happiness,  are 
dearer  to  me  than  any  gratification  whatever. 
Be  comforted,  my  love  ! the  present  moment 
is  the  worst : the  lenient  hand  of  Time  is 
daily  and  hourly  either  lightening  the  burden, 
or  making  is  insensible  to  the  weight. 

None  of  these  friends,  I mean  Mr. • 

and  the  other  gentleman,  can  hurt  your 
worldly  support,  and  for  their  friendship,  in 
a little  time  you  will  learn  to  be  easy,  and, 
by  and  bye,  to  be  happy  without  it.  A 
decent  means  of  livelihood  in  the  world,  an 
approving  God,  a peaceful  conscience,  and 
one  firm,  trusty  friend — can  anybody  that 
has  these  be  said  to  be  unhappy  ? These 
are  yours. 

To-morrow  evening  I shall  be  with  you 
about  eight ; probably  for  the  last  time  till  I 
return  to  Edinburgh.  In  the  meantime, 
should  any  of  these  two  unlucky  friends 
question  you  respecting  me,  whether  I am 
the  man,  I do  not  think  they  are  entitled  to 
any  information.  As  to  their  jealousy  and 
spying,  I despise  them. — Adieu,  my  dearest 
Madam  1 Sylvander. 


NO.  CV. 

TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  Esq. 

OF  FINTRY. 

February,  1788. 

Sir. — When  I had  the  honour  of  being 
introduced  to  you  at  Athole  House,  I did  not 
think  so  soon  of  asking  a favour  of  you. 
When  Lear,  in  Shakespeare,  asked  old  Kent 
why  he  wished  to  be  in  his  service,  he 
answers: — “Because  you  have  that  in  your 
face  which  I would  fain  call  master.”  For 
some  such  reason,  Sir,  do  I now  solicit  your 
patronage.  You  know,  I dare  say,  of  au 
application  I lately  made  to  your  Board  tu 
be  admitted  an  officer  of  Excise.  I have* 
according  to  form,  been  examined  by  a super 


314 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


visor,  and  to-day  I gave  in  his  certificate,  with 
a request  for  an  order  for  instructions.  In 
tliis  affair,  if  I succeed,  I am  afraid  I shall 
but  too  much  need  a patronising  friend, 
Propriety  of  conduct  as  a man,  and  fidelity 
and  attention  as  an  officer,  I dare  engage  for ; 
but  with  any  thing  like  business,  except 
manual  labour,  I am  totally  unacquainted. 

1 had  intended  to  have  closed  my  late  ap- 
pearance on  the  stage  of  life  in  the  character 
of  a country  farmer ; but  after  discharging 
some  filial  and  fraternal  claims,  I find  I could 
only  fight  for  existence  in  that  miserable 
manner,  which  I have  lived  to  see  throw  a 
venerable  parent  into  the  jaws  of  a jail, — 
whence  death,  the  poor  man’s  last  and  often 
best  friend,  rescued  him. 

I know.  Sir,  that  to  need  your  goodness, 
is  to  have  a claim  on  it ; may  I,  therefore, 
beg  your  patronage  to  forward  me  in  this 
affair,  till  I be  appointed  to  a division — 
where,  by  the  help  of  rigid  economy,  I will 
try  to  support  that  independence  so  dear  to 
my  soul,  but  which  has  been  too  often  so 
distant  from  my  situation.  R.  B. 


NO.  cvi. 

TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  SKINNER.  (63) 
Edinburgh , February,  14 th,  1788. 

Reverend  and  Dear  Sir — I have 
been  a cripple  now  near  three  months,  though 
I am  getting  vastly  better,  and  have  been 
very  much  hurried  besides,  or  else  I would 
have  wrote  you  sooner.  I must  beg  your 
pardon  for  the  epistle  you  sent  me  appearing 
in  the  Magazine.  I had  given  a copy  or  two 
to  some  of  my  intimate  friends,  but  did  not 
know  of  the  printing  of  it  till  the  publication 
of  the  Magazine.  However,  as  it  does  great 
honour  to  us  both,  you  will  forgive  it. 

The  second  volume  of  the  Songs  I men- 
tioned to  you  in  my  last  is  published  to-day. 
I send  you  a copy,  which  I beg  you  will 
accept  as  a mark  of  the  veneration  I have 
long  had,  and  shall  ever  have,  for  your  cha- 
racter, and  of  the  claim  I make  to  your  con- 
tinued acquaintance.  Your  songs  appear  in 
the  third  volume,  with  your  name  in  the 
index;  as  I assure  you.  Sir,  I have  heard 
your  “ Tullochgorum,”  particularly  among 
our  west-country  folks,  given  to  many  differ- 
ent names,  and  most  commonly  to  the  im- 
mortal author  of  “ The  Minstrel,”  who, 
indeed,  never  wrote  anything  superior  to 
* Gie  a sang,  Montgomery  cried.”  Your 
brother  has  premised  me  your  verses  to  the 


Marquis  of  Huntly’s  reel,  which  certainly 
deserve  a place  in  the  collection.  My  kind 
host,  Mr.  Cruikshank,  of  the  high-School 
here,  and  said  to  be  one  of  the  best  Latins 
in  this  age,  begs  me  to  make  you  his  grate- 
ful acknowledgments  for  the  entertainment 
he  has  got  in  a Latin  publication  of  yours 
that  I borrowed  for  him  from  your  acquaint- 
ance and  much  respected  friend  in  this  place, 
the  Reverend  Dr.  Webster.  (64)  Mr.  Cruik- 
shank maintains  that  you  write  the  best 
Latin  since  Buchanan.  I leave  Edinburgh 
to-morrow,  but  shall  return  in  three  weeks. 
Your  song  you  mentioned  in  your  last,  to 
the  tune  of  “ Dumbarton  Drums,”  and  the 
other,  which  you  say  was  done  by  a brother 
in  trade  of  mine,  a ploughman,  I shall  thank 
you  for  a copy  of  each.  I am  ever,  reverend 
Sir,  with  the  most  respectful  esteem  and 
sincere  veneration,  yours,  R.  B. 


NO.  CTII. 

TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Edinburgh,  February  15 th,  1788. 

My  Dear  Friend — I received  yours 
with  the  greatest  pleasure.  I shall  arrive  at 
Glasgow  on  Monday  evening ; and  beg,  if 
possible,  you  will  meet  me  on  Tuesday.  I 
shall  wait  you  Tuesday  all  day.  I shall  be 
found  at  Davies’s  Black  Bull  inn.  I am 
hurried,  as  if  hunted  by  fifty  devils,  else  I 
should  go  to  Greenock ; but  if  you  cannot 
possibly  come,  write  me,  if  possible,  to 
Glasgow,  on  Monday;  or  direct  to  me  at 
Mossgiel  by  Mauchline;  and  name  a day 
and  place  in  Ayrshire,  within  a fortnight 
from  this  date,  where  I may  meet  you.  I 
only  stay  a fortnight  in  Ayrshire,  and  return 
to  Edinburgh.  I am  ever,  my  dearest,  friend, 
yours,  R.  B. 


NO.  CVIII. 

TO  MRS.  ROSE,  OF  KILRAVOCK. 

Edinburgh,  February  17 lh,  1788. 

Madam — You  are  much  indebted  t« 
some  indispensable  business  I have  had  on 
my  hands,  otherwise  my  gratitude  threatened 
such  a return  for  your  obliging  favour  as 
would  have  tired  your  patience.  It  but 
poorly  expresses  my  feelings  to  say,  that  l 
am  sensible  of  your  kindness : it  may  be 
said  of  heaits  such  as  yours  is,  and  such,  i 


TO  MISS  CHALMERS. 


811 


tope,  mine  is,  much  more  justly  than 
Addison  applies  it : — 

Some  souls  by  instinct  to  each  other  turn. 

There  was  something  in  my  reception  at 
Kilravock  so  different  from  the  cold,  obse- 
quious, dancing-school  bow  of  politeness, 
that  it  almost  got  into  my  head  that  friend- 
ship had  occupied  her  ground  without  the 
intermediate  march  of  acquaintance.  I wish 
I could  transcribe,  or  rather  transfuse  into 
language,  the  glow  of  my  heart  when  I read 
your  letter.  My  ready  fancy,  with  colours 
more  mellow  than  life  itself,  painted  the 
beautifully  wild  scenery  of  Kilravock  ; the 
venerable  grandeur  of  the  castle ; the  spread-* 
ing  woods  ; the  winding  river,  gladly  leaving 
his  unsightly,  heathy  source,  and  lingering 
with  apparent  delight  as  he  passes  the  fairy 
walk  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden ; your  late 
distressful  anxieties;  your  present  enjoy- 
ments ; your  dear  little  angel,  the  pride  of 
your  hopes;  my  aged  friend,  venerable  in 
worth  and  years,  whose  loyalty  and  other 
virtues  will  strongly  entitle  her  to  the 
support  of  the  Almighty  Spirit  here,  and  his 
peculiar  favour  in  a happier  state  of  existence. 
You  cannot  imagine.  Madam,  how  much 
such  feelings  delight  me;  they  are  my 
dearest  proofs  of  my  own  in  mortality. 
Should  I never  revisit  the  north,  aj  probably 
I never  will,  nor  again  see  your  hospitable 
mansion,  were  I,  some  twenty  years  hence, 
to  see  your  little  fellow’s  name  making  a 
proper  figure  in  a newspaper  paragraph,  my 
heart  would  bound  with  pleasure. 

I am  assisting  a friend  in  a collection  of 
Scottish  songs,  set  to  their  proper  tunes; 
every  air  worth  preserving  is  to  be  included  ; 
among  others  I have  given  ‘Morag,”  and 
some  few  Highland  airs  which  pleased  me 
mosrt,  a dress  which  will  Re  more  generally 
known,  though  far,  far  inferior  in  real  merit. 
As  a small  mark  of  my  grateful  esteem,  I 
beg  leave  to  present  you  with  a copy  of  the 
work,  as  far  as  it  is  printed ; the  Man  of 
Feeling,  that  first  of  men,  has  promised  to 
transmit  it  by  the  first  opportunity. 

I beg  to  be  remembered  most  respectfully 
to  my  venerable  friend,  and  to  your  little 
Highland  chieftain.  When  you  see  the 
“ two  fair  spirits  of  the  hill,”  at  Kil- 
drummie  (65),  tell  -them  that  I have  done 
myself  the  honour  of  setting  myself  down  as 
one  of  their  admirers  for  at  least  twenty 
years  to  come,  consequently  they  must  look 
upon  me  as  an  acquaintance  for  the  same 

rriod ; but,  as  the  Apostle  Paul  says,  “this 
ask  of  grace,  not  of  debt.”  I have  the 
kHsiour  to  be.  Madam,  &c., 


NO.  CIX. 

TO  CLARINDA. 

Glasqow,  Monday  Evening,  9 o* clock , 
Feb  17  th,  1783. 

The  attraction  of  love,  I find,  is  in  an  in- 
verse proportion  to  the  attraction  of  the 
Newtonian  philosophy.  In  the  system  of 
Sir  Isaac,  the  nearer  objects  are  to  one  another 
the  stronger  is  the  attractive  force ; in  my 
system,  every  mile-stone  that  marked  my 
progress  from  Clarinda,  awakened  a keener 
pang  of  attachment  to  her. 

How  do  you  feel,  my  love  ? Is  your  heart 
ill  at  ease?  I fear  it. — God  forbid  that 
these  persecutors  should  harass  that  peace 
which  is  more  precious  to  me  than  my  own. 
Be  assured  I shall  ever  think  of  you,  muse 
on  you,  and,  in  my  moments  of  devotion, 
pray  for  you.  The  hour  that  you  are  not  in 
all  my  thoughts — “ be  that  hour  darkness  ! 
let  the  shadows  of  death  cover  it ! let  it  not 
be  numbered  in  the  hours  of  the  day  !” 

— “ When  I forget  the  darling  theme, 

Be  my  tongue  mute!  my  fancy  paint  no 
more ! 

And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat  !* 

I have  just  met  with  my  old  friend,  the 
ship  captain  ; guess  ray  pleasure ; — to  meet 
you  could  alone  have  given  me  more.  My 
brother  William,  too,  the  young  saddler,  has 
come  to  Glasgow  to  meet  me ; and  here  are 
we  three  spending  the  evening. 

I arrived  here  too  late  to  write  by  post ; 
but  I’ll  wrap  half  a dozen  sheets  of  blank 
paper  together,  and  send  it  by  the  fly,  under 
the  name  of  a parcel.  You  shall  hear  from 
me  next  post  town.  I would  write  you  a 
long  letter,  but  for  the  present  circumstance 
of  my  friend. 

Adieu,  my  Clarinda!  I am  just  going  to 
propose  your  health  by  way  of  grace-drink. 

Sylvan  dee. 


no.  cx. 

TO  MISS  CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh,  February,  1788. 

To-morrow,  my  dear  Madam,  I leave 
Edinburgh.  I have  altered  all  my  plana 
of  future  life.  A farm  that  I could  live 
in,  I could  net  find;  and,  indeed,  afrer  the 
necessary  support  my  brother  and  the  rest 
of  the  family  required,  I could  not  venture 
on  farming  in  that  style  suitable  to  in/ 


R.  B. 

28* 


316 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


feelings.  l)u  will  condemn  me  for  the 
next  step  1 have  taken.  I have  entered  into 
the  Excise.  I stay  in  the  west  about  three 
weeks,  and  then  return  to  Edinburgh  for 
eix  weeks*  instructions ; afterwards,  for  I 
get  employ  instantly,  I go  oil  il  plait  a Dieu 
—et  mon  Roi.  I have  chosen  this,  my  dear 
friend,  after  mature  deliberation.  The  ques- 
tion is  not  at  what  door  of  fortune’s  palace 
shall  we  enter  in,  but  what  doors  does  she 
open  to  us  l I was  not  likely  to  get  any 
tiling  to  do.  I wanted  un  but , which  is  a 
dangerous,  an  unhappy  situation.  I got  this 
without  any  hanging  on,  or  mortifying  soli- 
citation ; it  is  immediate  bread,  and  though 
poor  in  comparison  of  the  last  eighteen 
months  of  my  existence,  *tis  luxury  in  com- 
parison'of  all  my  p eceding^life : besides,  the 
commissioners  are  some  of  them  my  acquaint- 
ances, and  all  of  them  my  firm  friends. 

R.3. 


NO.  CXI. 

TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Mossgiel 9 February  2,4th,  1788. 

My  Dear  Sir — I cannot  get  the  proper 
direction  for  my  friend  in  Jamaica,  but  the 
following  will  do  : — To  Mr.  Jo.  Hutchinson, 
at  Jo.  Brownrigg’s,  Esq.,  care  of  Mr.  Benja- 
min Henriquez,  merchant.  Orange  Street, 
Kingston.  I arrived  here,  at  ray  brother’s, 
only  yesterday,  after  fighting  ray  way 
through  Paisley  and  Kilmarnock  against 
those  old  powerful  foes  of  mine,  the  devil, 
the  world,  and  the  flesh — so  terrible  in  the 
fields  of  dissipation.  I have  met  with  few 
incidents  in  my  life  which  gave  me  so  much 
pleasure  as  meeting  you  in  Glasgow.  There 
is  a time  of  life  beyond  which  we  cannot 
form  a tie  worth  the  name  of  friendship. 
*Oh  youth!  enchanting  stage,  profusely 
blest.”  Life  is  a fairy  scene : almost  all  that 
deserves  the  name  of  enjoyment  or  pleasure 
is  only  a charming  delusion ; and  in  comes 
repining  age,  in  all  the  gravity  of  hoary 
wisdom,  and  wretchedly  chases  away  the, 
bewitching  phantom.  When  I think  of  life, 

I resolve  to  keep  a strict  look-out  in  the 
course  of  economy,  for  the  sake  of  worldly 
convenience  and  independence  of  mind ; to 
cultivate  intimacy  with  a few  of  the  com- 
panions of  youth,  that  they  may  be  the 
friends  of  age  ; never  to  refuse  my  liquorish 
humour  a handful  of  the  sweet-meats  of 
life,  when  they  come  not  too  dear  ; and,  for 
futurity — j 


The  present  momei  fc  is  our  aim. 

The  next  we  never  saw  ! 

How  like  you  my  philosophy  ? Give  my 
best  compliments  to  Mrs.  B.,  and  believe  in€ 
to  be,  my  dear  Sir,  yours  most  truly, 

R.  B.  (66) 


HO.  CXI1. 

TO  MISS  CHALMERS. 

March , 1788. 

Now  for  that  wraywrard,  unfortunate  thing, 
’ myself.  I have  broke  measures  writh  Creech, 
and  last  week  I wrote  him  a frosty,  keen 
letter.  He  replied  in  terms  of  chastisement, 
and  promised  me  upon  his  honour  that  I 
should  have  the  account  on  Monday ; but 
this  is  Tuesday,  and  yet  I have  not  heard  a 
word  from  him.  God  have  mercy  on  me! 
a poor  damned,  incautious,  duped,  unfortu- 
nate fool ! The  sport,  the  miserable  victim 
of  rebellious  pride,  hypochondriac  imagina- 
tion, agonising  sensibility,  and  bedlam 
passions ! 

“ I wish  that  I were  dead,  but  I*m  no  like 
to  die!”  I hid  lately  “a  hair-breadth  ’scape 
in  th’  imminent  deadly  breach  ” of  love  too 
Thank  my  stars,  I got  off  heart-whole, 
“ more  fleyd  than  hurt.” — Interruption. 

I have  this  moment  got  a hint ; I fear  I 
am  something  like — undone — but  I hope  for 
the  best.  Come,  stubborn  pride  and  un- 
shrinking resolution  ; accompany  me  through 
this,  to  me,  miserable  world ! You  must 
not  desert  me.  Your  friendship  I think  I 
can  count  on,  though  I should  date  my  letters 
from  a marching  regiment.  Early  in  life, 
and  all  my  life,  I reckoned  on  a recruiting 
drum  as  my  forlorn  hope.  Seriously  though, 
life  at  this  moment  presents  me  with  but  a 
melancholy  path:  but — my  limb  will  soon  be 
sound,  and  I shall  struggle  on.  R.  B. 


HO.  CXIIX. 

TO  CLARINDA. 

Cumnock,  March  2nd,  1783. 

I hope,  and  am  certain,  that  my  generous 
Clarinda  will  not  think  my  silence,  for  now 
a long  week  (67),  has  been  in  any  degree 
owing  to  my  forgetfulness.  I have  been 
tossed  about  through  the  country  ever  since 
I wrote  you ; and  am  here,  returning  from 
Dumfries -shire,  at  an  inn,  the  post-office  of 


TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE,  ES& 


811 


the  place,  with  just  so  long  time  as  my 
horse  eats  his  coru,  to  write  you.  I have 
been  hurried  with  business  and  dissipation 
(» i most  equal  to  the  insidious  decree  of  the 
Persian  monarch’s  mandate,  when  he  forbade 
asking  petition  of  God  or  man  for  forty  days. 
Had  the  venerable  prophet  been  as  throng 
as  I,  he  had  not  broken  the  decree,  at  least 
not  thrice  a-day. 

I am  thinking  my  farming  scheme  will  yet 
hold.  A worthy  intelligent  farmer,  my 
father’s  friend  and  my  own,  has  been  with 
me  on  the  spot : he  thinks  the  bargain  prac- 
ticable. I am  myself,  on  a more  serious 
review  of  the  lands,  much  better  pleased 
with  them.  I won’t  mention  this  in  writing 

to  any  body  but  you  and  . Don’t 

accuse  me  of  being  fickle : I have  the  two 
plans  of  life  before  me,  and  I wish  to  adopt 
the  one  most  likely  to  procure  me  indepen- 
dence. I shall  be  in  Edinburgh  next  week. 
I long  to  see  you : your  image  is  omnipre- 
sent to  me;  nay,  I am  convinced  I would 
soon  idolatrize  it  most  seriously ; so  much 
do  absence  and  memory  improve  the  medium 
through  which  one  sees  the  much-loved 
object.  To-night,  at  the  sacred  hour  of 
eight,  I expect  to  meet  you — at  the  Throne 
of  Grace.  I hope,  as  I go  home  to  night,  to 
find  a letter  from  you  at  the  post-office  in 
Mauchline.  I have  just  once  seen  that  dear 
hand  since  I left  Edinburgh— a letter  indeed 
which  much  affected  me.  Tell  me,  first  of 
womankind ! will  my  warmest  attachment, 
my  sincerest  friendship,  my  correspondence, 
will  they  be  any  compensation  for  the  sacri- 
fices you  make  for  my  sake  ! If  they  will, 
they  are  yours.  If  I settle  on  the  farm  l 
propose,  I am  just  a day  and  a half’s  ride 
from  Edinburgh.  We  will  meet — don’t  you 
say,  “ perhaps  too  often  !” 

Farewell,  my  rair,  my  charming  Poetess  ! 
May  all  good  things  ever  attend  you ! I am 
ever,  my  dearest  Madam,  yours, 

Sylvander. 


NO.  CXIV. 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  CRUIKSflANK. 

Mauchline , March  3rd,  1788. 

My  Dear  Sir  — Apologies  for  not 
writing  are  frequently  like  apologies  for  not 
bulging — the  apology  better  than  the  song. 
I have  fought  my  way  severely  through  the 
savage  hospitality  of  this  country,  to 
send  every  guest  drunk  to  bed  if  they 

flan 


I executed  your  commission  in  Glasgow 
and  I hope  the  cocoa  qpne  safe.  *Twas  the 
same  price  and  the  very  same  kind  as 
your  former  parcel,  for  the  gentleman 
recollected  your  buying  there  perfectly 
well. 

I should  return  my  thanks  for  your  

hospitality  (I  leave  a blank  for  the  epithet, 
as  I know  none  can  do  it  justice)  to  a poor 
wayfaring  bard,  who  was  spent  and  almost 
overpowered,  fighting  with  prosaic  wicked- 
nesses in  high  places  ; but  I am  afraid  lest 
you  should  burn  the  letter  whenever  you 
come  to  the  passage,  so  I pass  over  it  in 
silence.  I am  just  returned  from  visiting 
Mr4  Miller’s  farm.  The  friend  whom  I told 
you  I would  take  with  me  (68)  was  highly 
pleased  with  the  farm ; and  as  he  is,  without 
exception,  the  most  intelligent  farmer  in  the 
country,  he  has  staggered  me  a good  deal. 
I have  the  two  plans  of  life  before  me ; I 
I shall  balance  them  to  the  best  of  my 
judgment,  and  fix  on  the  most  eligible.  I 
have  written  Mr.  Miller,  and  shall  wait  on 
him  when  I come  to  town,  which  shall  be  the 
beginning  or  middle  of  next  week  : I would 
be  in  sooner,  but  my  unlucky  knee  is  rather 
worse,  and  I fear  for  some  time  will  scarcely 
stand  the  fatigue  of  my  Excise  instructions. 
I only  mention  these  ideas  to  you;  and, 
indeed,  except  Mr.  Ainslie,  whom  I intend 
writing  to  to-morrow,  1 will  not  write  at  all 
to  Edinburgh  till  I return  to  it.  I would 
send  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Nicol,  but  he 
would  be  hurt  if  he  knew  I wrote  to  any 
body  and  not  to  him ; so  I shall  only  beg 
my  best,  kindest,  kindest  conqiliments  to 
my  worthy  hostess,  and  the  sweet  little  rose- 
bud. 

So  soon  as  I am  settled  in  the  routine  of 
life,  either  as  an  Excise-officer,  or  as  a 
farmer,  I propose  myself  great  pleasure  from 
a regular  correspondence  with  the  only  man 
almost  I ever  saw  who  joined  the  most 
attentive  prudence  with  the  warmest  gene- 
rosity. 

I am  much  interested  for  that  best  of 
men,  Mr.  Wood;  I hope  he  is  in  better 
health  and  spirits  than  when  I saw  him  last. 
I am  ever,  my  dearest  friend,  your  .obliged 
humble  servant,  R.  B. 


NO.  CXY. 

TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE,  Esq. 

Mauchline,  March  3rd,  1788. 

My  Dear  Friend — I am  just  returned 
from  Mr.  Miller’s  farm.  My  old  fmad 


S18 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


whom  I took  with  me  was  highly  pleased 
with  the  bargain,  aqd  advised  me  to  accept 
of  it.  He  is  the  most  intelligent,  sensible 
farmer  in  the  country,  and  uis  advice  has 
staggered  me  a good  deal.  I have  the  two 
plans  before  me : I shall  endeavour  to  balance 
them  to  the  best  of  my  judgment,  and  fix 
on  the  most  eligible.  On  the  whole,  if  I 
find  Mr.  Miller  in  the  "ame  favourable  dis- 
position as  when  I saw  him  last,  I shall  in 
all  probability  turn  farmer. 

I have  been  through  sore  tribulation,  and 
under  much  buffetting  of  the  wicked  one, 
since  I came  to  this  country.  Jean  I found 
banished,  forlorn,  destitute  and  friendless ; 
I have  reconciled  her  to  her  fate,  and  I have 
reconciled  her  to  her  mother. 

I shall  be  in  Edinburgh  the  middle  of  next 
week.  My  farming  ideas  I shall  keep  pri- 
vate till  I see.  I got  a letter  from  Clarinda 
yesterday,  and  she  tells  me  she  has  got  no 
letter  of  mine  but  one.  Tell  her  that  I 
wrote  to  her  from  Glasgow,  from  Kilmar- 
nock, from  Mauchline,  and  yesterday  from 
Cumnock  as  I returned  from  Dumfries.  In- 
deed, she  is  the  only  person  in  Edinburgh  I 
have  written  to  till  this  day.  How  are  your 
soul  and  body  putting  up  ? — a little  like  man 
and  wife,  I suppose.  R.  B. 


ito.  cxvi. 

TO  CLARINDA. 

Mossgiel , March  7th,  1788. 

Clarinda,  I have  been  so  stung  with 
your  reproach  for  unkindness — a sin  so  unlike 
rne,  a sin  I detest  more  than  a breach  of  the 
whole  Decalogue,  fifth,  sixth,  seventh,  and 
ninth  articles  excepted — that  I believe  I shall 
not  rest  in  my  grave  about  it,  if  I die  before 
I see  you.  You  have  often  allowed  me  the 
head  to  judge,  and  the  heart  to  feel,  the 
influence  of  female  excellence.  Was  it  not 
blasphemy,  then,  against  your  own  charms, 
and  against  my  feelings,  to  suppose  that  a 
short  fortnight  could  abate  my  passion  ? 
You,  my  Love,  may  have  your  cares  and 
anxieties  to  disturb  you,  but  they  are  the 
usual  occurrences  of  life ; your  future  views 
are  fixed,  and  your  miud  in  a settled  routine. 
Could  not  you,  my  ever  dearest  Madam, 
make  a little  allowance  for  a man,  after  long 
absence,  paying  a short  visit  to  a country 
full  of  friends,  relations  and  early  intimates? 
Cannot  you  guess,  my  Clarinda,  what 
thoughts,  what  cares,  what  anxious  fore- 
bodings, hopes  and  fears,  must  crowd  the 


breast  of  the  man  of  keen  sensibility,  when 
no  less  is  on  the  tapis  than  his  aim,  l’ is  em- 
ployment, his  very  existence,  through  future 
life? 

Now  that,  not  my  apology,  but  my  defence, 
is  made,  I feel  my  soul  respire  more  easily. 
I know  you  will  go  along  with  me  in  my 
justification — would  to  Heaven  you  could 
in  my  adoption  too  ! I mean  an  adoption 
beneath  the  stars — an  adoption  where  I 
might  revel  in  the  immediate  beams  of 

" Her,  the  bright  sun  of  all  her  sex.” 

I would  not  have  you,  my  dear  Madam, 

so  much  hurt  at  Miss ’s  coldness.  ’Tis 

placing  yourself  below  her,  an  honour  she 
by  no  means  deserves.  We  ought,  when  we 
wish  to  be  economists  in  happiness — we 
ought,  in  the  first  place,  to  fix  the  standard 
of  our  own  character ; and  when,  on  full  ex- 
amination, we  know  where  we  stand,  and 
how  much  ground  we  occupy,  let  us  contend 
for  it  as  property  : and  those  who  seem  to 
doubt,  or  deny  us  what  is  justly  ours,  let  us 
either  pity  their  prejudices,  or  despise  their 
judgment.  I know,  my  dear,  you  will  say 
this  is  self  conceit;  but  I call  it  self-know- 
ledge. The  one  is  the  overweening  opinion 
of  a fool,  who  fancies  himself  to  be  what 
he  wishes  himself  to  be  thought ; the  other 
is  the  honest  justice  that  a man  of  sense, 
who  has  thoroughly  examined  the  subject, 
owes  to  himself.  Without  this  standard, 
this  column  in  our  own  mind,  we  are  per- 
petually at  the  mercy  of  the  petulance, 
the  mistakes,  the  prejudices,  nay,  the  very 
weakness  and  wickedness  of  our  fellow- 
creatures. 

I urge  this,  my  dear,  both  to  confirm  my- 
self in  the  doctrine  which,  I assure  you,  I 
sometimes  need;  and  because  I know  that 
this  causes  you  often  much  disquiet. — To 

return  to  Miss : she  is  most  certainly 

a worthy  soul,  and  equalled  by  very,  very 
few,  in  goodness  of  heart.  But  can  she 
boast  more  goodness  of  heart  than  Clarinda? 
Not  even  prejudice  will  dare  to  say  so. 
For  penetration  and  discernment,  Clarinda 

sees  far  beyond  her : to  wit,  Miss dare 

make  no  pretence ; to  Clarinda’s  wit.  scarcely 
any  of  her  sex  dare  make  pretence.  Per- 
sonal charms,  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  run 
the  parallel.  And  for  conduct  in  life,  Mis9 

was  never  called  out,  either  much 

to  do  or  to  sulfer ; Clarinda  has  been  both ; 
and  has  performed  her  part  where  Miss 
would  have  sunk  at  the  bare  idea. 

Away,  then,  with  these  disquietudes  ! Let 
us  pray  with  the  honest  weaver  of  Kilbar- 
chan — “ Lord,  send  us  a guid  conceit  o 


TO  MR. 

imrsel!'  Or,  in  the  words  of  the  auld 

Bang, 

u Who  do<  s me  disdain,  I can  scorn  them 
again, 

And  Fll  never  mind  any  such  foes.” 

There  is  an  error  in  the  commerce  of  in- 
timacy with  those  who  are  perpetually  taking 
what  they,  in  the  way  of  exchange,  have  not 
.n  equivalent  to  give  us;  and,  what  is  still 
worse,  we  have  no  idea  of  the  value  of  our 
goods.  Happy  is  our  lot,  indeed,  when  we 
meet  with  an  honest  merchant,  who  is 
qualified  to  deal  with  us  on  our  own  terms  ; 
but  that  is  a rarity.  With  almost  every 
body  we  must  pocket  our  pearls,  less  or 
more,  and  learn,  in  the  old  Scotch  phrase — 
“ To  gie  sic  like  as  we  get.”  For  this  rea- 
son, one  should  try  to  erect  a kind  of  bank 
or  store-house  in  one’s  own  mind ; or  as  the 
Psalmist  says,  “ We  should  commune  with 
our  own  hearts,  and  be  still.”  This  is  ex- 
actly ***** 
[ rest  wanting .] 


NO.  CXVII. 

TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Mauchline,  March  7th,  1788. 

I have  been  out  of  the  country,  my  dear 
friend,  and  have  not  had  an  opportunity  of 
writing  till  now,  when  I am  afraid  you  will 
be  gone  out  of  the  country  too.  I have 
been  looking  at  farms,  and,  after  all,  perhaps 
I may  settle  in  the  character  of  a farmer.  I 
have  got  so  vicious  a bent  to  idleness,  and 
have  ever  been  so  little  a man  of  business, 
that  it  will  take  no  ordinary  effort  to  bring 
my  mind  properly  into  the  routine;  but  you 
will  say  a “ great  effort  is  worthy  of  you.” 
I say  so  myself ; and  butter  up  my  vanity 
with  all  the  stimulating  compliments  I can 
think  of.  Men  of  grave,  geometrical  minds, — 
the  sons  of  “ which #was  to  be  demonstrated,” 
— may  cry  up  reason  as  much  as  they  please ; 
but  I have  always  found  an  honest  passion, 
or  native  instinct,  the  truest  auxiliary  in  the 
warfare  of  this  world.  Reason  almost  always 
Comes  to  me.  like  an  unlucky  wife  to  a poor 
devil  of  a husband,  just  in  sufficient  time  to 
add  her  reproaches  to  his  other  grievances. 

I am  gratified  with  your  hind  inquiries 
after  Jean;  as,  after  all,  I may  say  with 
Othello — 

* "Excellent  wretch \ 

Perdition  catch  my  soul,  but  I do  love  thee!” 

I go  for  Edinburgh  on  Monday. 

Yours,  R.  B. 


MUIR.  319 

NO.  CXVIII. 

TO  MR  MUIR. 

Mossgiel,  March  7i h 1788. 

Dear  Sir — I have  particularly  changed 
my  ideas,  since  I saw  you.  I took 
old  Glenconner  with  me  to  Mr.  Miller’s 
farm,  and  he  was  so  pleased  with  it,  that  I 
have  wrote  an  offer  to  Mr.  Miller,  which  if 
he  accepts,  I shall  sit  down  a plain  farmer, 
the  happiest  of  lives  when  a man  can  live  by 
it.  In  this  case,  I shall  not  stay  in  Edin- 
burgh above  a week.  I set  out  on  Monday, 
and  would  have  come  by  Kilmarnock,  but 
there  are  several  small  sums  owing  me  for 
my  first  edition  about  Galston  and  Newmills, 
and  I shall  set  off  so  early  as  to  dispatch  my 
business  and  reach  Glasgow  by  night.  When 
I return,  I shall  devote  a forenoon  or  two  to 
make  some  kind  of  acknowledgment  for  all 
the  kindness  I owe  your  friendship.  Now 
that  I hope  to  settle  with  some  credit  and 
comfort  at  home,  there  was  not  any  friend- 
ship or  friendly  correspondence  that  promised 
me  more  pleasure  than  yours  ; I hope  I will 
not  be  disappointed.  I trust  the  spring  will 
renew  your  shattered  frame,  and  make  your 
friends  happy.  You  and  I have  often  agreed 
that  life  is  no  great  blessing  on  the  whole. 
The  close  of  life,  indeed,  to  a reasoning 
age,  is 

Dark  as  was  chaos,  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roll’d  together,  or  had  tried  his  beami 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound. 

But  an  honest  man  has  nothing  to  fear. 
If  we  lie  down  in  the  grave,  the  whole  man 
a piece  of  broken  machinery,  to  moulder 
with  the  clods  of  the  valley,  be  it  so;  at 
least  there  is  an  end  of  pain,  care,  woes  and 
wants : if  that  part  of  us  called  mind  does 
survive  the  apparent  destruction  of  the  man 
— away  with  old- wife  prejudices  and  tales  l 
Every  age  and  every  nation  has  had  a 
different  set  of  stories ; and  as  the  many 
are  always  weak  of  consequence,  they  have 
often,  perhaps  always,  been  deceived : a man 
conscious  of  having  acted  an  honest  part 
among  his  fellow-creatures — even  granting 
that  he  may  have  been  the  sport  at  times  of 
passions  and  instincts — he  goes  to  a great 
unknown  Being,  who  could  have  no  other 
end  in  giving  him  existence  but  to  make 
him  happy,  who  gave  him  those  passions 
and  instincts,  and  well  knows  their  force. 

These,  my  worthy  friend,  are  my  ideas; 
and  I know  they  are  not  far  different  from 
yours.  It  becomes  a man  of  sense  to  think 
for  himself,  particularly  in  a case  where  all 


320 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


men  aTe  equally  interested,  and  where,  in- 
deed, all  men  are  equally  in  the  dark. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir;  God  send  us  a cheerful 
meeting: 1 R.  B. 


mo.  cxix.  (69) 

TO  CLARINDA. 

I own  myself  guilty,  Clarinda ; I should 
have  written  you  last  week  ; but  when  you 
recollect,  my  dearest  Madam,  that  your’s  of 
this  night’s  post  is  only  the  third  I have  got 
from  you,  and  that  this  is  the  fifth  or  sixth 
I have  sent  to  you,  you  will  not  reproach  me, 
with  a good  grace,  for  unkindness.  I have 
always  some  kind  of  idea,  not  to  sit  down 
to  write  a letter,  except  I have  time  and 
possession  of  my  faculties  so  as  to  do  some 
justice  to  my  letter;  which  at  present  is 
rarely  my  situation.  For  instance,  yester- 
day I dined  at  a friend’s  at  some  distance ; 
the  savage  hospitality  of  this  country  spent 
me  the  most  part  of  the  night  over  the 
nauseous  potion  in  the  bowl:  this  day — 
sick  — head  ache — low  spirited  — miserable 
- — lasting,  except  for  a draught  of  water  or 
small  beer : now  eight  o’clock  at  night — 
only  able  to  crawl  ten  minutes’  walk  into 
Mauchline  to  wait  the  post,  in  the  pleasure- 
able  hope  of  hearing  from  the  mistress  of 
my  soul. 

But,  a truce  to  all  this ! When  I sit 
down  to  write  to  you,  all  is  harmony  and 
peace.  An  hundred  times  a-day  do  I 
figure  you,  before  yofir  taper,  your  book  or 
work  laid  aside,  as  I get  within  the  room. 
How  happy  have  I been  ! and  how  little  of 
that  scantling  portion  of  time,  called  the 
life  of  man,  is  sacred  to  happiness ! I 
could  moralize  to-night  like  a death’s 
head : — 

“O  what  is  life,  that  thoughtless  wish  of 

all! 

A drop  of  honey  in  a draught  of  gall.” 

Nothing  astonishes  me  more,  when  a little 
sickness  clogs  the  wheels  of  life,  than  the 
thoughtless  career  we  run  in  the  hour  of 
health.  “None  saith,  where  is  God,  my 
Maker,  that  giveth  songs  in  the  night;  who 
teacheth  us  more  knowledge  than  the  beasts 
of  the  field,  and  more  understanding  than 
the  fowls  of  the  air.” 

Give  me,  my  Maker,  to  remember  thee ! 
Give  me  to  act  up  to  the  dignity  of  my 
nature  ! Give  me  to  feel  “ another’s  woe ; ” 
and  continue  with  me  that  dear-lov’d  friend 
that  feels  with  mine  l 


The  dignified  and  dignifying  conscious^ 
ness  of  an  honest  man,  and  the  welh 
grounded  trust  in  approving  Heaven,  are 
two  most  substantial  sources  of  happiness. 

$ 9 * * * 9 

Sylvander. 


NO.  CXX. 

TO  MISS . 

My  Dear  Countrywoman — I am  so 
impatient  to  show  you  that  I am  once  more 
at  peace  with  you,  that  I send  you  the  book 
I mentioned  directly,  rather  than  wait  the 
uncertain  time  of  my  seeing  you.  I am 
afraid  I have  mislaid  or  lost  Collins’s  Poems, 
which  I promised  to  Miss  Irvin.  If  I can 
find  them,  I will  forward  them  by  you ; if 
not,  you  must  apologise  for  me. 

I know  you  will  laugh  at  it  when  I tell 
you  that  your  piano  and  you  together  have 
played  the  deuce  somehow  about  my  heart. 
My  breast  has  been  widowed  these  many 
months,  and  I thought  myself  proof  against 
the  fascinating  witchcraft ; but  I am  afraid 
you  will  “feelingly  convince  me  what  I am.” 
I say,  I am  afraid,  because  I am  not  sure 
what  is  the  jnatter  with  me.  I have  one 
miserable  bad  symptom ; when  you  whisper, 
or  look  kindly  to  another,  it  gives  me  a 
draught  of  damnation.  I have  a kind  of 
wayward  wish  to  be  with  you  ten  minutes 
by  yourself,  though  what  I would  say. 
Heaven  above  knows,  for  I am  sure  I know 
net.  I have  no  formed  design  in  all  this, 
but  just,  in  the  nakedness  of  my  heart,  write 
you  down  a mere  matter-of-fact  story.  You 
may  perhaps  give  yourself  airs  of  distance 
on  this,  and  that  will  completely  cure  me ; 
but  I wish  you  would  not — just  let  us  meet, 
if  you  please,  in  the  old  beaten  way  of 
friendship. 

I will  not  subscribe  myself  your  humble 
servant,  for  that  is  a phrase,  I think,  at  least 
fifty  miles  off  from  the  heart;  but  I will 
conclude  with  sincerely  wishing  that  the 
Great  Protector  of  innocence  may  shield  you 
from  the  barbed  dart  of  calumny,  and  har  1 
yon  by  the  covert  snare  of  deceit.  R.  B. 


NO.  CXXI. 

TO  MISS  CHARMERS. 
Edinburgh,  March  14 th,  1783. 

T know,  my  ever  dear  friend,  that  you  v»  ill 
be  pleased  with  the  news  when  I tell  yo^  f 


TO  MR.  ROBERT  CLEGHORN. 


321 


* * * I have  at  last  taken  a lease  of  a farm. 
Yesternight  I completed  a bargain  with  Mr. 
Miller  of  Dalswinton  for  the  farm  of  Ellis- 
land,  on  the  banks  of  the  Nith,  between 
live  and  six  miles  above  Dumfries.  I begin 
at  Whitsunday  to  build  a house,  drive  lime, 
&c. ; and  Heaven  be  my  help  ! for  it  will 
take  a strong  effort  to  bring  my  mind  into 
the  routine  of  business.  I have  discharged 
all  the  army  of  my  former  pursuits,  fancies, 
and  pleasures — a motley  host  ! and  have 
literally  and  strictly  retained  only  the  ideas 
of  a few  friends  which  I have  incorporated 
into  a life-guard.  I trust  in  Dr.  Johnson’s 
observation,  “ Where  much  is  attempted, 
something  is  done.”  Firmness,  both  in 
suffering  and  exertion,  i3  a character  I would 
wish  to  be  thought  to  possess ; and  have 
always  despised  the  whining  yelp  of  com- 
plaint, and  the  cowardly,  feeble  resolve. 

Poor  Miss  K.  is  ailing  a good  deal  this 
winter,  and  begged  me  to  remember  her  to 
you  the  first  time  I wrote  to  you.  Surely 
woman,  amiable  woman,  is 'often  made  in 
vain.  Too  delicately  formed  for  the  rougher 
pursuits  of  ambition  ; too  noble  for  the  dirt 
of  avarice,  and  even  too  gentle  for  the  rage 
of  pleasure ; formed  indeed  for,  and  highly 
susceptible  of,  enjoyment  and  rapture ; but 
that  enjoyment,  alas  ! almost  wholly  at  the 
mercy  of  the  caprice,  malevolence,  stupidity, 
or  wickedness  of  an  animal  at  all  times  com- 
paratively unfeeling,  and  often  brutal. 

R.  B, 


NO.  CXXII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mossgiel,  March  17 th,  1788. 

Madam — The  last  paragraph  in  yours  of 
the  30th  February  affected  me  most,  so  I 
shall  begin  my  answer  where  you  ended 
your  letter.  That  I am  often  a sinner,  with 
any  little  wit  I have,  1 do  confess : but  I 
have  taxed  my  recollection  to  no  purpose, 
to  find  out  when  it  was  employed  against 
you.  I hate  an  ungenerous  sarcasm  a great 
deal  worse  than  I do  the  devil,  at  least  as 
Milton  describes  him  ; and  though  I may  be 
rascally  enough  to  be  sometimes  guilty  of  it 
myself,  I cannot  endure  it  in  others.  You, 
my  honoured  friend,  who  cannot  appear  in 
any  light  but  you  are  sure  of  being  respect- 
able— you  can  afford  to  pass  by  an  occasion 
to  display  your  wit,  because  you  may  de- 
pend for  fame  on  your  sense;  or,  if  you 
choost  to  be  silent,  you  know  you  can  rely 
vn  the  gratitude  of  maay,  and  the  esteem 
v 


cf  all ; but  God  help  us,  who  are  wits  or 
witlings  by  profession,  if  we  stand  not  for 
fame  there,  we  sink  unsupported  1 

I am  highly  flattered  by  the  news  you  tell 
me  of  Coda.  I may  say  to  the  fair  painter  who 
does  me  so  much  honour,  as  Dr.  Beattie 
says  to  Ros3,  the  poet  of  his  muse  Scota, 
from  which,  by  the  bye,  I took  the  idea  of 
Coda  (’tis  a poem  of  Beattie’s  in  the  Scot- 
tish dialect,  which  perhaps  you  have  never 
seen) : — 

Ye  shak  your  head,  but  o’  my  fegs, 

YVve  set  auld  Scota  on  her  legs  : 

Lang  hid  she  lien  wi’  beffs  and  flegs, 
Bumbaz’d  and  dizzie. 

Her  fiddle  wanted  strings  and  pegs, 
Wae’s  me,  poor  hizzie. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CXXIII. 

TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Glasgow , March  26th,  1738. 

I am  monstrously  to  blame,  my  dear  Sir, 
in  not  writing  to  you,  and  sending  you  the 
Directory.  I have  been  getting  my  tack 
extended,  as  I have  taken  a farm,  and  I have 
been  racking  shop  accounts  with  Mr. 
Creech  ; both  of  which,  together  with  watch" 
ing,  fatigue,  and  a load  of  care  almost  too 
heavy  for  my  shoulders,  have  in  some  de- 
gree actually  fevered  me.  1 really  forgot 
the  Directory  yesterday,  which  vexed  me; 
but  I wa3  convulsed  with  rage  a great  part 
of  the  day.  I have  to  thank  you  for  the 
ingenious,  friendly  and  elegant  epistle  from 
your  friend  Mr.  Crawford.  I shall  certainly 
write  to  him,  but  not  now.  This  is  merely 
a card  to  you,  as  I am  posting  to  Dumfries- 
shire, where  many  perplexing  arrangements 
await  me.  I am  vexed  about  the  Directory ; 
but,  my  dear  Sir,  forgive  me  : these  eight 
days  I have  been  positively  crazed.  My 
compliments  to  Mrs.  B.  I shall  tvrite  to 
you  at  Grenada.  I am  eve?,  my  dearest 
friend,  yours,  R.  B 


NO.  CXXIY. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline,  March  1788. 
Yesterday,  my  dear  Sir,  as  I was  riding 
through  a tract  of  melancholy,  joyless  i iuirs, 
between  Galloway  and  Ayrshire,  it  be  vug 


22 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


Sunday,  I turned  my  thoughts  to  psalm9, 
and  hymns,  and  spiritual  songs ; and  your 
favourite  air,  “ Captain  O’Kean,”  coming  at 
length  into  my  head,  I tried  these  words  to 
it.  (70)  You  will  see  that  the  first  part  of 
the  tune  must  be  repeated. 

I am  tolerably  pleased  with  these  verses, 
but  as  I have  only  a sketch  of  the  tune,  I ' 
leave  it  with  you  to  try  if  they  suit  the 
measure  of  the  music. 

I am  so  harassed  with  care  and  anxiety, 
about  this  farming  project  of  mine,  that  my 
muse  has  degenerated  into  the  veriest  prose- 
wench  that  ever  picked  cinders,  or  followed 
a tinker.  When  I am  fairly  got  into  the 
routine  of  business,  I shall  trouble  you  with 
a longer  epistle ; perhaps  with  some  queries 
respecting  farming : at  present,  the  world 
sets  such  a load  on  my  mind  that  it  has 
effaced  almost  every  trace  of  the  poet  in 
me. 

My  very  best  compliments  and  good 
wishes  to  Mrs.  Cleghorn.  R.  B. 


IfO.  CXXY. 

TO  MISS  CHALMERS. 

Mauchline,  April  7th,  1788. 

I am  indebted  to  you  and  Miss  Nimmo 
for  letting  me  know  Miss  Kennedy.  Strange! 
how  apt  we  are  to  indulge  prejudices  in  our 
judgments  of  one  another ! Even  I,  who 
pique  my  skill  in  marking  characters — be- 
cause I am  too  proud  of  my  character  as  a 
man  to  be  dazzled  in  my  judgment  for 
glaring  wealth,  and  too  proud  of  my  situa- 
tion as  a poor  man  to  be  biassed  against 
squalid  poverty — I was  unacquainted  with 
Miss  K.’s  very  uncommon  worth. 

I am  going  on  a good  deal  progressive  in 
mon  grand  but , the  sober  science  of  life.  I 
have  lately  made  some  sacrifices,  for  which, 
were  I viva  voce  with  you  to  paint  the  situa- 
tion and  recount  the  circumstances  (71),  you 
would  applaud  me.  R.  B. 


wo.  cxxvi. 

TO  MR.  WILLAM  DUNBAR* 

EDINBURGH. 

Mauchline,  April  7th,  1788. 

I have  not  delayed  so  long  to  write  you. 
much  respected  friend,  because  I thought 


no  farther  of  my  promise.  I have  long  sue# 
given  up  that  kind  of  formal  correspondence, 
where  one  sits  down  irksomely  to  wiite  a 
^letter,  because  we  think  we  are  in  duty 
bound  so  to  do. 

I have  been  roving  over  the  country,  aa 
the  farm  I have  taken  is  forty  miles  from  this 
place,  hiring  servants  and  preparing  matters ; 
but  most  of  all,  lam  earnestly  busy  to  bring 
about  a revolution  in  my  own  mind.  As, 
till  within  these  eighteen  months,  I never 
was  the  wealthy  master  of  ten  guineas,  my 
knowledge  of  business  is  to  learn ; add  to 
this,  my  late  scenes  of  idleness  and  dissipa- 
tion have  enervated  my  mind  to  an  alarming 
degree.  Skill  in  the  sober  science  of  life  is 
my  most  serious  and  hourly  study.  I 
have  dropped  all  conversation  and  all  reading 
(prose  reading)  but  what  tends  in  some  way 
or  other  to  my  serious  aim.  Except  on® 
worthy  young  fellow,  I have  not  one  single 
correspondent  in  Edinburgh.  You  have 
indeed  kindly  made  me  an  offer  of  that  kind. 
The  world  of  wits,  and  gens  comme  il  faut 
which  I lately  left,  and  with  whom  I never 
again  will  intimately  mix — from  that  port. 
Sir,  I expect  your  Gazette : what  les  beaux 
esprit s are  saying,  what  they  are  doing,  and 
what  they  are  singing.  Any  sober  intelli- 
gence from  my  sequestered  walks  of  life; 
any  droll  original ; any  passing  remark, 
important  forsooth,  because  it  is  mine ; any 
little  poetic  effort,  however  embroyth ; these, 
my  dear  Sir,  are  all  you  have  to  expect  from 
me.  When  I talk  of  poetic  efforts,  I must 
have  it  always  understood,  that  I appeal 
from  your  wit  and  taste  to  your  friendship 
and  good  nature.  The  first  would  be  my 
favourite  tribunal,  where  I defied  censure; 
but  the  last,  where  I declined  justice. 

I have  scarcely  made  a single  distich  since 
I saw  you.  When  I meet  with  an  old  Scots 
air  that  has  any  facetious  idea  in  its  name,  I 
have  a peculiar  pleasure  in  following  out 
that  idea  for  a verse  or  two. 

I trust  that  this  will  find  you  in  better 
health  than  I did  last  time  I called  for  you. 
A few  lines  from  you,  directed  to  me. at 
Mauchline,  were  it  but  to  let  me  know  how 
you  are,  will  set  my  mind  a good  deal  at 
peace.  Now,  never  shun  the  idea  of  writing 
me,  because  perhaps  you  may  be  - out  of 
humour  or  spirits.  I could  give  you  a hun- 
dred good  consequences  attending  a dull 
letter ; one,  for  example,  and  the  remaining 
ninety-nine  some  other  time — it  will  always 
serve  to  keep  in  countenance,  my  much  r®« 
spected  Sir,  your  obliged  friend  and  humbla 
servant* 


r.  a 


TO  MR.  JAMES  SMITH.  323 


NO.  CXXVIf. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mauchline,  April  28th,  1788. 

Madam — Your  powers  of  reprehension 
must  be  great  indeed,  as  I assure  you  they 
made  my  heart  ache  with  penitential  pangs, 
even  though  1 was  really  not  guilty.  As  I 
commence  farmer  at  Whitsunday,  you  will 
easily  guess  I must  be  pretty  busy;  but  that 
is  not  all.  As  I got  the  offer  of  the  Excise 
business  without  solicitation,  and  as  it  costs 
me  only  six  months’  attendance  for  instruc- 
tions, to  entitle  me  to  a commission — which 
commission  lies  by  me,  and  at  any  future 
period,  on  my  simple  petition, can  be  resumed; 

I thought  five-and  thirty  pounds  a-year  was 
no  bad  dernier  resort  for  a poor  poet,  if  for- 
tune in  her  jade  tricks  should  kick  him  down 
from  the  little  eminence  to  which  she  has 
lately  helped  him  up. 

For  this  reason,  I am  at  present  attending 
these  instructions,  to  have  them  completed 
before  Whitsunday.  Still,  Madam,  I prepared 
with  the  sincerest  pleasure  to  meet  you  at 
the  Mount,  and  came  to  my  brother's  on 
Saturday  night,  to  set  out  on  Sunday  ; but 
for  some  nights  preceding  I had  slept  in  an 
apartment,  where  the  force  of  the  winds  and 
rains  was  only  mitigated  by  being  sifted 
through  numberless  apertures  in  the  windows, 
walls,  &c.  In  consequence  I was  on  Sunday, 
Monday,  and  part  of  Tuesday,  unable  to  stir 
out  of  bed,  with  all  the  miserable  effects  of  a 
violent  cold. 

You  see,  Madam,  the  truth  of  the  French 
maxim  le  vrai  n’est  pas  toujours  le  vraisem- 
blable.  Your  last  was  so  full  of  expostula- 
tion and  was  something  so  like  the  language 
of  an  offended  friend,  that  I began  to  | 
tremble  for  a correspondence,  vrhich  I had 
with  grateful  pleasure  set  down  as  one  of  the 
greatest  enjoyments  of  my  future  life. 

Your  books  have  delighted  me,  Virgil, 
Dryden  and  Tasso,  were  all  equally  strangers 
to  me;  but  of  this  more  at  large  in  my 
next.  R,  B. 


N&.  CXXVIII. 

TO  MR  JAMES  SMITH. 

AVON  RRIN  TFIELD,  LINLITHGOW. 

Mauchline,  April  28tli,  1788. 

Beware  of  your  Strasburgli,  my  good 
ftii  1 Look  on  this  as  the  opening  of  a 


correspondence,  like  the  opei  ling  of  a twenty- 
four  gun  battery ! 

There  is  no  understanding  a man  properly, 
without  knowing  something  of  his  previous 
ideas — that  is  to  say,  if  the  man  has  any 
ideas ; for  I know  many  who,  in  the  animal- 
muster,  pass  for  men,  that  are  the  scanty 
masters  of  only  one  idea  on  any  given  sub- 
ject, and  by  far  the  greatest  part  of  your 
acquaintances  and  mine  can  barely  boast  of 
ideas,  T25 — 15 — 1‘75  (or  some  such  frac- 
tional matter) ; so  to  let  you  a little  into  the 
secrets  of  my  pericranium,  there  is,  you 
must  know,  a certain  clean-limbed,  handsome, 
bewitching  young  huzzy  of  your  acquaint- 
ance, to  whom  I have  lately  and  privately 
given  a matrimonial  title  to  my  corpus. 

Bode  a robe  and  wear  it. 

Bode  a pock  and  bear  it, 

says  the  wise  old  Scots  adage  ! I hate  to 
presage  ill-luck;  and  as  my  girl  has  been 
doubly  kinder  to  me  than  even  the  best  of 
women  usually  are  to  their  partners  of  our 
sex,  in  similar  circumstances,  I reckon  on 
twelve  times  a brace  of  children  against  I 
celebrate  my  twelfth  wedding  day : these 
twenty-four  will  give  me  twenty-four  gossip- 
pings,  twenty-four  christenings  (I  mean  one 
equal  to  two),  and  I hope,  by  the  blessing  of 
the  God  of  my  fathers,  to  make  them  twenty, 
four  dutiful  children  to  their  parents,  twenty* 
four  useful  members  of  society,  and  twenf  ,w 
four  approved  servants  of  their  God ! * * + 

“ Light’s  heartsome,”  quo’  the  wife  w)  m 
she  was  stealing  sheep.  You  see  wh 9 a 
lamp  1 have  hung  up  to  lighten  your  pa 
when  you  are  idle  enough  to  explore  ho 
combinations  and  relations  of  my  if  :as. 
’Tis  now  as  plain  as  a pike-staff  w]  y a 
twenty-four  gun  battery  was  a metaph  r I 
could  readily  employ. 

Now  for  business.  I intend  to  pr<  lent 
Mrs.  Burns  with  a printed  shawl,  an  ar  dele 
of  which  1 dare  say  you  have  variety : ’tis 
my  first  present  to  her  since  I have  in  evo- 
cably  called  her  mine,  and  I have  a kL.d  of 
whimsical  wish  to  get  her  the  first  said 
present  from  an  old  and  much  valued  friend 
of  hers  and  mine,  a trusty  Trojan,  on  v/hose 
friendship  I count  myself  possessed  oC  a3  a 
life-rent  lease. 

Look  on  this  letter  as  a “ beginning  of 
sorrows ;”  I will  write  you  till  youi  cyea 
ache  reading  nonsense. 

Mrs.  Burns  (’tis  only  her  private  desig* 
nation)  begs  her  best  compliments  tc  y >u. 

K B, 


29 


524 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


NO.  CXXIX. 

TO  PROCESSOR  DUGALD  STEWART. 

Maitchline,  May  3rd , 1788. 

Sir — I enclose  you  one  or  two  more  of 
my  bagatelles.  If  the  fervent  wishes  of 
honest  gratitude  have  any  influence  with 
that  great,  unknown  Being  who  frames  the 
chain  of  causes  and  events,  prosperity  and 
happiness  will  attend  your  visit  to  the  con- 
tinent, and  return  you  safe  to  your  native 
shore. 

Wherever  I am,  allow  me.  Sir,  to  claim  it 
6s  my  privilege  to  acquaint  you  with  my 
progress  in  my  trade  of  rhymes;  as  I am 
sure  I could  say  it  with  truth,  that,  next  to 
my  little  fame,  and  the  having  it  in  my  power 
to  make  life  more  comfortable  to  those  whom 
nature  has  made  dear  to  me,  I shall  ever 
regard  your  countenance,  your  patronage, 
your  friendly  good  offices,  as  the  most  valued 
consequence  of  my  late  success  in  life. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CXXX. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mauchline,  May  4th,  1788. 

Madam — Dry  den’s  Virgil  has  delighted 
me.  I do  not  know  whether  the  critics  will 
agree  with  me,  but  the  Georgies  are  to  me 
by  far  the  best  of  Virgil.  It  i3  indeed  a 
species  of  writing  entirely  new  to  me,  and 
has  tilled  my  head  with  a thousand  fancies 
of  emulation  : but,  alas  ! when  I read  the 
Georgies,  and  then  survey  my  own  powers, 
*tis  like  the  idea  of  a Shetland  pony,  drawn 
up  by  the  side  of  a thorough-bred  hunter,  to 
start  for  the  plate.  I own  I am  disappointed 
in  the  Hineid.  Faultless  correctness  may 
please,  and  does  highly  please  the  lettered 
critic:  but  to  that  awful  character  I have 
not  the  most  distant  pretensions.  I do  not 
know  whether  I do  not  hazard  my  preten- 
sions to  be  a critic  of  any  kind,  when  I say 
that  I think  Virgil,  in  many  instances,  a 
servile  copier  of  Homer.  If  I had  the 
Odyssey  by  me,  I could  parallel  many  pas- 
sages where  Virgil  has  evidently  copied,  but 
by  no  means  improved,  Homer.  Nor  can  I 
think  there  is  anything  of  this  owing  to  the 
translators;  for,  from  everything  I have  seen 
of  Dryden,  I think  him,  in  genius  and  fluency 
of  language.  Pope’s  master.  I have  not 
perused  Tasso  enough  to  form  an  opinion — 
m soiae  future  letter  ybu  shall  have  my  ideas 


of  him;  though  I am  conscious  my  criti- 
cisms must  be  very  inaccurate  and  imperfect, 
as  there  I have  ever  felt  and  lamented  my 
want  of  learning  most.  R.  B. 


NO.  CXXXI. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

Mauchline,  May  2 6th,  1783. 

My  dear  Friend— I am  two  kind  letter* 
in  your  debt ; but  I have  been  from  home, 
and  horridly  busy,  buying  and  preparing  for 
my  farming  business,  over  and  above  the 
plague  of  my  Excise  instructions,  which  this 
week  will  finish. 

As  I flatter  my  wishes  that  I foresee  many 
future  years'  correspondence:  between  ns, 
,tis  foolish  to  talk  of  excusing  dull  epistles ; 
a dull  letter  may  be  a very  kind  one.  I have 
the  pleasure  to  tell  you  that  I have  been 
extremely  fortunate  in  all  my  buyings  and 
bargainings  hitherto — Mrs.  Burns  not  ex- 
cepted; which  title  I now  avow  to  the 
world.  I am  truly  pleased  with  this  last 
affair ; it  has  indeed  added  to  my  anxieties 
for  futurity,  but  it  has  given  a stability  to 
my  mind  and  resolutions  unknown  before ; 
and  the  poor  girl  has  the  most  sacred  en- 
thusiasm of  attachment  to  me,  and  has  not 
a wish  but  to  gratify  my  every  idea  of  her 
deportment.  I am  interrupted. — Farewell ! 
my  dear  Sir,  R.  B. 


NO.  CXXXII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

May  27th , 1788. 

Madam — I have  been  torturing  my  plii«. 
losophy  to  no  purpose,  to  account  for  that 
kind  partiality  of  yours,  which  has  followed 
me,  in  my  return  to  the  shade  of  life,  with 
assiduous  benevolence.  Often  did  I regret, 
in  the  fleeting  hours  of  my  late  will-o’-wisp 
appearance,  that  “ here  I had  no  continuing 
city ;”  and,  but  for  the  consolation  of  a few 
solid  guineas,  could  almost  lament  the  time 
that  a momentary  acquaintance  with  wealth 
and  splendour  put  me  so  much  out  of  con- 
ceit with  the  3worn  companions  of  my  road 
through  life — insignificance  and  poverty. 

There  are  few  circumstances  relating  to 
the  unequal  distribution  of  the  good  thing* 
of  this  life  that  give  n&  more  vexation  (J. 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


32S 


mean  In  what  I see  around  me)  than  the  im- 
portance the  opulent  bestow  on  their  trifling 
family  affairs,  compared  with  the  very  same 
things  on  the  contracted  scale  of  a cottage. 
Last  afternoon  I had  the  honour  to  spend  an 
hour  or  two  at  a good  woman's  fire-side, 
where  the  planks  that  composed  the  floor 
were  decorated  with  a splendid  carpet,  and 
the  gay  table  sparkled  with  silver  and  china. 
*Tis  now  about  term-day,  and  there  has  been 
a revolution  among  those  creatures,  who, 
though  in  appearance  partakers,  and  equally 
noble  partakers,  of  the  same  nature  with 
Madame,  are  from  time  to  time — their 
nerves,  their  sinews,  their  health,  strength, 
wisdom,  experience,  genius,  time,  nay  a good 
part  of  their  very  thoughts — sold  for  months 
and  years,  not  only  to  the  necessities,  the 
conveniences,  but  the  caprices,  of  the  im- 
portant few.  We  talked  of  the  insignificant 
creatures ; nay,  notwithstanding  their  general 
stupidity  and  rascality,  did  some  of  the  poor 
devils  the  honour  to  commend  them.  But 
light  be  the  turf  upon  his  breast  who 
taught,  “ Reverence  thyself.”  We  looked 
down  on  the  unpolished  wretches,  their  im- 
pertinent wives  and  clouterly  brats,  as  the 
lordly  bull  does  on  the  little  dirty  ant-hill, 
whose  puny  inhabitants  he  crushes  in  the 
carelessness  of  his  ramble,  or  tosses  in  the 
air  in  the  wantonness  of  his  pride. 

R.  B. 


KO.  CXXXIII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Ellisland,  June  13  th,  1783. 

Where’er  I roam,  whatever  realms  I see. 

My  heart,  untravell’d,  fondly  turns  to  thee ; 
Still  to  my  friend  it  turns  with  ceaseless 
pain,  [chain. 

And  drags,  at  each  remove,  a lengthen’d 
Goldsmith. 

This  is  the  second  day,  my  honoured 
friend,  that  I have  been  on  my  farm.  A 
solitary  inmate  of  an  old,  smoky  spence ; 
far  from  every  object  I love,  or  by  whom  I 
am  beloved;  not  any  acquaintance  older 
than  yesterday,  except  Jenny  Geddes,  the 
old  mare  I ride  on ; while  uncouth  cares  and 
novel  plaus  hourly  insult  my  awkward  igno- 
rance and  bashful  inexperience.  There  is  a 
foggy  atmosphere  native  to  my  soul  in  the 
hour  of  care,  consequently  the  dreary  ob- 
jects seem  larger  then  the  life.  Extreme 


sensibility,  irritated  and  prejudiced  on  the 
gloomy  side  by  a series  of  misfortunes  and 
disappointments,  at  that  period  of  my  exist- 
ence when  the  soul  is  laying  in  her  cargo 
of  ideas  for  the  voyage  of  life,  is,  I believe, 
the  principal  cause  of  this  unhappy  frame  of 
mind. 

The  valiant  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer  ? 
Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes  ? 

&c. 

Your  surmise.  Madam,  is  just ; I am  in- 
deed a husband'. 

* * • * • o 

To  jealousy  or  infidelity  I am  an  equal 
stranger  My  preservative  from  the  first  is 
the  most  thorough  consciousness  of  her 
sentiments  of  honour,  and  her  attachment 
to  me:  my  antidote  against  the  last  is 

my  long  and  deep-rooted  affection  for 
her. 

In  housewife  matters,  of  aptness  to  learn 
and  activity  to  execute,  she  is  eminently 
mistress : and  during  my  absence  in  Niths- 
dale,  she  is  regularly  and  constantly  ap- 
prentice to  my  mother  and  sisters  in  their 
dairy  and  other  rural  business. 

The  muses  must  not  be  offended  when  I 
tell  them,  the  concerns  of  my  wife  and  family 
will,  in  my  mind,  always  take  the  pas ; but  I 
assure  them  their  ladyships  will  ever  come 
next  in  place. 

You  are  right  that  a bachelor  state  would 
have  insured  me  more  friends ; but,  from  a 
cause  you  will  easily  guess,  conscious  peace 
in  the  enjoyment  of  my  own  mind,  and 
unmistrusting  confidence  in  approaching 
my  God,  would  seldom  have  been  of  the 
number. 

I found  a once  much-loved  and  still 
much-loved  female,  literally  and  truly  cast 
out  to  the  mercy  of  the  naked  elements  ; but 
I enabled  her  to  purchase  a shelter — there  is 
no  sporting  with  a fellow-creature’s  happi- 
ness or  misery. 

The  most  placid  good-nature ' and  sweet- 
ness of  disposition ; a warm  heart,  gratefully 
devoted  with  all  its  powers  to  love  me; 
vigorous  health  and  sprightly  cheerfulness, 
set  off  to  the  best  advantage  by  a more 
than  commonly  handsome  figure ; these,  £ 
think,  in  a woman,  may  make  a good  wife, 
though  she  should  never  have  read  a page 
but  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testament,  nor  have  danced  in  a brighter 
assembly  than  a penny  pay  wedding. 

R.  B. 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


WO.  CXXXIV. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AIN SITE. 

Ellisland,  June  14 th,  1788. 

This  is  now  the  third  day,  my  dearest 
Sir,  that  I have  sojourned  in  these  regions ; 
and  during  these  three  days  you  have  occu- 
pied more  of  my  thoughts  than  in  three 
weeks  preceding : in  Ayrshire  I have  several 
variations  of  friendship’s  compass,  here  it 
points  invariably  to  the  pole.  My  farm  gives 
me  a good  many  uncouth  cares  and  anxieties, 
but  1 hate  the  language  si  complaint.  Job, 
or  some  one  of  his  friends,  says  well — “ Why 
should  a living  man  complain  ? ” 

I have  lately  been  much  mortified  with 
contemplating  an  unlucky  imperfection  in 
the  very  framing  and  construction  of  my 
soul;  namely,  a blundering  inaccuracy  of 
her  olfactory  organs  in  hitting  the  scent  of 
craft  or  design  in  my  fellow-creatures.  I do 
not  mean  any  compliment  to  my  ingenuous- 
ness, or  to  hint  that  the  defect  is  in  con- 
sequence of  the  unsuspicious  simplicity  of 
conscious  truth  and  honour : I take  it  to  be, 
in  some  way  or  other,  an  imperfection  in  the 
mental  sight;  or,  metaphor  apart,  some 
modification  of  dullness.  In  two  or  three 
instances  lately,  I have  been  most  shamefully 
out. 

I have  all  along,  hitherto,  in  the  warfare 
of  life,  been  bred  to  arms  among  the  light- 
horse — the  piquet-guards  of  fancy — a kind 
of  hussars  and  Highlanders  of  the  brain  ; 
but  I am  firmly  resolved  to  sell  out  of  these 
giddy  battallions,  who  have  no  ideas  of  a 
battle  but  fighting  the  foe,  or  of  a siege  but 
storming  the  town.  Cost  what  it  will,  I am 
determined  to  buy  in  among  the  grave 
squadrons  of  heavy-armed  thought,  or  the 
artillery  corps  of  plodding  contrivance. 

What  books  are  you  reading,  or  what  is 
the  subject  of  your  thoughts,  besides  the 
great  studies  of  your  profession?  You  said 
something  about  religion  in  your  last.  I 
don’t  exactly  remember  what  it  was,  as  the 
letter  is  in  Ayrshire ; but  I thought  it  not 
only  prettily  said,  but  nobly  thought.  You 
will  make  a noble  fellow  if  once  you  were 
married.  I make  no  reservation  of  your 
being  well  married  : you  have  so  much  sense 
and  knowledge  of  human  nature,  that 
though  you  may  not  realise,  perhaps,  the 
ideas  of  romance,  yet  you  will  never  be  ill 
married. 

W *re  it  not  fo : the  terrors  of  my  ticklish 
situation  respecting  provision  for  a family  of 
children,  I am  decidedly  of  opinion  that  the 
>*♦«!)  T have  taken  is  vastly  for  my  happi- 


ness. (72)  As  it  is,  I lock  to  the  Excise 
scheme  as  a certaVaiy  of  maintenance;  a 
maintenance! — luxury  to  what  either  Mrs. 
Burns  or  I were  bom  to.  Adieu ! 

R.  B. 


wo.  cxxxv. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Mauchline,  June  23rd , 1788. 

This  letter,  my  dear  Sir,  is  only  a busi- 
ness scrap.  Mr.  Miers,  profile  painter  in 
your  town,  has  executed  a profile  of  Dr. 
Blacklock  for  me  ; do  me  the  favour  to  call 
for  it,  and  sit  to  him  yourself  for  me,  which 
put  in  the  same  size  as  the  doctor’s.  The 
account  of  both  profiles  will  be  fifteen 
shillings,  which  I have  given  to  James 
Connel,  our  Mauchline  carrier,  to  pay  you 
when  you  give  him  the  parcel.  You  must 
not,  my  friend,  refuse  to  sit.  The  time  is 
short ; when  I sat  to  Mr.  Miers,  I am  sure 
he  did  not  exceed  two  minutes.  I propose 
hanging  Lord  Glencairn,  the  doctor,  and 
you,  in  trio  over  my  new  chimney-piece  that 
is  to  be.  Adieu.  R.  B. 


NO.  CXXXVI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Ellisland , June  30 th,  1788. 

My  Dear  Sir — I just  now  received  youi 
brief  epistle ; and,  to  take  vengeance  on 
your  laziness,  I have,  you  see,  taken  a long 
sheet  of  writing-paper,  and  have  begun  at 
the  top  of  the  page,  intending  to  scribble  on 
to  the  very  last  corner. 

I am  vexed  at  that  affair  of  the  * * * 

but  dare  not  enlarge  on  the  subject  unti 
you  send  me  your  direction,  as  I suppose 
that  will  be  altered  on  your  late  master  and 
friend’s  death.  (73)  I am  concerned  for  the 
old  fellow’s  exit,  only  as  I fear  it  may  be  to 
your  disadvantage  in  any  respect — for  an  old 
man’s  dying,  except  he  have  been  a very 
benevolent  character,  or  in  some  particular 
situation  of  life  that  the  welfare  of  the  poor 
or  the  helpless  depended  on  him,  I think  it 
an  event  of  the  most  trifling  moment  to  the 
world.  Man  is  naturally  a kind,  benevolent 
animal,  but  he  is  dropped  into  such  a needy 
situation  here  in  this  vexatious  world,  and 
has  such  a whore-son,  hungry,  growling, 
multiplying  pack  of  necessities,  appetites, 
passions  and  desires  about  him,  ready  ta 
devour  him  for  want  of  other  food,  that  it 


TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 


327 


fact  lie  must  lay  aside  his  jares  for  others 
that  he  may  look  properly  to  himself.  You 
have  been  imposed  upon  in  paying  Mr. 
Miers  for  the  profile  of  a Mr.  H.  I did  not 
mention  it  in  my  letter  to  you,  nor  did  I 
ever  give  Mr.  Miers  any  such  order.  I have 
no  objection  to  lose  the  money,  but  I will 
not  have  any  such  profile  in  my  possession. 

I desired  the  carrier  to  pay  you,  but  as  I 
mentioned  only  fifteen  shillings  to  him,  I will 
rather  enclose  you  a guinea-note.  I have  it 
not,  indeed,  to  spare  here,  as  I am  only  a so- 
journer in  a strange  land  in  this  place  ; but 
in  a day  or  two  I return  to  Mauchline,  and 
there  I have  the  bank-notes  through  the 
house  like  salt  permits. 

There  is  a great  degree  of  folly  in  talking 
unnecessarily  of  one’s  private  affairs.  I have 
just  now  been  interrupted  by  one  of  my  new 
neighbours,  who  has  made  himself  absolutely 
contemptible  in  my  eyes  by  his  silly,  garru- 
lous pruriency.  I know  it  has  been  a fault 
of  my  own,  too ; but  from  this  moment  I 
abjure  it  as  I would  the  service  of  hell! 
Your  poets,  spendthrifts,  and  other  fools  of 
that  kidney,  pretend,  forsooth,  to  crack 
their  jokes  on  prudence ; but  ’tis  a squalid 
vagabond  glorying  in  his  rags.  Still,  im- 
prudence respecting  money  matters  is  much 
more  pardonable  than  imprudence  respecting 
character.  I have  no  objection  to  prefer 
prodigality  to  avarice,  in  some  few  instances; 
but  I appeal  to  your  observation  if  you  have 
not  met,  with  the  same  disingenuousness, 
the  same  hollow-hearted  insincerity,  and  dis- 
integritive  depravity  of  principle,  in  the 
hackneyed  victims  of  profusion,  as  in  the 
unfeeling  children  of  parsimony.  I have 
every  possible  reverence  for  the  much-talked- 
of  world  beyond  the  grave,  and  I wish  that 
which  piety  believes,  and  virtue  deserves, 
may  be  all  matter-of-fact.  But  in  things 
belonging  to  and  terminating  in  this  present 
scene  of  existence,  man  has  serious  and 
interesting  business  on  hand.  Whether  a 
man  shall  shake  hands  with  welcome  in  the 
distinguished  elevation  of  respect,  or  shrink 
from  contempt  in  the  abject  corner  of  in- 
significance : whether  he  shall  wanton  under 
the  tropic  of  plenty,  at  least  enjoy  himself 
in  the  comfortable  latitudes  of  easy  conve- 
nience, or  starve  in  the  arctic  circle  of  dreary 
poverty ; whether  he  shall  rise  in  the  manly 
consciousness  of  self-approving  mind,  or 
sink  beneath  a galling  load  of  regret  and 
remorse — these  are  alternatives  of  the  last 
moment. 

You  see  how  I preach.  You  used  occa- 
sionally to  sermonise  too;  I wish  you 
▼oull,  in  charity,  favour  me  with  a sheet 


full  in  your  own  way.  I admire  the  close 
of  a letter  Lord  Bolingbioke  writes  to  Dean 
Swift: — "Adieu,  dear  Swift!  with  all  thy 
faults  I love  thee  entirely ; make  an  effort  to 
love  me  with  all  mine!”  Humble  servant, 
and  all  that  trumpery,  is  now  such  a pros- 
tituted business,  that  honest  friendship, 
in  her  sincere  way,  must  have  recourse 
to  her  primitive,  simple,  farewell ! 

E.  B, 


NO.  CXXXVII. 

TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

My  Dear  Hill — I shall  say  nothing 
to  your  mad  present.  (74)  You  have  so 
long  and  often  been  of  important  service  to 
me,  and  I suppose  you  mean  to  go  on  con- 
ferring obligations  until  I shall  not  be  able 
to  lift  up  my  face  before  you.  In  the  mean- 
time, as  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  because  it 
happened  to  be  a cold  day  in  which  he  made 
his  will,  ordered  his  servants  great-coats  for 
mourning,  so,  because  I have  been  this 
week  plagued  with  an  indigestion,  I have 
sent  you  by  the  carrier  a fine  old  ewe-milk 
cheese. 

Indigestion  is  the  devil ; nay,  ’tis  the  devil 
and  all.  It  besets  a man  in  every  one  of 
his  senses.  I lose  my  appetite  at  the  sight 
of  successful  knavery,  and  sicken  to  loathing 
at  the  noise  and  noneense  of  self-important 
folly.  When  the  hollow-hearted  wretch 
takes  me  by  the  hand,  the  feeling  spoils  my 
dinner;  the  proud  man’s  wine  so  offends 
my  palate,  that  it  chokes  me  in  the  gullet ; 
and  the  pulverised,  feathered,  pert  coxcomb, 
is  so  disgustful  in  my  nostril,  that  my  sto- 
mach turns. 

If  ever  you  have  any  of  these  disagreeable 
sensations,  let  me  prescribe  for  you  patience 
and  a bit  of  my  cheese.  I know  that  you 
are  no  niggard  of  your  good  things  among 
your  friends,  and  some  of  them  are  in  much 
need  of  a slice.  There,  in  my  eye,  is  our 
friend  Smellie ; a man  positively  of  the  first 
abilities  and  greatest  strength  of  mind,  as 
well  as  one  of  the  best  hearts  and  keenest 
wits  that  I ever  met  with ; when  you  see 
him — as,  alas ! he  too  is  smarting  at  the 
pinch  of  distressful  circumstances,  aggravated 
by  the  sneer  of  contumelious  greatness — a 
bit  of  my  cheese  alone  will  not  cure  him, 
but  if  you  add  a tankard  of  brown  stout, 
and  superadd  a magnum  of  right  Oporto, 
you  will  see  his  sorrows  vanish  like  Uig 
morning  mist  before  the  summer  sun. 


29* 


328 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


Candlish,  the  earliest  friend,  except  my 
only  brother,  that  I have  on  earth,  and  one 
of  the  worthiest  fellows  that  ever  any  man 
called  by  the  name  of  friend,  if  a luncheon 
of  my  cheese  would  help  to  rid  him  of  some 
of  his  superabundant  modesty,  you  would 
do  well  to  give  it  him. 

David  (75),  with  his  Courant,  comes,  too, 
across  my  recollection,  and  I beg  you  will 
help  him  largely  from  the  said  ewe-milk 
cheese,  to  enable  him  to  digest  those  be- 
daubing paragraphs  with  which  he  is 
eternally  larding  the  lean  characters  of  cer- 
tain great  men  in  a certain  great  towrn.  I 
grant  you  the  periods  are  very  well 
turned;  so,  a fresh  egg  is  a very  good 
thing,  but  when  thrown  at  a man  in  a 
pillory,  it  does  not  at  all  improve  his 
figure,  not  to  mention  the  irreparable  loss 
of  the  egg. 

My  facetious  friend  Dunbar  I would  wish 
dlso  to  be  a partaker;  not  to  digest  his 
spleen,  for  that  he  laughs  off,  but  to  digest 
his  last  night’s  wine  at  the  last  field-day  of 
the  Crochallan  corps.  (76) 

Among  our  common  friends  I must  not 
forget  one  of  the  dearest  of  them — Cun- 
ningham. (17)  The  brutality,  insolence 
and  selfishness  of  a world  unworthy  of 
having  such  a fellow  as  he  is  in  it,  I know 
sticks  in  his  stomach,  and  if  you  can  help 
him  to  anything  that  will  make  him  a 
little  easier  on  that  score,  it  will  be  very 
obliging. 

As  to  honest  John  Somerville,  he  is 
iuch  a contented,  happy  man,  that  I know 
not  what  can  annoy  him,  except,  perhaps, 
<fce  may  not  have  got  the  better  of  a parcel 
of  modest  anecdotes  which  a certain  poet 
gave  him  one  night  at  supper,  the  last  time 
Che  said  poet  was  in  town. 

Though  I have  mentioned  so  many  men 
of  law,  I shall  have  nothing  to  do  with 
them  professionally; — the  faculty  are  beyond 
my  prescription.  As  to  their  clients,  that 
is  another  thing;  God  knows,  they  have 
much  to  digest ! 

The  clergy  I pass  by ; their  profundity 
of  erudition,  and  their  liberality  of  senti- 
ment, their  total  want  of  pride,  and  their 
detestation  of  hypocrisy,  are  so  prover- 
bially notorious,  as  to  place  them  far,  far 
above  either  my  praise  or  censure. 

I was  going  to  mention  a man  of  worth, 
whom  I have  the  ha  uour  to  call  friend,  the 
Laird  of  Craigdarroch ; but  I have  spoken 
to  the  landlord  of  the  King’s  Arms  inn  here, 
to  have  at  the  next  county  meeting  a large 
ewe-milk  cheese  table,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Dumfries-shire  Whigs,  to  enable  them  to 


digest  the  Duke  of  Queensberry’s  late  polity 
cal  conduct. 

I have  just  this  moment  an  opportunity 
: of  a private  hand  to  Edinburgh,  as  perhaps 
you  would  not  digest  double  postage. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CXXXVIII. 

MR.  GEORGE  LOCKHART. 

MERCHANT,  GLASGOW. 

Mauchline , July  18 th,  1788. 

My  Dear  Sir — I am  just  going  for 
Nithsdale,  else  I would  certainly  have 
transcribed  some  of  my  rhyming  things  for 
you.  The  Miss  Baillies  I have  seen  in 
Edinburgh.  “ Fair  and  lovely  are  thy 
works,  Lord  God  Almighty!  Who  would 
not  praise  thee  for  these  thy  gifts  in  thy 
goodness  to  the  sons  of  men ! ” It  needed 
not  your  fine  taste  to  admire  them.  I 
declare,  one  day  I had  the  honour  of  dining 
at  Mr.  Baillie’s,  I was  almost  in  the  pre- 
dicament of  the  children  of  Israel,  wheu 
they  could  not  look  on  Moses’  face  for  the 
glory  that  shone  in  it  when  he  descended 
from  Mount  Sinai. 

I did  once  write  a poetic  address  from  the 
Falls  of  Bruar  to  his  Grace  of  Athole,  when 
I was  in  the  Highlands.  When  you  return 
to  Scotland,  let  me  know,  and  I will  send 
such  of  my  pieces  as  please  myself  best. 
I return  to  Mauchline  in  about  ten  days. 

My  compliments  to  Mr.  Purden.  I am 
in  truth,  but  at  present,  in  haste,  yours, 

R.  B. 


NO.  CXXXIX. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mauchline , August  2nd,  1788. 

Honoured  Madam — Your  kind  letter 
welcomed  me,  yesternight,  to  Ayrshire.  I 
am,  indeed,  seriously  angry  with  you  at  the 
quantum  of  your  luckpenny ; but,  vexed  and 
hurt  as  I was,  I could  not  help  laughing  very 
heartily  at  the  noble  lord’s  apology  for  the 
missed  napkin. 

I would  write  you  from  Nithsdale,  and 
give  you  my  direction  there,  but  I have 
scarce  an  opportunity  of  calling  at  a post— r 
office  once  in  a fortnight.  I am  six  milei 
from  Dumfries,  am  scarcely  ever  in  it  myself; 
and,  as  yet,  have  little  acquaintance  in  the 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


829 


neighbourhood.  Besides,  I am  now  very 
busy  on  my  farm,  building  a dwelling-house ; 
as  at  present  I am  almost  an  evangelical  man 
in  Nithsdale,  for  I have  scarce  “ where  to  lay 
my  head.” 

There  are  some  passages  in  your  last  that 
brought  tears  in  my  eyes.  “The  heart 
knoweth  its  own  sorrows,  and  a stranger 
intermeddleth  not  therewith.”  The  reposi- 
tory of  these  “ sorrows  of  the  heart  ” is  a 
kind  of  sanctum,  sanctorum : and  ’tis  only  a 
chosen  friend,  and  that,  too,  at  particular, 
sacred  times,  who  dares  enter  into  them : — 

Heaven  oft  tears  the  bosom-chords 
That  nature  finest  strung. 

You  will  excuse  this  quotation  for  the 
sake  of  the  author.  Instead  of  entering  on 
this  subject  farther,  I shall  transcribe  you  a 
few  lines  I wrote  in  a hermitage,  belonging 
to  a gentleman  in  my  Nithsdale  neighbour- 
hood. They  are  almost  the  only  favours  the 
muses  have  conferred  on  me  in  that  country. 
* * * 

Since  I am  in  the  way  of  transcribing,  the 
following  were  the  production  of  yesterday, 
as  I jogged  through  the  wild  hills  of  New 
Cumnock.  I intend  inserting  them,  or 
something  like  them,  in  an  epistle  I am 
going  to  write  to  the  gentleman  on  whose 
friendship  my  Excise  hopes  depend,  Mr. 
Graham  of  Fintry,  one  of  the  worthiest  and 
most  accomplished  gentlemen,  not  only  of 
this  country,  but,  I will  dare  to  say  it,  of 
this  age.  The  following  are  just  the  first 
crude  thoughts  “ unhousel’d,  unanointed, 
unanealed : ” — 

Pity  the  tuneful  muses’  helpless  train, — 
Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  life’s  stormy  main  : 
The  world  were  blest,  did  bliss  on  them 
depend. — 

Ah,  that  “the  friendly  e’er  should  want  a 
friend ! ” 

The  little  fate  bestows  they  share  as  soon. 
Unlike  sage,  proverb’d  wisdom’s  hard- wrung 
boon. 

Let  Prudence  number  o’er  each  sturdy  son. 
Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun. 
Who  feels  by  reason  and  who  gives  by  rule. 
Instinct’s  a brute  and  sentiment  a fool ! 

Who  make  poor  will  do  wait  upon  I should  ; 
We  own  they’re  prudent,  but  who  owns 
they're  good? 

Ye  wise  ones,  hence ! ye  hurt  the  social  eye, — 
God’s  image  rudely  etch’d  on  base  alloy  ! 
But  come  ***** 

Here  the  muse  left  me.  I am  astonished 
fti  what  you  tell  me  of  Anthony’s  writing 


me.  I never  received  it.  Poor  fellow ! you 
vex  me  much  by  telling  me  that  he  is  unfor- 
tunate. I shall  be  in  Ayrshire  ten  days 
from  this  date.  I have  just  room  for  an  old 
Roman  farewell.  R.  B. 


NO.  CXL. 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  CRUIKSIIANKS. 

Ellisland,  August,  1788. 

I have  not  room,  my  dear  friend,  to 
answer  all  the  particulars  of  your  last  kind 
letter.  I shall  be  in  Edinburgh  on  some 
business  very  soon ; and  as  I shall  be  two 
days,  or  perhaps  three  in  town,  we  shall 
discuss  matters  viva  voce.  My  knee,  I 
believe,  will  never  be  entirely  well , and  a» 
unlucky  fall  this  winter  has  made  it  still 
worse.  I well  remember  the  circumstance 
you  allude  to,  respecting  Creech’s  opinion 
of  Mr.  Nicol;  but  as  the  first  gentleman 
owes  me  still  about  fifty  pounds,  I dare  not 
meddle  in  the  affair. 

It  gave  me  a very  heavy  heart  to  read 
such  accounts  of  the  consequence  of  your 
quarrel  with  that  puritanic,  rotten-hearted 

hell-commissioned  scoundrel.  A . If, 

notwithstanding  your  unprecedented  in- 
dustry in  public,  and  your  irreproachable 
conduct  in  private  life,  lie  still  has  you  so 
much  in  his  power,  what  ruin  may  he  not 
bring  on  some  others  I could  name  ? 

Many  and  happy  returns  of  season  to 
you,  with  your  dearest  and  worthiest  friend, 
and  the  lovely  little  pledge  of  your  happy 
union.  May  the  great  Author  of  life,  aud 
of  every  enjoyment  that  can  render  life 
delightful,  make  her  that  comfortable 
blessing  to  you  both,  which  you  so  ardently 
wish  for,  and  which,  allow  me  to  say,  you 
so  well  deserve ! Glance  over  the  foregoing 
verses,  and  let  me  have  your  blots.  Ad  if  a. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CLXI. 

TO  MRS  DUNLOP. 

Mauchline,  August  10th,  178S. 

My  much  Honoured  Friend — Your* 
of  the  24th  June  is  before  me.  I found  it, 
as  well  as  another  valued  friend— my  wife — - 
waiting  to  welcome  me  to  Ayrshire : I met 
both  with  the  sincerest  pleasure. 

When  I write  you.  Madam,  I do  not  ?it 


830 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


down  to  answer  every  paragraph  of  yours,  by 
echoing  every  sentiment,  like  the  faithful 
Commons  of  Great  Britain  in  Parliament 
assembled,  answering  a speech  from  the  best 
of  kings ! I express  myself  in  the  fulness 
of  my  heart,  and  may,  perhaps,  be  guilty  of 
neglecting  some  of  your  kind  inquiries  ; but 
not  from  your  very  odd  reason,  that  I do  not 
read  your  letters.  All  your  epistles  for  sev- 
eral months  have  cost  me  nothing,  except  a 
swelling  throb  of  gratitude,  or  a deep-felt 
sentiment  of  veneration. 

When  Mrs.  Burns,  Madam,  first  found 
herself  “as  women  wish  to  be  who  love  their 
lords,”  as  I loved  her  nearly  to  distraction, 
we  took  steps  for  a private  marriage.  Her 
parents  got  the  hint ; and  not  only  forbade 
me  her  company  and  their  house,  but,  on  my 
rumoured  West  Indian  voyage,  got  a warrant 
to  put  me  in  jail,  till  I should  find  security 
in  my  about-to-be  paternal  relation.  You 
know  my  lucky  reverse  of  fortune.  On  my 
iclatant  return  to  Mauchline,  I was  made 
very  welcome  'to  visit  my  girl.  The  usual 
consequences  began  to  betray  her  ; and  as  I 
was  at  that  time  laid  up  a cripple  in  Edin- 
burgh, she  was  turned,  literally  turned,  out 
of  doors,  and  I wrote  to  a friend  to  shelter 
her  till  my  return,  when  our  marriage  was 
declared.  Her  happiness  or  misery  were  in 
my  hands,  and  who  could  trifle  with  such  a 
deposit  ? 

I can  easily  fancy  a more  agreeable  com- 
panion for  my  journey  of  life ; but,  upon  my 
honour,  I have  never  seen  the  individual 
instance. 

Circumstanced  as  I am,  I could  never  have 
got  a female  partner  for  life,  who  could  have 
entered  into  my  favourite  studies,  relished 
my  favourite  authors,  &c.,  without  probably 
entailing  on  me,  at  the  same  time,  expensive 
living,  fantastic  caprice,  perhaps  apish  affec- 
tation, with  all  the  other  blessed  boarding- 
school  acquirements,  which  (pardonnez  moi, 
Madame)  are  sometimes  to  be  found  among 
females  of  the  upper  ranks,  but  almost  uni- 
versally pervade  the  misses  of  the  would-be 
gentry. 

I like  your  way  in  your  churchyard  lucu- 
brations. Thoughts  that  are  the  sponta- 
neous result  of  accidental  oituations,  either 
respecting  health,  place  or  company,  have 
often  a strength,  and  always  an  originality, 
that  would  in  vain  be  looked  for  in  fancied 
circumstances  and  studied  paragraphs.  For 
me,  I have  often  thought  of  keeping  a letter, 
in  progression  by  me,  to  send  you  when  the 
sheet  was  written  out.  Now  I talk  of  sheets, 
I must  tell  y^u,  my  reason  for  writing  to  you 
eu  paper  of  this  kind  is  my  pruriency  of  wri- 


ting to  you  at  large.  A page  of  post  is  on 
such  a dis-social,  nanow-minded  scale,  that 
that  I cannot  abide  it ; and  double  letters, 
at  least  in  my  miscellaneous  reverie  manner, 
are  a monstrous  tax  in  a close  correspond- 
ence. R.  B. 


NO.  CXLII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Ellisland,  August  1 6th,  1788. 

I am  in  a fine  disposition,  my  honoured 
friend,  to  send  you  an  elegiac  epistle,  and 
want  only  genius  to  make  it  quite  Shcusto- 
nian : — 

Why  droops  my  heart  with  fancied  woes 
forlorn  ? 

Why  sinks  my  soul  beneath  each  wintry  sky  ? 

My  increasing  cares  in  this,  as  yet,  strange 
country — gloomy  conjectures  in  the  dark 
vista  of  futurity — consciousness  of  my  own 
inability  for  the  struggle  of  the  world — my 
broadened  mark  to  misfortune  in  a wife  and 
children  ; — I could  indulge  these  reflections, 
till  my  humour  should  ferment  into  the  most 
acid  chagrin,  that  would  corrode  the  verf 
thread  of  life. 

To  counterwork  these  baneful  feelings,  I 
have  sat  down  to  write  to  you ; as  I declare 
upon  my  soul  I always  find  that  the  most 
sovereign  balm  for  my  wounded  spirit. 

I was  yesterday  at  Mr.  Miller’s  to  dinner, 
for  the  first  time.  My  reception  was  quite 
to  my  mind : from  the  lady  of  the  house 
quite  flattering.  She  sometimes  hits  on  a 
couplet  or  two,  impromptu.  She  repeated 
one  or  two  to  the  admiration  of  all  present. 
My  suffrage  as  a professional  man  was  ex- 
pected : it  for  once  went  agonising  over  the 
belly  of  my  conscience.  Pardon  me,  ye,  my 
adored  household  gods,  independence  of  spi- 
rit, and  integrity  of  soul ! In  the  course  of  con- 
versation “ Johnson’s  Musical  Museum,”  a 
collection  of  Scottish  songs  with  the  music, 
was  talked  of.  We  got  a song  on  the  harp- 
sichord, beginning. 

Raving  winds  around  her  blowing. 

The  air  was  much  admired : the  lady  of  the 
house  asked  me  whose  were  the  words. 
“ Mine,  Madam — they  are  indeed  my  very 
best  verses : ” she  took  not  the  smallest 
notice  of  them  ! The  old  Scottish  proverb 
says  well,  “ King’s  caff  is  better  than  ither 
folks’  corn.”  I was  going  to  maka  a New 


TO  MR.  BEUGO. 


331 


Testament  quotation  about  "casting  pearls,” 
but  that  would  be  too  virulent,  for  the  lady 
is  actually  a woman  of  sense  and  taste. 

After  all  that  has  been  said  on  the  other 
side  of  the  question,  man  is  by  no  means  a 
happy  creature.  I do  not  speak  of  the 
selected  few,  favoured  by  partial  heaven, 
whose  souls  are  tuned  to  gladness  amid 
riches,  and  honours,  and  prudence  and  wis- 
dom. I speak  of  the  neglected  many,  whose 
nerves,  whose  sinews,  whose  days,  are  sold 
to  the  minions  of  fortune. 

If  I thought  you  had  never  seen  it,  I 
would  transcribe  for  you  a stanza  of  an  old 
Scottish  ballad,  called  “ The  Life  and  Age  of 
Man ;”  beginning  thus : — • 

*Twas  in  the  sixteenth  hundredth  year 

Of  God  and  fifty-three 
Frae  Christ  was  born,  that  bought  ua  dear. 

As  writings  testifie. 

I had  an  old  grand-uncle,  with  whom  my 
mother  lived  a while  in  her  girlish  years ; 
the  good  old  man,  for  such  he  was,  was  long 
blind  ere  he  died,  during  which  time  his 
highest  enjoyment  was  to  sit  down  and  cry, 
while  my  mother  would  sing  the  simple  old 
song  of  “ The  Life  and  Age  of  Man.” 

It  is  this  way  of  thinking;  it  is  these 
melancholy  truths,  that  make  religion  so 
precious  to  the  poor,  miserable  children  of 
men.  If  it  is  a mere  phantom,  existing  only 
in  the  heated  imagination  of  enthusiasm. 

What  truth  on  earth  so  precious  as  the  lie  ? 

My  idle  reasonings  sometimes  makes  me  a 
little  sceptical,  but  the  necessities  of  my 
heart  always  give  the  cold  philosophisings 
the  lie.  Who  looks  for  the  heart  weaned 
from  earth ; the  soul  affianced  to  her  God ; 
the  correspondence  fixed  with  heaven ; the 
pious  supplication  and  devout  thanksgiving, 
constant  as  the  vicissitudes  of  even  and 
morn  ; who  thinks  to  meet  with  these  in  the 
court,  the  palace,  in  the  glare  of  public  life  ? 
No : to  find  them  in  their  precious  im- 
portance and  divine  efficacy,  we  must  search 
among  the  obscure  recesses  of  disappoint- 
ment, affliction,  poverty,  and  distress. 

I am  sure,  dear  Madam,  you  are  now 
more  than  pleased  with  the  length  of  my 
letters.  I return  to  Ayrshire  middle  of 
next  week:  and  it  quickens  my  pace  to 
think  that  there  will  be  a letter  from  you 
waiting  me  there.  I must  be  here  again 
very  soon  for  njy  harvest.  R.  B. 


NO.  CXLIIX. 

TO  MR.  BEUGO 

ENGRAVER,  EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland.  Sept.  9th,  1788. 

My  Dear  Sir — There  is  not  in  Edin- 
burgh above  the  number  of  the  graces  whose 
letters  would  have  given  me  so  much 
pleasure  as  yours  of  the  3rd  instant,  which 
only  reached  me  yesternight. 

I am  here  on  my  farm,  busy  with  my 
harvest;  but  for  all  that  most  pleasurable 
part  of  life  called  social  communicatioxY, 
I am  here  at  the  very  elbow  of  existence. 
The  only  things  that  are  to  be  found  m this 
country,  in  any  degree  of  perfection,  are 
stupidity  and  canting.  Prose,  they  only 
know'  in  graces,  prayers,  &c.,  and  the  value 
of  these  they  estimate,  as  they  do  their 
plaiding  webs — by  the  ell!  As  for  the 
muses,  they  have  as  much  an  idea  of  9 
rhinoceros  as  of  a poet.  For  my  old  capri- 
cious but  good-natured  hussy  of  a muse : — 
By  banks  of  Nith  I sat  and  wept 
When  Coila  I thought,  on. 

In  midst  thereof  I hung  my  harp 
The  willow  trees  upon. 

I am  generally  about  half  my  time  in  Ayrshire 
with  my  "darling  Jean;”  and  then  I,  at 
lucid  intervals,  throw  my  horny  fist  across 
my  be-cobwebbed  lyre,  much  in  the  same 
manner  as  an  old  wife  throws  her  hand 
across  the  spokes  of  her  spinning-wheel. 

I will  send  you  the  "Fortunate  Shep- 
herdess” as  soon  as  I return  to  Ayrshire, 
for  there  I keep  it  with  other  precious 
treasure.  I shall  send  it  by  a careful  hand, 
as  I would  not  for  any  thing  it  should  be 
mislaid  or  lost.  I do  not  wish  to  serve  you 
from  any  benevolence,  or  other  grave  Chris- 
tian virtue ; ’tis  purely  a selfish  gratification 
of  my  own  feelings  whenever  I think  of  you. 

If  your  better  functions  would  give  you 
leisure  to  write  me,  I should  be  extremely 
happy ; that  is  to  say,  if  you  neither  keep 
nor  look  for  a regular  correspondence.  I 
hate  the  idea  of  being  obliged  to  write  a 
letter.  I sometimes  write  a friend  twice 
a-week,  at  other  times  once  a-quarter. 

I am  exceedingly  pleased  with  your  fancy 
in  making  the  author  you  mention  place  a 
map  of  Iceland  instead  of  his  portrait  before 
his  works  : Twas  a glorious  idea. 

Could  you  conveniently  do  me  one  thing  ? 
— whenever  you  finish  any  head,  I should 
like  to  have  a proof  copy  of  it.  I might  tell 
you  a long  story  about  your  fine  genius ; 
but,  as  what  every  body  knows  cannot  have 
escaped  you,  I shall  not  say  one  syllable 
about  it.  R.  R* 


332 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


NO.  CXLIV. 

TO  MISS  CHALMERS,  EDINBURGH. 

dllislaml,  near  Dumfries , Sept.  1 6ih,  1788. 

Where  are  you?  and  how  are  you?  and 
is  Lady  Mackenzie  recovering  her  health  ? 
for  I have  had  but  one  solitary  letter  from 
you.  I will  not  think  you  have  forgot  me. 
Madam  ; and,  for  my  part — 

When  thee,  Jerusalem,  I forget. 

Skill  part  from  my  right  hand  ! 

“ My  heart  is  not  of  that  rock,  nor  my  soul 
careless  as  that  sea.”  I do  not  make  my 
progress  among  mankind  as  a bowl  does 
among  its  feilows — rolling  through  the 
crowd  without  bearing  away  any  mark  or 
impression,  except  where  they  hit  in  hostile 
collision. 

I am  here,  driven  in  with  my  harvest-folks 
by  bad  weather  ; and  as  you  and  your  sister 
once  did  me  the  honour  of  interesting  your- 
selves much  a Vegard  de  moi,  I sit  down  to 
beg  the  continuation  of  your  goodness.  I 
can  truly  say  that,  all  the  exterior  of  life 
apart,  I never  saw  two  whose  esteem  flattered 
the  noble  feelings  of  my  soul — I will  not 
say  more,  but  so  much,  as  Lady  Mackenzie 
and  Miss  Chalmers.  When  I think  of  you 
* — hearts  the  best,  minds  the  noblest  of 
human  kind — unfortunate  even  in  the 
shades  of  life — when  I think  I have  met 
with  you,  and  have  lived  more  of  real  life 
with  you  in  eight  days  than  I can  do  with 
almost  any  body  I meet  with  in  eight  years 
— when  I think  on  the  improbability  of 
meeting  you  in  this  world  again— I could 
nit  down  and  cry  like  a child ! If  ever  you 
honoured  me  with  a place  in  your  esteem,  I 
trust  I can  now  plead  more  desert.  I am 
secure  against  that  crushing  grip  of  iron 
poverty,  which,  alas  ! is  less  or  more  fatal 
to  the  native  worth  and  purity  of,  I fear, 
the  noblest  souls  ; and  a late  important  step 
in  my  life  has  kindly  taken  me  out  of  the 
way  of  those  ungrateful  iniquities,  which, 
however  overlooked  in  fashionable  licence, 
or  varnished  in  fashionable  phrase,  are 
indeed  but  lighter  and  deeper  shades  of 
VILLANY. 

Shortly  after  my  last  return  to  Ayrshire, 
J married  “my  Jean.”  This  was  not  in 
consequence  of  the  attachment  of  romance, 
perhaps ; but  I had  a long  and  much  loved 
fellow-creature’s  happiness  or  misery  in  my 
determination,  and  I durst  not  trifle  with  so 
important  a deposit.  Nor  have  I any 
cause  to  repent  it.  If  I have  not  got  polite 
tattle,  modish  manners,  and  fashionable 


dress,  I am  not  sickened  and  disgusted  with 
the  multiform  curse  bf  boarding-school 
affectation  . and  I have  got  the  handsomest 
fig-'«-e,  the  sweetest  temper,  the  soundest 
constitution,  and  the  kindest  heart,  in  the 
county.  Mrs.  Burns  believes,  as  firmly  as 
her  creed,  that  I am  le  plus  bel  es'pirit,  et 
le  plus  honnete  Jiom.me  in  the  universe ; 
although  she  scarcely  ever  in  her  life,  except 
the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ment, and  the  Psalms  of  David  m metre, 
spent  five  minutes  together  on  either  prose 
or  verse.  I must  except  also  from  mis  last 
a certain  late  publication  of  Scots  poems, 
which  she  has  perused  very  devoutly ; and 
all  the  ballads  in  the  country,  as  she  has 
(oh,  the  partial  lover!  you  will  cry)  the 
finest  “wood  note  wild”  I ever  heard.  I 
am  the  more  particular  in  this  lady’s 
character,  as  I know  she  will  henceforth 
have  the  honour  of  a share  in  your  best 
wishes.  She  is  still  at  Mauchline,  as  I am 
building  my  house;  for  this  hovel  that  I 
shelter  in,  while  occasionally  here,  is  per- 
vious to  every  blast  that  blows,  and  every 
shower  that  falls  ; and  I am  only  preserved 
from  being  chilled  to  death  by  being 
suffocated  with  smoke.  I do  not  find  my 
farm  that  pennyworth  I was  taught  to  ex- 
pect, but  I believe,  in  time,  it  may  be  a 
saving  bargain.  You  will  be  pleased  to 
hear  that  I have  laid  aside  idle  eclat , and 
bind  every  day  after  my  reapers. 

To  save  me  from  that  horrid  situation 
of  at  any  time  going  down,  in  a losing 
bargain  of  a farm,  to  misery,  I have  taken 
my  Excise  instructions,  and  have  my  com- 
mission in  my  pocket  for  any  emergency  of 
fortune.  If  I could  set  all  before  my  view, 
whatever  disrespect  you,  in  common  with 
the  world,  have  for  this  business,  I know 
you  would  approve  of  my  idea. 

I will  make  no  apology,  dear  Madam, 
for  this  egotistic  detail ; I know  you  and 
your  sister  will  be  interested  in  every  cir- 
cumstance of  it.  What  signify  the  silly, 
idle  gewgaws  of  wealth,  or  the  ideal  trum- 
pery of  greatness!  When  fellow-partakt?fs 
of  the  same  nature  fear  the  same  God,  have 
the  same  benevolence  of  heart,  the  same 
nobleness  of  soul,  the  same  detestation  at 
every  thing  dishonest,  and  the  same  scorn 
at  every  thing  unworthy — if  they  are  not 
in  the  dependence  of  absolute  beggary,  in 
the  name  of  common  sense,  they  are  not 
equals  ? And  if  the  bias,  the  instinctive 
bias  of  their  souls  run  the  same  way,  why 
may  they  not  be  friends  ? 

When  I have  an  opportunity  of  sending 
you  this.  Heaven  only  knows.  Shenstima 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


833 


cays,  "When  one  is  confined  idle  within 
doors  by  bad  weather,  the  best  antidote 
against  ennui  is  to  read  the  letters  of,  or  to 
write  to,  one’s  friends  ; ” in  that  case  then, 
if  the  weather  continues  thus,  I may  scrawl 
you  half  a quire. 

I very  lately — to  wit,  since  harvest  began 
— wrote  a poem,  not  in  imitation,  but  in  the 
manner,  of  Pope’s  Moral  Epistles.  It  is  only 
a short  essay,  just  to  try  the  strength  of  my 
Muse’3  pinion  in  that  way.  I will  send  you 
a copy  of  it,  when  once  I have  heard  from 
you.  I have  likewise  been  laying  the 
foundation  of  some  pretty  large  poetic 
works  : how  the  superstructure  will  come 
on,  I leave  to  that  great  maker  and  marrer 
of  projects — time.  Johnson’s  collection  of 
Scots  songs  is  going  on  in  the  third  volume; 
and,  of  consequence,  finds  me  a consumption 
for  a great  deal  of  idle  metre.  One  of  the 
most  tolerable  things  I have  done  in  that 
way,  is  two  stanzas  I made  to  an  air  a 
musical  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  com- 
posed for  the  aniversarjf  of  his  wedding-day, 
which  happens  on  the  7th  of  November. 
Take  it  as  follows  : — 

" The  day  returns — my  bosom  burns — • 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet,”  &c. 

I shall  give  over  this  letter  for  shame.  If 
I should  be  seized  with  a scribbling  fit,  before 
this  goes  away,  I shall  make  it  another 
letter ; and  then  you  may  allow  your 
patience  a week’s  respite  between  the  two. 
I have  not  room  for  more  than  the  old,  kind, 
hearty  farewell ! 


To  make  some  amends,  mes  chores  Mes- 
dames,  for  dragging  you  on  to  this  second 
sheet,  and  to  relieve  a little  the  tiresome- 
ness of  my  unstudied  and  uncorrectible 
prose,  I shall  transcribe  you  some  of  my  late 
poetic  bagatelles  ; though  I have,  these 
eight  or  ten  months,  done  very  little  that 
way.  One  day,  in  a hermitage  on  the  banks 
of  Nith,  belonging  to  a gentleman  in  my 
neighbourhood,  who  is  so  good  as  give  me  a 
key  at  pleasure,  I wrote  as  follows,  suppos- 
ing myself  the  sequestered,  venerable  in- 
habitant of  the  lonely  mansion. 

Mnes  written  in  friars-carse  her- 
mitage. 

* Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead,”  &c. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CXLV. 

TO  MR.  MORRISON,  MAUC  URINE.  (78) 
Ellisland,  September  22nd,  1788. 

My  Dear  Sir — Necessity  obliges  me  to 
go  into  my  new  house  even  before  it  be 
plastered.  I will  inhabit  the  one  end  until 
the  other  is  finished.  About  three  weeks 
more,  I think,  will  at  farthest  be  my  time, 
beyond  which  I cannot  stay  in  this  present 
house.  If  ever  you  wish  to  deserve  the 
blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish ; 
if  ever  you  were  in  a situation  that  a little 
kindness  would  have  rescued  you  from 
many  evils  ; if  ever  you  hope  to  find  rest  iu 
future  states  of  untried  being — get  these 
matters  of  mine  ready.  My  servant  will  be 
out  in  the  beginning  of  next  week  for  the 
clock.  My  compliments  to  Mrs.  Morrison, 
I am,  after  all  my  tribulation,  dear  Sir, 
yours,  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXYI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP,  OF  DUNLOP. 

Mauchline , Sept.  27th,  1788. 

I have  received  twins,  dear  Madam,  more 
than  once ; but  scarcely  ever  with  more  plea- 
sure than  when  I received  yours  of  the  12th 
instant.  To  make  myself  understood ; I had 
wrote  to  Mr.  Graham,  enclosing  my  poem 
addressed  to  him,  and  the  same  post  which 
favoured  me  with  yours  brought  me  an  an- 
swer from  him.  It  was  dated  the  very  day 
he  had  received  mine ; and  I am  quite  at  a 
loss  to  say  whether  it  was  most  polite  or 
kind. 

Your  criticisms,  my  honoured  benefactress, 
are  truly  the  work  of  a friend.  They  are  not 
the  blasting  depredations  of  a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar  critic  ; nor  are  they  the  fair  state- 
ment of  cold  impartiality,  balancing  with 
unfeeling  exactitude  the  pro  and  con  of  an 
author’s  merits  ; they  are  the  judicious  ob- 
servations of  animated  friendship,  selecting 
the  beauties  of  the  piece.  I am  just  arrived 
from  Nithsdale,  and  will  be  here  a fortnight. 
I was  on  horseback  this  morning  by  three 
o’clock  ; for  between  my  wife  and  my  farm 
is  just  forty-six  miles.  As  I jogged  on  in 
the  dark,  I was  taken  with  a poetic  fit  as 
follows : 

“ Mrs.  Fergusson  of  Craigdarroch’s  lamen- 
tation for  the  death  of  her  son — an  uncom- 
monly promising  youth  of  eighteen  or  nine* 
teen  years  of  age. 

Fate  gave  the  word — the  arrow  sped. 

And  pierced  my  darling’s  heart,” 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


You  will  not  send  me  your  poetic  rambles, 
but,  you  see,  I am  no  niggard  of  mine.  I 
am  sure  your  impromptus  give  me  double 
pleasure  ; what  falls  from  your  pen  can 
neither  be  un  entertaining  in  itself,  nor  in- 
different to  me. 

The  one  fault  you  found  is  just,  but  I 
cannot  please  myself  in  an  emendation. 

What  a life  of  solicitude  is  the  life  of  a 
parent!  You  interested  me  much  in  your 
young  couple. 

I would  not  take  my  folio  paper  for  this 
epistle,  and  now  I repent  it.  I am  so  jaded 
with  my  dirty  long  journey  that  I was 
afraid  to  drawl  into  the  essence  of  dulness 
with  any  thing  larger  than  a quarto,  and  so 
I must  leave  out  another  rhyme  of  this  morn- 
ing’s manufacture. 

I will  pay  the  sapientipotent  George  most 
cheerfully  to  hear  from  you  ere  I leave 
Ayrshire  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXVII. 

TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

Mauchline,  October  lsf,  1788. 

I have  been  here  in  this  country  about 
three  days,  and  all  that  time  my  chief  read- 
ing has  been  the  “ Address  to  Lochlomond  ” 
you  were  so  obliging  as  to  send  to  me. 
Were  I impannelled  one  of  the  author’s 
jury,  to  determine  his  criminality  respecting 
the  sin  of  poesy,  my  verdict  should  be 
“ Guilty ! A poet  of  nature’s  making !”  It  is 
an  excellent  method  for  improvement,  and 
what  I believe  every  poet  does,  to  place  some 
favourite  classic  author  in  his  own  walks  of 
study  and  composition,  before  him  as  a 
model.  Though  your  author  had  not  men- 
tioned the  name,  I could  have,  at  half  a 
glance,  guessed  his  model  to  be  Thomson. 
Will  my  brother-poet  forgive  me.  If  I ven- 
ture to  hint  that  his  imitation  of  that  im- 
mortal bard  is  in  two  or  three  places  rather 
more  servile  than  such  a genius  as  his 
required  : — e.  g. 

To  soothe  the  maddening  passions  all  to 
peace.  Address. 

To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace. 

Thomson. 

I think  the  “ Address  ” is  in  simplicity, 
harmony,  and  elegance  of  versification,  fully 
equal  to  the  “ Seasons.”  Like  Thomson,  too, 
he  has  looked  into  nature  for  himself : you 
meet  with  no  copied  description.  One  par- 
ticular citicism  I made  at  first  reading;  in 


no  one  instance  has  lie  said  too  much.  H® 
never  flags  in  his  progress,  hut,  like  a true 
poet  of  Nature’s  making,  kindles  in  hi® 
course.  His  beginning  is  simple  and  modest, 
as  if  distrustful  of  the  strength  of  his  pinion ; 
only  I do  not  altogether  like — 

Truth, 

The  soul  of  every  song  that’s  nobly  great. 

Fiction  is  the  soul  of  many  a song  that  is 
nobly  great.  Perhaps  I am  wrong:  this 
may  be  but  a prose  criticism.  Is  not  the 
phrase  in  line  7,  page  6,  “ Great  lake,”  too 
much  vulgarised  by  every-day  language  for 
so  sublime  a poem  ? 

Great  mass  of  waters,  theme  for  nobler  song, 

is  perhaps  no  emendation.  His  enumeration 
of  a comparison  with  other  lakes  is  at  once 
harmonious  and  poetic.  Every  reader’s  ideas 
must  sweep  the 

Winding  margin  of  an  hundred  miles. 

The  perspective  that  follows  mountains 
blue — the  imprisoned  billows  beating  in  vain 
— the  wooded  isles — the  digression  on  the 
yew-tree — “ Benlomond’s  lofty,  cloud-enve- 
lop’d  head,”  &c.  are  beautiful.  A thunder- 
storm is  a subject  which  has  often  been  tried, 
yet  our  poet  in  his  grand  picture  has  inter- 
jected a circumstance,  so  far  as  I know, 
entirely  original : — 

The  gloom 

Deep  seam’d  with  frequent  streaks  of  moving 
fire. 

In  his  preface  to  the  storm,  " the  glens 
how  dark  between,”  is  noble  highland  land- 
scape ! The  “rain  ploughing  the  red  mould,” 
too,  is  beautifully  fancied.  “Benlomond’s 
lofty,  pathless,  top,”  is  a good  expression ; 
and  the  surrounding  view  from  it  is  truly 
great:  the 

silver  mist. 

Beneath  the  beaming  sun, 

is  well  described ; and  here  he  has  contrived 
to  enliven  his  poem  with  a little  of  that 
passion  which  bids  fair,  I think,  to  usurp  the 
modern  muses  altogether.  I know  not  how 
far  this  episode  is  a beauty  upon  the  whole, 
but  the  swain’s  wish  to  carry  “ some  faint 
idea  of  the  vision  bright,”  to  entertain  her 
“ partial  listening  ear,”  is  a pretty  thought. 
But,  in  my  opinion,  the  most  beautiful  pas- 
sages in  the  whole  poem  are  the  fowls 
crowding,  in  wintry  frosts,  to  Lochlomond’* 
“hospitable  flood;”  their  wheeling  round, 
their  lighting,  mixing,  diving,  &c. : and  th® 


TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  « COURANT.’* 


33£ 


glorious  description  of  the  sportsman.  This 
Fast  is  equal  to  any  thing  in  the  “ Seasons.” 
The  idea  of  “ the  floating  tribes  distant  seen, 
far  glistening  to  the  moon,”  provoking  his 
eye  as  he  is  obliged  to  leave  them,  is  a noble 
ray  of  poetic  genius.  “ The  howling  winds,” 
the  “ hideous  roar”  of  " the  white  cascades,” 
are  all  in  the  same  style. 

I forget  that  while  I am  thus  holding  forth 
with  the  heedless  warmth  of  an  enthusiast, 
I am  perhaps  tiring  you  with  nonsense.  I 
must,  however,  mention  that  the  last  verse 
of  the  sixteenth  page  is  one  of  the  most 
elegant  compliments  I have  ever  seen,  I 
must  likewise  notice  that  beautiful  paragraph 
beginning  “ The  gleaming  lake,”  &c.  I dare 
not  go  into  the  particular  beauties  of  the  last 
two  paragraphs,  but  they  are  admirably  fine, 
and  truly  Ossianic. 

I must  beg  your  pardon  for  this  lengthened 
scrawl.  I had  no  idea  of  it  when  I began  : — 
I should  like  to  know  who  the  author  is ; but, 
whoever  he  be,  please  present  him  with  my 
grateful  thanks  for  the  entertainment  he  has 
afforded  me. 

A friend  of  mine  desired  me  to  commission 
for  him  two  books,  “ Letters  on  the  Religion 
essential  to  Man,”  a book  you  sent  me  before; 
and  “The  World  Unmasked,  or  the  Philoso- 
pher the  greatest  Cheat.”  Send  me  them 
by  the  first  opportunity.  The  bible  you  sent 
me  is  truly  elegant ; I only  wish  it  had  been 
it  two  volumes  R.  B. 


NO.  CXLVIII. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  “EDINBURGH 
EVENING  COURANT” 

November  8th,  1788. 

Sir — Notwithstanding  the  opprobrious 
epithets  with  which  some  of  our  philosophers 
and  gloomy  sectarians  have  branded  our 
nature — the  principle  of  universal  selfishness, 
the  proneness  to  all  evil,  they  have  given  us 
- — still,  the  detestation  in  which  inhumanity 
to  the  distressed,  or  insolence  to  the  fallen, 
are  held  by  all  mankind,  shows  that  they  are 
not  natives  of  the  human  heart.  Even  the 
unhappy  partner  of  our  kind  who  is  undone 
^-the  bitter  consequence  of  his  follies  or  his 
crimes — who  but  sympathises  with  the 
miseries  of  this  ruined  profligate  brother? 
We  forget  the  injuries,  and  feel  for  the 
man. 

I went,  last  Wednesday,  to  my  parish 
church,  most  cordially  to  join  in  grateful 

30 


acknowledgment  to  the  Author  of  all  Good* 
for  the  consequent  blessings  the  glorious 
Revolution.  To  that  auspicious  event  we 
owe  no  less  than  our  liberties,  civil  and  reli- 
gious ; to  it  we  are  likewise  indebted  for  the 
present  royal  family,  the  ruling  features  of 
whose  admuiistration  have  ever  been  mild- 
ness to  the  subject,  and  tenderness  of  his 
rights. 

Bred  and  educated  in  revolution  principles, 
the  principles  of  reason  and  common  sense, 
it  could  not  be  any  silly  political  prejudice 
which  made  my  heart  revolt. at  the  harsh, 
abusive  manner  in  which  the  reverend  gen- 
tleman mentioned  the  House  of  Stuart,  and 
which,  I am  afraid,  was  too  much  the  lan- 
guage of  the  day.  We  may  rejoice  sufficiently 
in  our  deliverance  from  past  evils,  without 
cruelly  raking  up  the  ashes  of  those  whose 
misfortune  it  was,  perhaps  as  much  as  their 
crime,  to  be  the  authors  of  those  evils ; and 
we  may  bless  God  for  all  his  goodness  to  us 
as  a nation,  without  at  the  same  time  cursing 
a few  ruined,  powerless  exiles,  who  only 
harboured  ideas,  and  made  attempts,  that 
most  of  us  would  have  done,  had  we  been  in 
their  situation. 

“The  bloody  and  tyrannical  House  of 
Stuart”  may  be  said  with  propriety  and 
justice,  when  compared  with  the  present 
royal  family,  and  the  sentiments  of  our  days; 
but  is  there  no  allowance  to  be  made  for  the 
manners  of  the  times?  Were  the  royal 
contemporaries  of  the  Stuarts  more  attentive 
to  their  subjects’  rights?  Might  not  the 
epithets  of  “ bloody  and  tyrannical  ” be, 
with  at  least  equal  justice,  applied  to  the 
House  of  Tudor,  of  York,  or  any  other  of 
their  predecessors  ? 

The  simple  state  of  the  case,  Sir,  seems  to 
be  this : — At  that  period,  the  science  of 
government,  the  knowledge  of  the  true  re- 
lation between  king  and  subject,  was,  like 
other  sciences  and  other  knowledge,  just  in 
its  infancy,  emerging  from  dark  ages  of  igno  < 
ranee  and  barbarity. 

The  Stuarts  only  contended  for  prerogatives 
which  they  knew  their  predecessors  enjoyed, 
and  which  they  saw  their  contemporaries 
enjoying;  but  these  prerogatives  were  ini- 
mical to  the  happiness  of  a nation  and  the 
rights  of  subjects. 

In  this  contest  between  prince  and  peo- 
ple, the  consequence  of  that  light  of  science 
which  had  lately  dawned  over  Europe,  the 
monarch  of  France,  for  example,  was  victo- 
rious over  the  struggling  liberties  of  his 
people  : with  us,  luckily,  the  monarch  failed, 
and  his  unwarrantable  pretensions  fell  a 
sacrifice  to  our  rights  and  happiness. 


536 


(X)RRESFQNDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  wisdom  of 
leading  individuals,  or  to  the  jostling  of  par- 
ties, I cannot  pretend  to  determine;  but, 
likewise,  happily  for  us,  the  kingly  power  was 
shifted  into  another  branch  of  the  family, 
who,  as  they  owed  the  throne  solely  to  the 
call  of  a free  people,  could  claim  nothing 
inconsistent  with  the  covenanted  terms 
which  placed  them  there. 

The  Stuarts  have  been  condemned  and 
laughed  at  for  the  folly  and  impracticability 
of  their  attempts  in  1715  and  1745.  That 
they  failed,  I bless  God,  but  cannot  join  in 
the  ridicule  against  them.  Who  does  not 
know  that  the  abilities  or  defects  of  leaders 
and  commanders  are  often  hidden  until  put 
to  the  touchstone  of  exigency;  and  that 
there  is  a caprice  of  fortune,  an  omnipotence 
in  particular  accidents  and  conjunctures  of 
circumstances,  which  exalt  us  as  heroes,  or 
brand  us  as  madmen,  just  as  they  are  for  or 
against  us  ? 

Man,  Mr.  Publisher,  is  a strange,  weak, 
inconsistent  being : who  would  believe.  Sir, 
than  in  this  our  Augustan  age  of  liberality 
and  refinement,  while  we  seem  so  justly  sen- 
sible and  jealous  of  our  rights  and  liberties, 
and  animated  with  such  indignation  against 
the  very  memory  of  those  who  would  have 
subverted  them — that  a certain  people  under 
our  national  protection  should  complain,  not 
against  our  monarch  and  a few  favourite 
advisers,  but  against  our  whole  legislative 
body,  for  similar  oppression,  and  almost  in 
the  very  same  terms,  as  our  forefathers  did 
of  the  House  of  Stuart ! I will  not,  I can- 
not, enter  into  the  merits  of  the  case , but  I 
dare  say  the  American  Congress,  in  1776, 
will  be  allowed  to  be  as  able  and  as  enlight- 
ened as  the  English  Convention  was  in 
1668 ; and  that  their  posterity  will  celebrate 
the  centenary  of  their  deliverance  from  us, 
as  duly  and  sincerely  as  we  do  ours  from  the 
oopressive  measures  of  the  wrong-headed 
House  of  Stuart. 

To  conclude.  Sir ; let  every  man  wlio  has 
a tear  for  the  many  miseries  incident  to 
humanity,  feel  for  a family  illustrious  as  any 
in  Europe,  and  unfortu  nate  beyond  historic 
precedent ; and  let  every  Briton  (and  par 
ticularly  every  Scotsman),  who  ever  looked 
with  reverential  pity  on  the  dotage  of  a 
parent,  cast  a veil  over  the  fatal  mistakes  of 
the  kings  of  his  forefathers. 

&.  B. 


C. 


NO.  CXLIX. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP, 

AT  MOREHAM  MAINS. 

Mauchline,  November  13 th,  1788. 

Madam — I had  the  very  great  pleasure 
of  dining  at  Dunlop  yesterday.  Men  are 
said  to  flatter  women  because  they  are  weak : 
— if  it  be  so,  poets  must  be  weaker  still ; 
for  Misses  R.  and  K.,  and  Miss  G.  M‘K., 
with  their  flattering  attentions  and  artful 
compliments,  absolutely  turned  my  head.  I 
own  they  did  not  lard  me  over  as  many  a 
poet  does  his  patron,  but  they  so  intoxicated 
me  with  their  sly  insinuations  and  delicate 
inuendos  of  compliment,  that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a lucky  recollection  how  much 
additional  weight  and  lustre  your  good  opi- 
nion and  friendship  must  give  me  in  that 
circle,  I had  certainly  looked  upon  myself  as 
a person  of  no  small  consequence.  I dare 
not  say  one  word  how  much  I was  charmed 
with  the  major’s  friendly  welcome,  elegant 
manner,  and  acute  remark,  lest  I should  be 
thought  to  balance  my  orientalisms  of  ap- 
plause over-against  the  finest  quey  (79)  in 
Ayrshire  which  he  made  me  a present  of  to 
help  and  adorn  my  farm-stock.  As  it  was 
on  hallow-day,  I am  determined  annually 
as  that  day  returns,  to  decorate  her  horns 
with  an  ode  of  gratitude  to  the  family 
of  Dunlop. 

So  soon  as  I know  of  your  arrival  at 
Dunlop,  I will  take  the  first  conveniency  to 
dedicate  a day,  or  perhaps  two,  to  you  and 
friendship,  under  the  guarantee  of  the  major’s 
hospitality.  There  will  soon  be  threescore 
and  ten  miles  of  permanent  distance  between 
us;  and  now  that  your  friendship  and 
friendly  correspondence  are  entwisted  with 
the  heart-strings  of  my  enjoyment  of  life,  I 
must  indulge  myself  in  a happy  day  of  “ The 
feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul.” 

R.  B. 


NO.  CL. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  JOHNSON, 
ENGRAVER. 

Mauchline,  November  15 th,  1788. 

My  Dear  Sir — I have  sent  you  two 
more  songs.  If  you  have  got  any  tunes,  of 
any  thing  to  correct,  please  send  then  by 
jet  urn  of  the  carrier. 


TO  MilS.  DUNLOP. 


I can  easily  see,  my  dear  friend,  that  you 
will  probably  have  four  volumes.  Perhaps 
you  may  not  find  your  account  lucratively 
in  this  business  ? but  you  are  a patriot  for 
the  music  of  your  country,  and  I am  certain 
posterity  will  look  on  themselves  as  highly 
indebted  to  your  public  spirit.  Be  not 
in  a hurry  ; let  us  go  on  correctly,  and  your 
name  shall  be  immortal. 

I am  preparing  a flaming  preface  for  your 
third  volume.  I see  every  day  new  musical 
publications  advertised  ; but  what  are  they  ? 
Gaudy,  painted  butterflies  of  a day,  and  then 
vanish  for  ever  : but  your  work  will  outlive 
the  momentary  neglects  of  idle  fashion,  and 
defy  the  teeth  of  time. 

Have  you  never  a fair  goddess  that  leads 
you  a wild-goose  chase  of  amorous  devotion  ? 
Let  me  know  a few  of  her  qualities,  such  as 
whether  she  be  rather  black  or  fair,  plump 
or  thin,  short  or  tall,  &c. ; and  choose  your 
air,  and  I shall  task  my  muse  to  celebrate 
her.  R.  B. 


NO.  CLI. 

TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

Mauchline,  November  15 th,  1788. 

Reverend  and  Dear  Sir — As  I hear 
nothing  of  your  motions,  but  that  you  are, 
or  were,  out  of  town,  I do  not  know  where 
this  may  find  you,  or  whether  it  will  find 
you  at  all.  I wrote  you  a long  letter,  dated 
from  the  land  of  matrimony,  in  June;  but 
either  it  had  not  found  you,  or,  what  I dread 
more,  it  found  you  or  Mrs.  Blacklock  in  too 
precarious  a state  of  health  and  spirits  to 
take  notice  of  an  idle  packet. 

I have  done  many  little  things  for  John- 
son, since  I had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you ; 
aud  I have  finished  one  piece  in  the  way 
of  Pope’s  * Moral  Epistles;”  but,  from 
your  silence,  I have  everything  to  fear, 
so  I have  only  sent  you  two  melancholy 
things,  which  I tremble  lest  they  should 
too  well  suit  the  tone  of  your  present 
feelings. 

In  a fortnight  I move,  bag  and  baggage, 
to  Nithsdale;  till  then,  my  direction  is  at 
this  place ; after  4 Aat  period,  it  will  be  at 
Ellisland,  near  Dumfries.  It  would  ex- 
tremely oblige  me  were  it  but  a half  a line, 
to  let  me  know  how  you  are.  Can  I be 
indifferent  to  the  fate  of  a man  to  whom  I 
owe  so  much — a man  wham  I not  only 
esteem,  but  venerate  ? 
z 


#17 

My  warmest  good  wishes  and  most 
respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  Black!  ack, 
and  Miss  Johnston,  if  she  is  with  you. 

I cannot  conclude  without  telling  you  that 
I am  more  and  more  pleased  with  the  step  I 
took  respecting  “my  Jean.”  Two  things,  from 
my  happy  experience,  I set  down  as  apo- 
phthegms in  life.  A wife’s  head  is  immaterial, 
compared  with  her  heart;  and — “Virtue’s 
(for  wisdom  what  poet  pretends  to  it  ?) 
ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  all 
her  paths  are  peace.”  Adieu  ! 

R.  b. 


NO.  CLII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

ElUsland , December  17 th,  1788. 

My  Dear  Honoured  Friend — Yours, 
dated  Edinburgh,  which  I have  just  read, 
makes  me  very  unhappy.  “Almost  blind 
and  wholly  deaf,”  are  melancholy  news  of 
a mucli-loved  and  honoured  friend;  they 
carry  misery  in  the  sound.  Goodness  on 
your  part,  and  gratitude  on  mine,  began  a 
tie  which  has  gradually  entwisted  itself 
among  the  dearest  chords  of  my  bosom,  and 
1 I tremble  at  the  omens  of  your  late  and 
present  ailing  habit  and  shattered  health. 
You  miscalculate  matters  widely,  when  you 
forbid  my  waiting  on  you,  lest  it  should 
hurt  my  worldly  concerns.  My  small  scale 
of  farming  is  exceedingly  more  simple  and 
easy  than  what  you  have  lately  seen  at 
Moreham  Mains.  But,  be  that  as  it  may, 
the  heart  of  the  man  and  the  fancy  of  the 
poet  are  the  two  grand  considerations  for 
which  I live : if  miry  ridges  and  dirty  dung- 
hills are  to  engross  the  best  part  of  the 
functions  of  my  soul  immortal,  I had  better 
been  a rook  or  a magpie  at  once,  and  then 
I should  not  have  been  plagued  with  any 
ideas  superior  to  breaking  of  clods  and 
picking  up  grubs ; not  to  mention  barn- 
door cocks  or  mallards,  creatures  with 
which  I could  almost  exchange  lives  at  any 
time.  If  you  contin  le  so  deaf,  I am  afraid 
a visit  will  be  no  great  pleasure  to  either  of 
us  ; but  if  I hear  you  are  got  so  well  again 
as  to  be  able  to  relish  conversation,  look 
you  to  it,  Madam,  for  I will  make  my  threat- 
enings  good.  I am  to  be  at  the  New-y ear- 
day  fair  of  Ayr : and,  by  all  that  is 

sacred  in  the  world,  friend,  I will  come  and 
see  you. 

Your  meeting,  which  you  so  well  describe, 
with  your  own  schoolfellow"  and  friend,  was 
truly  interesting.  Out  upon  the  ways  of 


338  CORRESPONDENCE  OP  BURNS. 


the  world!  They  spoil  these  "social  off- 
springs of  the  heart.”  Two  veterans  of  the 
“ men  of  the  world  ” would  have  met 
with  little  more  heart-workings  than  two 
oid  hacks  worn  out  on  the  road.  Apro- 
pos, is  not  the  Scotch  phrase,  “ auld  lang 
eyrie,”  exceedingly  expressive  ? There  is  an 
old  song  and  tune  which  has  often  thrilled 
through  my  soul.  You  know  I am  an 
enthusiast  in  old  Scotch  songs.  I shall 
give  you  the  verses  on  the  other  sheet, 
as  I suppose  Mr.  Ker  will  save  you  the 
postage. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot  ? &c. 

Light  be  the  turf  on  the  breast  of  the 
Heaven-inspired  poet  who  composed  this 
glorious  fragment ! There  is  more  of  the 
fire  of  native  genius  in  it  than  in  half  a 
dozen  of  modern  English  Bacchanalians ! 
Now  I am  on  my  hobby-horse,  I cannot 
help  inserting  two  other  old  stanzas,  which 
please  me  mightily  : 

Go  fetch  to  me  a pint  o’  wine,  &c. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CLIII. 

TO  MISS  DAVIES. 

December,  1788. 

Madam— I understand  my  very  worthy 
neighbour,  Mr.  Riddel,  haa  informed  you 
that  I have  made  you  the  subject  of  some 
verses.  There  is  something  so  provoking  in 
the  idea  of  being  the  burden  of  a ballad,  that 
I do  not  think  Job  or  Moses,  though  such 
patterns  of  patience  and  meekness,  could 
have  resisted  the  curiosity  to  know  what  that 
ballad  was ; so  my  worthy  friend  has  done 
me  a mischief,  which  I dare  say  he  never 
intended,  and  reduced  me  to  the  unfortunate 
alternative  of  leaving  your  curiosity  ungra- 
tified, or  else  disgusting  you  with  foolish 
verses,  the  unfinished  production  of  a ran- 
dom moment,  and  never  meant  to  have  met 
your  ear.  I have  heard  or  read  somewhere 
of  a gentleman  who  had  some  genius,  much 
eccentricity,  and  very  considerable  dexterity 
with  his  pencil.  In  the  accidental  group  of 
life  into  which  one  is  thrown,  wherever  this 
gentleman  met  with  a character  in  a more 
than  ordinary  degree  congenial  to  his  h^nrt, 
ne  used  to  steal  a sketch  of  the  face,  merely, 
he  said,  as  a nota  bene , to  point  out  the 
agreeable  recollectioa  to  his  memory.  What 
this  gentleman’s  pencil  was  to  him,  my  muse 
it  to  me : and  the  verses  I do  myself  the 


honour  to  send  you  are  a memento  exact’y  of 
the  same  kind  that  he  indulged  in. 

It  may  be  more  owing  to  the  fastidiousness 
of  my  caprice  than  the  delicacy  of  my  taste, 
but  I am  so  often  tired,  disgusted,  and  hurt, 
with  the  insipidity,  affectation,  and  pride  of 
mankind,  that  when  I meet  with  a person 
“ after  my  own  heart,”  I positively  feel  what 
an  orthodox  Protestant  would  call  a species 
of  idolatry,  which  acts  on  my  fancy  like  in- 
spiration ; and  I can  no  more  desist  rhyming 
on  the  impulse,  than  an  JEolian  harp  can 
refuse  its  tones  to  the  streaming  air.  A 
distich  or  two  would  be  the  consequence, 
though  the  object  which  hit  my  fancy  were 
grey-bearded  age;  but  where  my  theme  is 
youth  and  beauty,  a young  lady  whose  per- 
sonal charms,  wit,  and  sentiment,  are  equally 
striking  and  unaffected — by  Heavens!  though 
1 had  lived  threescore  years  a married  man, 
and  threescore  years  before  I was  a married 
man,  my  imagination  would  hallow  the  very 
idea  : and  I am  truly  sorry  that  the  enclosed 
stanzas  have  done  such  poor  justice  to  such 
a subject.  R.  B. 


\ NO.  CUT. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  TENNANT. 

December  22nd,  1788. 

I yesterday  tried  my  cask  of  whisky 
for  the  first  time,  and  I assure  you  it  does 
you  great  credit.  It  will  bear  five  waters, 
strong,  or  six,  ordinary  toddy.  The  whisky 
of  this  country  is  a most  rascally  liquor; 
and,  by  consequence,  only  drunk  by  the 
most  rascally  part  of  the  inhabitants.  I am 
persuaded,  if  you  once  get  a footing  here, 
you  might  do  a great  deal  of  business,  in  the 
way  of  consumpt ; and  should-you  commence 
distiller  again,  this  is  the  native  barley 
country.  I am  ignorant  if,  in  your  present 
way  of  dealing,  you  would  think  it  worth 
your  while  to  extend  your  business  so  far 
as  this  country  side.  1 write  you  this  on 
the  account  of  an  accident,  which  I must 
take  the  merit  of  having  partly  designed  to. 
A neighbour  of  mine,  a John  Currie,  miller 
in  Carse-mill — a man  who  is,  in  a word,  a 
"very”  good  man,  even  for  a £500  bargain 
— he  and  his  wife  were  in  my  house  the 
time  I broke  open  the  cask.  They  keep  a 
country  public-house  and  sell  a great  deal  of 
foreign  spirits,  but  all  along  thought  that 
whisky  would  have  degraded  this  house. 
They  were  perfectly  astonished  at  my  whisky, 
both  for  it?  taste  and  strength;  and,  by 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


339 


tfieh*  desrre,  I write  you  to  know  if  you  could 
supply  them  with  liquor  of  an  equal  quality, 
and  what  price.  Please  write  me  by  first 
post,  and  direct  to  me  at  Ellisland,  near 
Dumfries.  If  you  could  take  a jaunt  this 
way  yourself,  I have  a spare  spoon,  knife  and 
fork,  very  much  at  your  service.  My  com- 
pliments to  Mrs.  Tennant,  and  all  the  good 
folks  in  Glenconner  and  Barquharrie. 

* & B. 


NO.  CLV. 

TO  THE  REV.  P.  CARFRAE. 

1789. 

Rev.  Sir — I do  not  recollect  that  I have 
ever  felt  a severer  pang  of  shame,  than  on 
looking  at  the  date  of  your  obliging  letter 
which  accompanied  Mr.  Mylne’s  poem. 

I am  much  to  blame : the  honour  Mr. 
Mylne  has  done  me,  greatly  enhanced  in  its 
value  by  the  endearing,  though  melancholy 
circumstance  of  its  being  the  last  production 
of  his  muse,  deserved  a better  return. 

I have,  as  you  hint,  thought  of  sending  a 
copy  of  the  poem  to  some  periodical  publica- 
tion ; but,  on  second  thoughts,  I am  afraid 
that,  in  the  present  case,  it  wo*  Id  be  an 
improper  step.  My  success,  perhaps  as 
much  accidental  as  merited,  has  brought  an 
inundation  of  nonsense  under  the  name  of 
Scottish  poetry.  Subscription-bills  for  Scot- 
tish poems  have  so  dunned,  and  daily  do 
dun  the  public,  that  the  very  name  is  in 
danger  of  contempt.  For  these  reasons,  if 
publishing  any  of  Mr.  Mylne’s  poems  in  a 
Magazine,  &c.,  be  at  all  prudent,  in  my 
opinion,  it  certainly  should  not  be  a Scottish 
poem.  The  profits  of  the  labours  of  a man 
of  genius  are,  I hope,  as  honourable  as  any 
profits  whatever ; and  Mr.  Mylne’s  relations 
lire  most  justly  entitled  to  that  honest 
harvest  flhich  fate  has  denied  himself  to 
reap.  But  let  the  friends  of  Mr.  Mylne’s 
fame  (among  whom  I crave  the  honour  of 
ranking  myself)  always  keep  in  eye  his 
respectability  as  a man  and  as  a poet,  and 
take  no  measure  that,  before  the  world 
knows  anything  about  him,  would  risk  his 
name  and  character  being  classed  with  the 
fools  of  the  times. 

I have.  Sir,  some  experience  of  publishing ; 
and  the  way  in  which  I would  proceed  with 
Mr.  Mylne’s  poems,  is  this : — I will  publish, 
in  two  or  three  English  and  Scottish  public 
papers,  any  one  of  his  English  poems  which 
thould,  by  private  judges,  be  thought  the 
most  excellent,  and  mention  it,  at  the  same 


time,  as  one  of  the  productions  of  a Lothian 
farmer  of  respectable  character,  lately  de- 
ceased, whose  poems  his  friends  ha  I it  in 
idea  to  publish  soon  by  subscription,  for  the 
sake  of  his  numerous  family;  not  in  pity  to 
that  family,  but  in  justice  to  what  his  friends 
think  the  poetic  merits  of  the  deceased ; and 
to  secure,  in  the  most  effectual  manner,  to 
those  tender  connexions,  whose  right  it  is, 
the  pecuniary  reward  of  those  merits. 

R.  B.  (SO) 


NO.  CLVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland , New-y  car-day  Morning,  1789. 

This,  dear  Madam,  is  a morning  of  wishes, 
and  would  to  God  that  I came  under  the 
apostle  James’s  description  ! — the  prayer  of 
a righteous  man  availeth  much.  In  that  case. 
Madam,  you  should  welcome  in  a year  full  of 
blessings : every  thing  that  obstructs  or 
disturbs  tranquillity  and  self-enjoyment, 
should  be  removed,  and  every  pleasure  that 
frail  humanity  can  taste,  should  be  yours. 
I own  myself  so  little  a Presbyterian,  that  I 
approve  of  set  times  and  seasons  of  more 
than  ordinary  acts  of  devotion,  for  breaking 
in  on  that  habituated  routine  of  life  and 
thought,  which  is  so  apt  to  reduce  our 
existence  to  a kind  of  instinct,  or  even  some- 
times, and  with  some  minds,  to  a state  very 
little  superior  to  mere  machinery. 

This  day;  the  first  Sunday  of  May;  a 
breezy,  blue-skied  noon  some  time  about  the 
beginning,  and  a hoary  morning  and  calm 
sunny  day  about  the  end,  of  autumn ; these, 
time  out  of  mind,  have  been  with  me  a kind 
of  holiday. 

I believe  I owe  this  to  that  glorious  paper 
in  the  Spectator,  “ The  Vision  of  Mirza,”  a 
piece  that  struck  my  young  fancy  before  I 
was  capable  of  fixing  an  idea  to  a word  of 
three  syllables: — “On  the  5th  day  of  the 
moon,  which,  according  to  the  custom  of  my 
forefathers,  I always  keep  holy,  after  having 
washed  myself  and  offered  up  my  morning 
devotions,  I ascended  the  high  hill  of  Bagdad, 
in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  medi- 
tation and  prayer.” 

We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of 
the  substance  or  structure  of  our  souls,  so 
cannot  account  for  those  seeming  caprices  in 
them,  that  one  should  be  particularly 
pleased  with  this  thing,  or  struck  with  that, 
which,  on  minds  of  a different  cast,  makes 
no  extraordinary  impyfaaion.  I have  soma 


30* 


340 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


favourite  flowers  in  spring,  among  which  are 
the  mountain-daisy,  the  harebell,  the  foxglove, 
the  wild-briar  rose,  the  budding  birch,  and 
the  hoary  hawthorn,  that  I view  and  hang 
over  with  particular  delight.  I never  heard 
the  loud,  solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a 
summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence  of 
a troop  of  grey  plovers,  in  an  autumnal 
morning,  without  feeling  an  elevation  of 
soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or 
poetry.  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what 
can  this  be  owing?  Are  we  a piece  of 
machinery,  which,  like  the  iEolian  harp, 
passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing 
accident?  Or  do  these  workings  argue 
something  above  us  above  the  trodden  clod? 
I own  myself  partial  to  such  proofs  of  those 
awful  and  important  realities — a God  that 
made  all  things — man’s  immaterial  and  im- 
mortal nature — at  d a world  of  weal  or  woe 
beyond  death  and  the  grave. 

R.  B.  (81). 


NO.  CLVII. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Ellisland,  Jan.  4 th,  1789. 

Sir — As  often  as  I think  of  writing  to 
you,  which  has  been  three  or  four  times 
every  week  these  six  months,  it  gives  me 
something  so  like  the  idea  of  an  ordinary- 
sized statue  offering  at  a conversation  with 
the  Rhodian  colossus,  that  my  mind  mis- 
gives me,  and  the  affair  always  miscarries 
somewhere  between  purpose  and  resolve.  I 
have  at  last  got  some  business  with  you, 
and  business  letters  are  written  by  the 
style-book.  I say  my  business  is  with  you. 
Sir,  for  you  never  ha  l any  with  me,  except 
the  business  that  benevolence  has  in  the 
mansion  of  poverty. 

The  character  and  employment  of  a poet 
were  formerly  my  pleasure,  but  are  now  my 
pride.  I kiiow  that  a very  great  deal  of  my 
late  eclat  was  owing  to  the  singularity  of 
my  situation,  and  the  honest  prejudice  of 
Scotsmen  ; but  still,  as  I said  in  the  preface 
tc  my  first  edition,  I do  look  upon  myself 
as  having  some  pretensions  from  nature  to 
the  pot*tic  character.  I have  not  a doubt 
but  the  knack,  the  aptitude,  to  learn  the 
muses’  trade,  is  a gift  bestowed  by  Him 
“ who  forms  the  secret  bias  of  the  soul ; ” — 
but  I as  firmly  believe,  that  excellence  in  the 
profession  is  the  fruit  of  industry,  labour, 
attention,  and  pains.  At  least  I am  re- 
solved to  try  my  doctrine  by  the  test  of  ex- 
perience, Another  appearance  from  the 


press  I put  off  to  a very  distant  day.  r day 
that  may  never  arrive — but  poesy  I o?  de- 
termined to  prosecute  with  all  my  vigour. 
Nature  has  given  very  few,  if  any,  of  the 
professions,  the  talents  of  shining  in  every 
species  of  composition.  I shall  try  (for 
until  trial  it  is  impossible  to  know)  whether 
she  has  qualified  me  to  shine  in  any  one. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  by  the  time  one  has 
finished  a piece,  it  has  been  so  often  viewed 
and  reviewed  before  the  mental  eye,  that 
one  loses  in  a good  measure  the  powers  of 
critical  discrimination.  Here  the  best 
criterion  I know  is  a friend — not  only  of 
abilities  to  judge,  but  with  good-nature 
enough,  like  a prudent  teacher  with  a young 
learner,  to  praise  perhaps  a little  more  than 
is  exactly  just,  lest  the  thin-skinned  animal 
fall  into  that  most  deplorable  of  all  poetic 
diseases — heart-breaking  despondency  of 
himself,  Dare  I,  Sir,  already  immensely 
indebted  to  your  goodness,  ask  the  ad- 
ditional obligation  of  your  being  that  friend 
to  me  ? I enclose  you  an  essay  of  mine,  in 
a walk  of  poesy  to  me  entirely  new  ; I mean 
the  epistle  addressed  to  R.  G.,  Esq.,  or 
Robert  Graham,  of  Fintry,  Esq.,  a gentle- 
man of  uncommon  worth,  to  whom  I lie 
under  very  great  obligations.  The  story  of 
the  poem,  like  most  of  my  poems,  is  con- 
nected with  my  own  stesy,  and  to  you 
the  one,  I must  give  5 cl  taaetluAg  of  the 
other.  I cannot  boast  of  Mr.  Creech’s 
ingenuous  fair  dealing  to  me.  He  kept  me 
hanging  about  Edinburgh  from  the  7tli 
August,  1787,  until  the  13th  April,  1788, 
before  he  would  condescend  to  give  me  a 
statement  of  affairs  ; nor  had  I got  it  even 
then,  but  for  an  angry  letter  I wrote  him, 
which  irritated  his  pride.  " I could  ” not  a 
“tale,”  but  a detail,"  unfold;”  but,  what  am 
I,  that  should  speak  against  the  Lord’* 
anointed  Baillie  of  Edinburgh  ? 

I believe,  I shall,  in  whole,  £100  copy- 
right included,  clear  about  £400  some  little 
odds  ; and  even  part  of  this  depends  upon 
what  the  gentleman  has  yet  to  settle  with 
me.  I give  you  this  information,  because 
you  did  me  the  honour  to  interest  yourself 
much  in  my  welfare.  I give  you  this  in- 
formation, but  I give  it  to  yourseff  only,  for 
I am  still  much  in  the  gentleman’s  mercy. 
Perhaps  I injure  the  man  in  the  idea  I am 
sometimes  tempted  to  have  of  him — God 
forbid  I should  ! A little  time  will  try,  for 
in  a month  I shall  go  to  town  to  wind  up 
the  business  if  possible. 

To  give  the  rest  of  my  story  in  brief,  I 
have  married  "my  Jean,”  and  taken  a farm: 
with  the  first  step  I hive  every  day  mor« 


TO  PROFESSOR  DUGALD  STEWART. 


841 


tmd  mre  reason  to  be  satisfied;  with  the 
last,  it  is  rather  the  reverse.  I have  a 
younger  brother,  who  supports  my  aged 
mother ; another  still  younger  brother,  and 
three  sisters,  in  a farm.  On  my  last  return 
from  Edinburgh,  it  cost  me  about  £180  to 
save  them  from  ruin.  Not  that  I have  lost 
so  much — I only  interposed  between  my 
brother  and  his  impending  fate  by  the  loan 
of  so  much.  I give  myself  no  airs  on  this, 
for  it  was  mere  selfishness  on  my  part : I 
was  conscious  that  the  wrong  scale  of  the 
balance  was  pretty  heavily  charged,  and  I 
thought  that  throwing  a little  filial  piety 
and  fraternal  affection  into  the  scale  in  my 
favour,  might  help  to  smooth  matters  at  the 
grand  reckoning.  There  is  still  one  thing 
would  make  my  circumstances  quite  easy : 
I have  an  Excise  officer’s  commission,  and  I 
live  in  the  midst  of  a country  division.  My 
request  to  Mr.  Graham,  who  is  one  of  the 
Commissioners  of  Excise,  was,  if  in  his  power, 
to  procure  me  that  division.  If  I were  very 
sanguine,  I might  hope  that  some  of  my 
great  patrons  might  procure  me  a treasury 
warrant  for  supervisor,  surveyor-general,  &c. 

Thus,  secure  of  a livelihood,  “to  thee, 
sweet  poetry,  delightful  maid,”  I would  con- 
secrate my  future  days.  R.  B'. 


NO.  CLV1II. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLTE. 
Ellisland,  January  6th , 1789. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  to 
you,  my  dear  Sir!  May  you  be  com- 
paratively happy  up  to  your  comparative 
worth  among  t 'e  sons  of  men  ; which  wish 
would,  I am  sure,  make  you  one  cf  the  most 
blest  of  the  human  race. 

I do  not  know  if  passing  a “ writer  to  the 
signet  ” be  a trial  of  scientific  merit,  or  a 
mere  business  of  friends  and  interest. 
However  it  be,  let  me  quote  you  my  two 
favourite  passages,  which,  though  I have  re- 
peated them  ten  thousand  times,  still  they 
rouse  my  manhood  and  steal  my  resolutions 
like  inspiration. 

On  Reason  build  resolve. 

That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man. 

Young. 

Hear,  Alfred,  hero  of  the  state 
Thy  genius  heaven’s  high  will  declare; 

Tne  triumph  of  the  truly  great, 
la  never,  never  to  despair ! 

Ia  never  to  despair. — Masque  of  Alfred* 


I grant  you  enter  the  lists  of  life  to  strug- 
gle for  bread,  business,  notice  and  distinction, 
in  common  with  hundreds , But  who  are 
they  ? Men  like  yourself,  and  of  that  ag 
gregate  body  yc  ur  compeers,  seven-tenths  of 
them  come  short  of  your  advantages,  natural 
and  accidental ; while  two  of  those  that  re- 
main, either  neglect  their  parts,  as  flowers 
blooming  in  a desert,  or  mis-spend  theii 
strength  like  a bull  goring  a bramble  bush. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CLIX. 

TO  PROFESSOR  DUGALD  STEWART. 

Ellisland,  Jan.  26th,  1789. 

Sir — The  enclosed  sealed  packet  I sent  to 
Edinburgh,  a few  days  after  I had  the  happi- 
ness of  meeting  you  in  Ayrshire,  but  you 
were  gone  for  the  continent.  I have  now 
added  a few  more  of  my  productions,  thoso 
for  which  I am  indebted  to  the  Nithsdale 
Muses.  The  piece  inscribed  to  R.  G.  Esq., 
is  a copy  of  verses  I sent  Mr.  Graham  of 
Fintry,  accompanying  a request  for  his  as- 
sistance in  a matter  to  me  of  very  great 
moment.  To  that  gentleman  1 am  already 
doubly  indebted;  for  deeds  of  kindness  of 
serious  import  to  my  dearest  interests,  done 
in  a manner  grateful  to  the  delicate  feelings 
of  sensibflity.  This  poem  is  a species  of 
a isition  new  to  me,  but  I do  not  intend 
it  shall  be  last  essay  of  the  kind,  as  you 
will  see  by  the  “ Poet’s  Progress.”  These 
fragments,  if  my  design  succeeu,  are  but  a 
»mall  part  cf  the  intended  whole.  I propose 
it  shall  be  the  work  of  my  utmost  exertions, 
ripened  by  years ; of  course  I do  not  wish  it 
much  known.  The  fragment  beginning  “ A 
little  upright,  pert,  tart,”  &c.,  I have  not 
shown  to  man  living,  till  I now  send  it  you, 
It  forms  the  postulata,  the  axioms,  the  defi- 
nition of  a character,  which,  if  it  appear  at 
all,  shall  be  placed  in  a variety  of  lights. 
This  particular  part  I send  you  merely  as  a 
sample  of  my  hand  at  portrait-sketching; 
but,  lest  idle  conjecture  should  pretend  to 
point  out  the  original,  please  to  let  it  be  for 
your  single,  sole  inspection. 

Need  I make  any  apology  for  this  trouble, 
to  a gentleman  wrho  has  treated  me  with  such 
marked  benevolence  and  peculiar  kindness; 
who  has  entered  into  my  interests  with  so 
much  zeal,  and  on  whose  critical  decisions  I 
can  so  fully  depend  ? A poet  as  I am  by 
trade,  these  decisions  are  to  me  of  the  last 
consequence.  My  late  transient  acquaint- 
ance among  some  a!  the  mere  rank  and  tilt 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


M2 

of  greatness,  I resign  with  ease ; but  to  the 
distinguished  champions  of  genius  and  learn- 
ing, I shall  ever  be  ambitious  of  being  known. 
The  native  genius  and  accurate  discernment 
in  Mr.  Stewart’s  critical  strictures ; the 
justice  (iron  justice,  for  he  has  no  bowels  of 
compassion  for  a poor  poetic  sinner)  of  Dr. 
Gregory’s  remarks,  and  the  delicacy  of  Pro- 
fessor Dalzel’s  taste,  1 shall  ever  revere. 

I shall  be  in  Edinburgh  some  time  next 
month.  I have  the  honour  to  be.  Sir,  your 
highly  obliged,  and  very  humble  servant, 

. R.  B. 


NO.  CLZ. 

TO  BISHOP  GEDDES.  (82) 

Ellisland,  Feb.  3rd,  1789. 

Venerable  Father — As  I am  con- 
scious that,  wherever  I am,  you  do  me  the 
honour  to  interest  yourself  in  my  welfare,  it 
gives  me  pleasure  to  inform  you,  that  I am 
here  at  last,  stationary  in  the  serious  business 
of  life,  and  have  now  not  only  the  retired 
leisure,  but  the  hearty  inclination,  to  attend 
to  those  great  and  important  questions — 
what  I am ; where  I am ; and  for  what  I am 
destined. 

In  that  first  concern,  the  conduct  of  the 
man,  there  was  ever  but  one  side  on  which  I 
was  habitually  blameable,  and  there  I have 
secured  myself  in  the  way  pointed  out  by  ! 
nature  and  nature’s  God.  I was  sensible  j 
that,  to  so  helpless  a creature  as  a poor  poet, 
a wife  and  family  were  incumbrances,  which 
a species  of  prudence  would  bid  him  shun  ; 
but  when  the  alternative  was,  being  at  eter- 
nal warfare  with  myself,  on  account  of 
habitual  follies,  to  give  them  no  worse  name, 
which  no  general  example,  no  licentious  wit, 
no  sophistical  infidelity,  would,  to  me,  ever 
justify,  I must  have  been  a fool  to  have 
hesitated,  and  a madman  to  have  made 
another  choice.  Besides,  I had  in  “my  Jean’* 
a long  and  much-loved  fellow-creature’s  hap- 
piness or  misery  among  my  hands,  and  who 
could  trifle  with  such  a deposit  ? 

In  the  affair  of  a livelihood,  I think  myself 
tolerably  secure : I have  good  hopes  of  my 
farm  ; but  should  they  fail,  I have  an  Excise 
commission,  which,  on  my  simple  petition, 
wi'.l  at  any  time  procure  me  bread.  There  is 
& certain  stigma  affixed  to  the  character  of  an 
Excise  officer,  but  I do  not  pretend  to  borrow 
honour  from  my  profession ; and  though  the 
•alary  be  comparatively  small,  it  is  luxury  to 
any  tiling  that  the  first  twenty-five  years  of 
tny  life  taught  me  to  expect 


Thus,  with  a rational  aim  and  method  i* 
life,  you  may  eaily  guess,  my  reverend  and 
much  honoured  friend,  that  my  characteris- 
tic trade  is  not  forgotten.  I am,  if  possible, 
more  than  ever  an  enthusiast  to  the  muses. 
I am  determined  to  study  man  and  nature, 
and  in  that  view  incessantly ; and  to  try  if 
the  ripening  and  corrections  of  years  can 
enable  me  to  produce  something  worth  pre- 
serving. 

You  will  see  in  your  book,  which  I beg 
your  pardon  for  detaining  so  long  (83),  that 
I have  been  tuning  my  lyre  on  the  banks  of 
Nith.  Some  large  poetic  plans  that  are 
floating  in  my  imagination,  or  partly  put  in 
execution,  I shall  impart  to  you  when  I have 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  with  you,  which,  if 
you  are  then  in  Edinburgh,  I shall  have 
about  the  beginning  of  March. 

That  acquaintance,  worthy  Sir,  with  which 
you  were  pleased  to  honour  me,  you  must 
still  allow  me  to  challenge ; for  with  what- 
ever unconcern  I give  up  my  transient  con- 
nection with  the  merely  great,  I cannot  lose 
the  patronising  notice  of  the  learned  and 
good  without  the  bitterest  regret. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CLXI. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  BURNESS. 

Ellisland,  Feb . 9th,  1789. 

My  Dear  Sir — Why  I did  not  write  to 
you  long  ago  is  what,  even  on  the  rack,  I 
could  not  answer.  If  you  can  in  your  mind 
form  an  idea  of  indolence,  dissipation,  hurry, 
cares,  change  of  country,  entering  on  untried 
scenes  of  life,  all  combined,  you  will  save  me 
the  trouble  of  a blushing  apology.  It  could 
not  be  want  of  regard  for  a man  for  whom 
I had  a high  esteem  before  I knew  him— 
an  esteem  which  has  much  increased  since 
I did  know  him  ; and  this  caveat  entered,  I 
shall  plead  guilty  to  any  other  indictment 
with  which  you  shall  please  to  charge  me. 

After  I parted  from  you,  for  many  months 
my  life  was  one  continued  scene  of  dissipa- 
tion. Here,  at  last,  I am  become  stationary, 
and  have  taken  a farm  and  —a  wife. 

The  farm  is  beautifully  situated  on  the 
Nith,  a large  river  that  runs  by  Dumfries, 
and  falls  into  the  Solway  Frith.  I have 
gotten  a lease  of  my  farm  as  long  as  I 
pleased ; but  how  it  may  turn  out  is  just  * 
guess,  and  it  is  yet  to  m prove  and  enclose^ 
&c. : however,  I have  good  hopes  of  mjf 
bargain  on  the  whole. 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


243 


My  wife  is  my  Je&n,  with  whose  story  you 
are  partly  acquainted.  I found  I had  a 
much-loved  fellow-creature’s  happiness  or 
misery  among  my  hands,  and  I durst  not 
trifle  with  so  sacred  a deposit.  Indeed,  I 
have  not  any  reason  to  repent  the  step  I 
have  taken,  as  I have  attached  myself  to  a 
very  good  wife,  and  have  shaken  myself 
loose  of  every  bad  failing. 

I have  found  my  book  a very  profitable 
business,  and  with  the  profits  of  it  I have 
begun  life  pretty  decently.  Should  fortune 
Ht>t  favour  me  in  farming,  as  I have  no  great 
faith  in  her  fickle  ladyship,  I have  provided 
myself  in  another  resource,  which,  however 
some  folks  may  affect  to  despise  it,  is  still  a 
comfortable  shift  in  the  day  of  misfortune. 
In  the  heyday  of  my  fame,  a gentleman, 
whose  name,  at  least,  I dare  say  you  know, 
as  his  estate  lies  somewhere  near  Dundee, 
Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry,  one  of  the  Commis- 
sioners of  Excise  offered  me  the  commission, 
of  an  Excise  officer.  I thought  it  prudent  to 
accept  the  offer ; and,  accordingly,  I took  my 
instructions,  and  have  my  commission  by  me. 
Whether  I may  ever  do  duty,  or  be  a penny 
the  better  for  it,  is  what  I do  not  know; 
but  I have  the  comfortable  assurance,  that, 
come  whatever  ill  fate  will,  I can,  on  my 
simple  petition  to  the  Excise-board,  get  into 
employ. 

We  have  lost  poor  uncle  Robert  this 
winter.  He  has  long  been  very  weak,  and 
with  very  little  alteration  on  him : he  expired 
3rd  January. 

His  son  William  has  been  with  me  this 
winter,  and  goes  in  May  to  be  an  apprentice 
to  a mason.  His  other  son,  the  eldest,  John, 
comes  to  me,  I expect,  in  summer.  They 
are  both  remarkably  stout  young  fellows, 
and  promise  to  do  well.  His  only  daughter, 
Fanny,  has  been  with  me  ever  since  her 
father’s  death,  and  I purpose  keeping  her  in 
my  family  till  she  be  quite  woman  grown, 
and  fit  for  better  service.  She  is  one  of  the 
cleverest  girls,  and  has  one  of  the  most 
amiable  dispositions,  I have  ever  seen.  (84) 

All  friends  in  this  county  and  Ayrshire 
are  well.  Remember  me  to  all  friends  in 
the  north.  My  wife  joins  me  in  compliments 
to  Mrs.  B.  and  family.  I am  ever,  my  dear 
cousin,  yours  sincerely,  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  March  Mh,  1789. 
Here  am  I,  my  honoured  friend,  returned 
•afe  from  the  capital.  To  a man  who  has  a 


home,  however  humble  oi  remote — if  that 
home  is  like  mine,  the  scene  of  domestic 
comfort — the  bustle  of  Edinburgh  will  soon 
he  a business  of  sickening  disgust. 

Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I hate 
you! 

When  I must  skulk  into  a corner,  lest  the 
rattling  equipage  of  some  gaping  blockhead 
should  mangle  me  in  the  mire,  I am  tempted 
to  exclaim,  “What  merits  has  he  had,  or 
what  demerit  have  I had,  in  some  state  of 
pre-existence,  that  he  is  ushered  into  this 
state  of  being  with  the  sceptre  of  rule,  and 
the  key  of  riches  in  his  puny  fist,  and  I am 
kicked  into  the  world,  the  sport  of  folly,  or 
the  victim  of  pride?”  I have  read  some- 
where of  a monarch  (in  Spain  I think  it  was) 
who  was  so  out  of  humour  with  the  Ptole- 
mean  system  of  astronomy,  that  he  said,  had 
he  been  of  the  Creator’s  council,  he  could 
have  saved  him  a great  deal  of  labour  and 
absurdity.  I will  not  defend  this  blasphe- 
mous speech;  but  often,  as  I have  glided 
with  humble  stealth  through  the  pomp  of 
Princes’  Street,  it  has  suggested  itself  to  me, 
as  an  improvement  on  the  present  human 
figure,  that  a man,  in  proportion  to  his  own 
conceit  of  his  consequence  in  the  world, 
could  have  pushed  out  the  longitude  of  his 
common  size,  as  a snail  pushes  out  his  horns, 
or  as  we  draw  out  a perspective.  This 
trifling  alteration,  not  to  mention  the  pro- 
digious saving  it  would  be  in  the  tear  and 
wear  of  the  neck  and  limb-sinews  of  many 
of  his  Majesty’s  liege-subjects,  in  the  way  of 
tossing  the  head  and  tiptoe  strutting,  would 
evidently  turn  out  a vast  advantage,  iu 
enabling  us  at  once  to  adjust  the  ceremonials 
in  making  a bow,  or  making  way  to  a great 
man,  and  that,  too,  within  a second  of  the 
precise  spherical  angle  of  reverence,  or  an 
inch  of  the  particular  point  of  respectful 
distance,  which  the  important  creature  itseh 
requires ; as  a measuring-glance  at  its 
towering  altitude  would  determine  the  affair 
like  instinct. 

You  are  right.  Madam,  in  your  idea  of 
poor  Mylne’s  poem,  which  he  has  addressed 
to  me.  The  piece  has  a good  deal  of  merit, 
but  it  has  one  great  fault — it  is  by  far  too 
long.  Besides,  my  success  has  encpuraged 
such  a shoal  of  ill-spawned  monsters  to  crawl 
into  public  notice,  under  the  title  of  Scottish 
poets,  that  the  very  term  Scottish  poetry 
borders  on  the  burlesque.  When  I write  to 
Mr.  Carfrae,  I shall  advise  him  rather  to  try 
one  of  his  deceased  friend’s  English  pieees, 
I am  prodigiously  hur.ied  with  my  own 
matters,  else  I would  have  requested  a 


344 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


perusal  of  all  Mylne’s  poetic  performances, 
and  would  have  offered  his  friends  my 
assistance,  in  either  selecting  or  correcting 
what  would  be  proper  for  the  press.  What 
it  is  that  occupies  me  so  much,  and  perhaps 
a little  oppresses  my  present  spirits,  shall 
fill  up  a paragraph  in  some  future  letter.  In 
the  meantime,  allow  me  to  close  this  epistle 
with  a few  lines  done  by  a friend  of  mine. 
*****  I give  you  them,  that,  as 
you  have  seen  the  original,  you  may  guess 
whether  one  or  two  alterations  I have  ven- 
tured to  make  in  them  be  any  real  improve- 
ment : — 

Like  the  fair  plant  that  from  our  touch  with- 
draws. 

Shrink,  mildly  fearful,  even  from  applause. 
Be  all  a mother’s  fondest  hope  can  dream. 
And  all  you  are,  my  charming  * * * * seem. 
Straight  as  the  fox-glove,  ere  her  bells  dis- 
close. 

Mild  as  the  maiden-blushing  hawthorn  blows. 
Fair  as  the  fairest  of  each  lovely  kind. 

Your  form  shall  be  the  image  of  your  mind ; 
Your  manners  shall  so  true  your  soul  express, 
That  all  shall  long  to  know  the  worth  they 
guess ; [love. 

Congenial  hearts  shall  greet  with  kindred 
And  even  sick’ning  Envy  must  approve. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CLXIII* 

TO  MR.  (85) 

March , 1789. 

My  Dear  Sir — The  hurry  of  a farmer 
in  this  particular  season,  and  the  indolence  of 
a poet  at  all  times  and  seasons,  will,  I hope, 
plead  my  excuse  for  neglecting  so  long  to 
answer  your  obliging  letter  of  the  5th  of 
August. 

That  you  have  done  well  in  quitting  your 
laborious  concern  in  * * *,  I do  not 

doubt;  the  weighty  reasons  you  mention, 
were,  I hope,  very,  and  deservedly  indeed, 
weighty  ones,  and  your  health  is  a matter  of 
the  last  importance;  but  whether  the  re- 
maining proprietors  of  the  paper  have  also 
done  well,  is  what  I much  doubt.  The 
• * * *,  so  far  as  I was  a reader,  exhi- 

bited such  a brilliancy  of  point,  such  an 
elegance  of  paragraph,  and  such  a variety  of 
intelligence,  that  I can  hardly  conceive  it 
possible  to  continue  a daily  paper  in  the  same 
degree  of  excellence  : but  if  there  was  a man, 
who  had  abilities  equal  to  the  task,  that 
man’s  assistance  the  proprietors  have  lost. 


When  I received  your  letter  I was  trans* 
cribing  for  * * * * my  letter  to  the 

magistrates  of  the  Canongate,  Edinburgh, 
begging  their  permission  to  place  a tombv 
stone  over  poor  Fergusson,  and  their  edict  in 
consequence  of  my  petition,  but  now  I shall 

send  them  to . Poor  Fergusson  ! If 

there  be  a life  beyond  the  grave,  which  I 
trust  there  is ; and  if  there  be  a good  God 
presiding  over  all  nature,  which  I am  sure 
there  is — thou  art  now  enjoying  existence  in 
a glorious  world,  where  worth  of  the  heart 
alone  is  distinction  in  the  man;  where  riches, 
deprived  of  all  their  pleasure-purchasing 
powers,  return  to  their  native  sordid  matter; 
where  titles  and  honours  are  the  disregarded 
revel  ies  of  an  idle  dream : and  where  that 
heavy  virtue,  which  is  the  negative  conse- 
quence of  steady  dulness,  and  those  thought- 
less, though  often  destructive  follies,  which 
are  the  unavoidable  aberrations  of  frail 
human  nature,  will  be  thrown  into  equal 
oblivion  as  if  they  had  never  been ! 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir!  So  soon  as  your 
present  views  and  schemes  are  concentered 
in  an  aim,  I shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you ; 
as  your  welfare  and  happiness  are  by  no  meant 
indifferent  to,  yours,  R.  B. 


NO.  CLX1II. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Ellisland,  March  23rd,  1789 
Sir — The  gentleman  who  will  deliver  tliit 
is  a Mr.  Neil  son,  a worthy  clergyman  in  my 
neighbourhood  (86),  and  a very  particular 
acquaintance  of  mine.  As  I have  troubled 
him  with  this  packet,  I must  turn  him  over 
to  your  goodness,  to  recompense  him  for  it 
in  a way  in  which  he  much  needs  your  assist- 
ance, and  where  you  can  effectually  serve 
him.  Mr.  Neilson  is  on  his  way  for  France, 
to  wait  on  his  Grace  of  Queensbury,  on  some 
little  business  of  a good  deal  of  importance 
to  him,  and  he  wishes  for  your  instructions 
respecting  the  most  eligible  mode  of  travel- 
ling, &c.  for  him,  when  he  has  crossed  the 
Channel.  I should  not  have  dared  to  take 
this  liberty  with  you,  but  that  I am  told,  by 
those  who"  have  the  honour  of  your  personal 
acquaintance,  that  to  be  a poor  honest 
Scotchman  is  a letter  of  recommendation  to 
you,  and  that  to  have  it  in  your  power  ta 
serve  such  a character,  gives  you  nuch 
J pleasure. 


TO  MR.  HILL. 


The  enel  )sed  Ode  is  a compliment  to  the 
memory  of  the  late  Mrs.  Oswald  of  Au- 
chencruive.  You  probably  knew  her  per- 
sonally, an  honour  of  which  I cannot 
boast ; but  I spent  my  early  years  in  her 
neighbourhood,  and  among  her  servants  and 
tenants.  I know  that  she  was  detested  with 
the  most  heartfelt  cordiality.  However, 
in  the  particular  part  of  her  conduct  which 
roused  my  poetic  wrath,  she  was  much  less 
blameable.  In  January  last,  on  my  road  to 
Ayrshire,  I had  put  up  at  Bailie  Wliigham’s, 
in  Sanquhar,  the  only  tolerable  inn  in  the 
place.  The  frost  was  keen,  and  the  grim 
evening  and  howling  wind  were  ushering  in 
a night  of  snow  and  drift.  My  horse  and  I 
were  both  much  fatigued  with  the  labours 
of  the  day,  and  just  as  my  friend  the  Bailie 
and  I were  bidding  defiance  to  the  storm, 
over  a smoking  bowl,  in  wheels  the  funeral 
pageantry  of  the  late  great  Mrs.  Oswald, 
and  poor  I am  forced  to  brave  all  the  hor- 
rors of  the  tempestuous  night,  and  jade  my 
horse,  my  young  favourite  horse,  whom  I 
had  just  christened  Pegasus,  twelve  miles 
farther  on,  through  the  wildest  moors  and 
hills  of  Ayrshire,  to  New  Cumnock,  the 
next  inn.  The  powers  of  poesy  and  prose 
sink  under  me,  when  I would  describe  what 
I felt.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  when  a good 
fire  at  New  Cumnock  had  so  far  recovered 
my  frozen  sinews,  I sat  down  and  wrote  the 
enclosed  Ode. 

I was  at  Edinburgh  lately,  and  settled 
finally  with  Mr.  Creech ; and  I must  own, 
that  at  last  he  has  been  amicable  and  fair 

with  me. 

R B.  (87) 


NO.  CLXV. 

TO  MR.  HILL. 

Ellisland,  April  2nd,  1789. 

I will  make  no  excuse,  my  dear  Biblio- 
polus,  (God  forgive  me  for  murdering  lan- 
guage !)  that  I have  sat  down  to  write  you 
on  this  vile  paper. 

It  is  economy.  Sir;  it  is  that  cardinal 
virtue,  prudence  ; so  I beg  you  will  sit  down, 
and  either  compose  or  borrow  a panegy  ric. 
If  you  are  going  to  borrow,  apply  to  * * 

* * to  compose,  or  rather  to  compoun  1, 

something  very  clever  on  my  remarkable 
frugality  ; that  I write  to  one  of  my  most 
esteemed  friends  on  this  wretched  paper, 
which  was  originally  intended  for  the 
Venal  fist  ol  some  drunken  exciseman,  to 


845 

take  dirty  notes  in  a miserable  vault  of  an 
ale-cellar. 

Oh  Frugality ! thou  mother  of  ten  thou- 
sand blessings — thou  cook  of  fat  beef  and 
dainty  greens  ! — thou  manufacturer  of  warm 
Shetland  hose  and  comfortable  surtouts  ! — 
thou  old  housewife,  darning  thy  decayed 
stockings  with  thy  ancient  spectacles  on  thy 
aged  nose! — lead  me,  hand  me  in  thy 
clutching  palsied  fist,  up  those  heights,  and 
through  those  thickets,  hitherto  inaccessible 
and  impervious  to  my  anxious,  weary  feet — 
not  those  Parnassian  crags,  bleak  and 
barren,  where  the  hungry  worshippers  of 
fame  are,  breathless,  clambering,  hanging 
between  heaven  and  hell,  but  those  glittering 
cliffs  of  Potosi,  where  the  all-sufficient,  all- 
powerful  deity,  wealth,  holds  his  immediate 
court  of  joys  and  pleasures : where  the 
sunny  exposure  of  plenty,  and  the  hot  walls 
of  profusion,  produce  those  blissful  fruits  of 
luxury,  exotics  in  this  world,  and  natives  of 
paradise ! Thou  withered  sibyl,  my  sage 
conductress,  usher  me  into  thy  refulgent, 
adored  presence!  The  poet,  splendid  and 
potent  as  he  now  is,  was  once  the  puling 
nursling  of  thy  faithful  care  and  tender 
arms ! Call  me  thy  son,  thy  cousin,  thy, 
kinsman,  or  favourite,  and  adjure  the  god 
by  the  scenes  of  his  infant  years,  no  longer 
to  repulse  me  as  a stranger,  or  an  alien,  but 
to  favour  me  with  his  peculiar  countenance 
and  protection ! He  daily  bestows  his 
greatest  kindness  on  the  undeserving  and 
the  worthless — assure  him  that  I bring 
ample  documents  of  meritorious  demerits! 
Pledge  yourself  for  me,  that  for  the  glori- 
ous cause  of  lucre,  I will  do  anything,  be 
anything,  but  the  horse-leach  of  pri- 
vate oppression,  or  the  vulture  of  public 
robbery  ! 

But  to  descend  from  heroics. 

I want  a Shakspeare  ; I want  likewise  an 
English  dictionary — Johnson’s,  I suppose,  i3 
best.  In  these  and  all  my  prose  commissions, 
the  cheapest  is  always  the  best  for  me. 
There  is  a small  debt  of  honour  that  I owe 
Mr.  Robert  Cleghorn,  in  Saughton  Mills, 
my  worthy  friend,  and  your  well-wisher. 
Please  give  him,  and  urge  him  to  take  it,  the 
first  time  you  see  him,  ten  shillings’  worth  of 
any  thing  you  have  to  sell,  and  place  it  to 
my  account. 

The  library  scheme  that  I mentioned  to 
you  is  already  begun,  under  the  direction  of 
Captain  Riddel.  There  is  another  in  emu- 
lation of  it  going  on  at  Closeburn,  under  the 
auspices  of  Mr.  Monteath  cf  Closeburn, 
which  will  be  on  a greater  scale  than  ours. 
Captain  Riddel  gave  his  infant  society  a great 


*46  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


many  of  his  old  books,  else  I had  written  you 
on  that  subject ; but,  one  of  these  days,  I 
shall  trouble  you  with  a commission  Jfor 
“The  Monkland  Friendly  Society.”  ‘A 
c<py  of  The  Spectator,  Mirror,  and  Lounger, 
Man  of  Feeling,  Man  of  the  World,  Guthrie’s 
Geographical  Grammar,  with  some  religious 
pieces,  will  likely  be  our  first  order. 

When  I grow  richer,  I will  write  to  you 
on  gilt-post,  to  make  amends  for  this  sheet. 
At  present  every  guinea  has  a five  guinea 
errand  with,  my  dear  Sir,  your  faithful,  poor, 
but  honest  friend,  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  April  4 th,  1789. 

I NO  sooner  hit  on  any  poetic  plan  or 
fancy,  but  I wish  to  send  it  to  you ; and  if 
knowing  and  reading  these  give  half  the 
pleasure  to  you,  that  communicating  them 
to  you  gives  to  me,  I am  satisfied. 

I have  a poetic  whim  in  my  head,  which  I 
at  present  dedicate,  or  rather  inscribe,  to  the 
Right.  Hon.  Charles  James  Fox;  but  how 
long  that  fancy  may  hold,  I cannot  say.  A 
few  of  the  first  lines  I have  just  rough 
sketched  as  follows : — 

" SKETCH. 

How  wisdom  and  folly  meet,  mix,  and  unite; 
How  virtue  and  vice  blend  their  black  and 
their  white ; 

How  genius,  the  illustrious  father  of  fiction. 
Confounds  rule  and  law,  reconciles  contra- 
diction— [bustle, 

I sing : if  these  mortals,  the  critics,  should 
I care  not,  not  I,  let  the  critics  go  whistle. 

But  now  for  a patron,  whose  name  and 
whose  glory. 

At  once  may  illustrate  and  honour  my  story. 

Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits. 
Yet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem 
mere  lucky  hits ; [so  strong, 

With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment 
No  man  with  the  half  of  ’em  e’er  went  far 
wrong ; [bright. 

With  passions  so  potent,  and  fancies  so 
No  man  with  the  half  of  ’em  e’er  went  quite 
right ; 

A sorry,  poor  misbegot  son  of  the  muses, 
For  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses.” 


On  the  20th  current  I hope  to  have  the 
honour  of  assuring  you  in  person,  how  sin- 
cerely I am,  yours,  &c.  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXVII. 

TO  MRS.  M'MURDO, 

DRUMLANRIG.  (88) 

Ellisland,  May  2nd,  1789. 

Madam — I have  finished  the  piece  whica 
had  the  happy  fortune  to  be  honoured  with 
your  approbation ; and  never  did  little  Miss 
with  more  sparkling  pleasure  show  her  ap- 
plauded sampler  to  partial  Mamma,  than  I 
now  send  my  poem  to  you  and  Mr.  M'Murdo, 
if  he  is  returned  to  Drumlanrig.  You  cannot 
easily  imagine  what  thin-skinned  animals, 
what  sensitive  plants,  poor  poets  are.  How 
do  we  shrink  into  the  embittered  corner  of 
self-abasement,  whenneglected  or  condemned 
by  those  to  whom  we  look  up  ! and  how  do 
we,  in  erect  importance,  add  another  cubit  to 
our  stature,  on  being  noticed  and  applauded 
by  those  whom  we  honour  and  respect ! My 
late  visit  to  Drumlanrig  has,  I can  tell  you. 
Madam,  given  me  a balloon  waft  up  Parnas- 
sus, where  on  my  fancied  elevation  I regard 
my  poetic  self  with  no  small  degree  of  com- 
placency. Surely,  with  all  their  sins,  the 
rhyming  tribe  are  not  ungrateful  creatures. 
I recollect  your  goodness  to  your  humble 
guest — I see  Mr.  M'Murdo  adding  to  the 
politeness  of  the  gentleman  the  kindness  of 
a friend,  and  my  heart  swells  as  it  would 
burst,  with  warm  emotions  and  ardent 
wishes  ! It  may  be  it  is  not  gratitude — it 
may  be  a mixed  sensation.  That  strange, 
shifting,  doubling  animal,  man,  is  so  gene- 
rally, at  best,  but  a negative,  often  a worth- 
less creature,  that  we  cannot  see  real  goodness 
and  native  worth,  without  feeling  the  bosom 
glow  with  sympathetic  approbation.  With 
every  sentiment  of  grateful  respect,  I have 
the  honour  to  be.  Madam,  your  obliged  and 
grateful  humble  servant.  R.  B 


NO.  CLXVIII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  May  4 th,  1789. 

My  Dear  Sir — Your  duty-free  favour  of 
the  26th  April  I received  two  days  ago;  I 


TO  RICHARD  BROWN.  S4T 


will  not  say  I perused  it  with  pleasure — 
that  is  the  cold  compliment  of  ceremony — I 
perused  it,  Sir,  with  delicious  satisfaction ; 
in  short,  it  is  such  a letter,  that  not  you,  nor 
your  friend,  but  the  legislature,  by  express 
proviso  in  their  postage  laws,  should  frank. 

A letter  informed  with  the  soul  of  friendship 
is  such  an  honour  to  human  nature,  that 
they  should  order  it  free  ingress  and  egress 
to  and  from  their  bags  and  mails,  as  an  en- 
couragement and  mark  of  distinction  to 
supereminent  virtue. 

I have  just  put  the  last  hand  to  a little 
poem,  which  I think  will  be  something  to 
your  taste.  One  morning  lately,  as  I was 
out  pretty  early  in  the  fields,  sowing  some 
grass  seeds,  I heard  the  burst  of  a shot  from 
a neighbouring  plantation,  and  presently  a 
poor  little  wounded  hare  came  crippling  by 
me.  You  will  guess  my  indignation  at  the 
inhuman  fellow  who  could  shoot  a hare  at 
this  season,  when  all  of  them  have  young 
ones.  Indeed,  there  is  something  in  that 
business,  of  destroying  for  our  sport  indi- 
viduals in  the  animal  creation  that  do  not 
injure  us  materially,  which  I could  never 
reconcile  to  my  ideas  of  virtue. 

Inhuman  man  ! curse  on  thy  barb’rous  art. 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye ! 

May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a sigh. 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart ! 

Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field. 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains  ; 

No  more  the  thickening  brakes  or  verdant 
plains, 

To  thee  a home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  innocent,  some  wonted  form ; 
That  wonted  form,  alas  ! thy  dying  bed, 

The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o’er  thy 
head,  " [warm. 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  blood  stain’d  bosom 

Perhaps  a mother’s  anguish  adds  its  woe  ; 

The  playful  pair  crowd  fondly  by  thy  side  ; 
Ah!  helpless  nurslings,  who  will  now  pro- 
That  life  a mother  only  can  bestow  ? [vide 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn. 

I’ll  miss  thee  sporting  o’er  the  dewy  lawn. 
And  curse  the  ruthless  wretch,  and  mourn 
thy  hapless  fate. 

Let  me  know  how  you  like  my  poem.  I 
am  doubtful  whether  it  would  not  be  an  im- 
provement to  keep  out  the  last  stanza  but 
one  altogether. 

Cruikshank  is  a glorious  production  of  the 

•ir.thor  of  man.  You,  he,  and  the  noble 

31 


Colonel  of  the  Crochallan  Fencibles  are  to 
me — 

Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  which  warm  my 
heart. 

I have  got  a good  mind  to  make  verses  on 
you  all,  to  the  tune  of  “ Three  guid  Fellows 
ayont  the  Glen.”  R.  B.  (89) 


NO.  CLXIX. 

TO  MR.  SAMUEL  BROWN. 

Mossgiel,  May  4 th,  1789. 

Dear  Uncle — This,  I hope,  will  find 
you  and  your  conjugal  yoke-fellow  in  your 
good  old  way ; I am  impatient  to  know  if 
the  Ailsa  fowling  be  commenced  for  this 
season  yet,  as  I want  three  or  four  stones  of 
feathers,  and  I hope  you  will  bespeak  them 
for  me.  It  would  be  a vain  attempt  for  me 
to  enumerate  the  various  transactions  I have 
been  engaged  in  since  I saw  you  last,  but 
this  know,  I am  engaged  in  a smuggling 
trade , and  God  knows  if  ever  any  poor  man 
experienced  better  returns,  two  for  one; 
but  as  freight  and  delivery  have  turned  out 
so  dear,  l am  thinking  of  taking  out  a 
licence  and  beginning  in  fair  trade.  I have 
taken  a farm  on  the  borders  of  the  Nith, 
and,  in  imitation  of  the  old  patriarchs,  get 
men-servants  and  maid-servants,  and  flocks 
and  herds,  and  beget  sons  and  daughters. 
Your  obedient  nephew,  JL  B. 


NO.  CLXX. 

TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Mauchline , May  1st,  1789. 

My  Dear  Friend — I was  in  the  country 
by  accident,  and  hearing  of  your  safe  arrival, 
I could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  wishing 
you  joy  on  your  return — wishing  you  would 
write  to  me  before  you  sail  again — wishing 
you  would  always  set  me  down  as  your 
bosom  friend — wishing  you  long  life  and 
prosperity,  and  that  every  good  thing  may 
attend  you — wishing  Mrs.  Brown  and  your 
little  ones  as  free  of  the  evils  of  this 
world  as  is  consistent  with  humanity- 
wishing  you  and  she  were  to  make  two  at 
the  ensuing  lying-in,  with  which  Mrs.  B. 
threatens  very  soon  to  favour  me — wishing 
I had  longer  time  to  write  to  you  at 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


present ; and,  finally,  wishing  that,  if  there 
is  to  be  another  state  of  existence,  Mr.  B., 
Mrs.  B.,  our  little  ones,  and  both  families, 
and  you  and  I,  in  snug  retreat,  may  make  a 
jovial  party  to  all  eternity  ! 

My  direction  is  at  Ellisland,  near  Dum- 
fries. Youis,  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXXI. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  HAMILTON. 

Ellisland,  May  26th,  1789. 

Dear  Sir — I send  you  by  John  Glover, 
carrier,  the  above  account  for  Mr.  Turnbull, 
as  I suppose  you  know  his  address. 

I would  fain  offer,  my  dear  Sir,  a word  of 
sympathy  with  your  misfortunes : but  it  is 
a tender  string,  and  I know  not  how  to 
touch  it.  It  is  easy  to  flourish  a set  of 
high-flown  sentiments  on  the  subjects  that 
would  give  great  satisfaction  to — a breast 
quite  at  ease ; but  as  one  observes  who 
was  very  seldom  mistaken  in  the  theory  of 
life,  “The  heart  knoweth  its  own  sorrows, 
and  a stranger  intermeddleth  not  there- 
wi  th.” 

Among  some  distressful  emergencies  that 
I have  experienced  in  life,  I ever  laid  this 
down  as  my  foundation  of  comfort —That  he 
who  has  lived  the  life  of  an  honest  man,  has 
by  no  means  lived  in  vain  ! 

With  every  wish  for  your  welfare  and 
future  success,  I am,  my  dear  Sir,  sincerely 
yours,  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXXII. 

TO  WILLIAM  CREECH,  Eso. 

Ellisland,  May  30 th,  1789. 

Sir — I had  intended  to  have  troubled 
you  with  a long  letter  ; but  at  present  the 
delightful  sensation  of  an  omnipotent  tooth- 
ache so  engrosses  all  my  inner  man,  as  to  put 
it  out  of  my  power  even  to  write  nonsense.. 
However,  as  in  duty  bound,  I approach 
any  bookseller  with  an  offering  in  my  hand 
• — a few  poetic  clinches,  and  a song  : — to 
expect  any  other  kind  of  offering  from  the 
rhyming  tribe  would  be  to  know  them  much 
less  than  you  do.  I do  not  pretend  that 
there  is  much  merit  in  these  morceaux , hut 
1 have  two  reasons  for  sending  them ; primo, 
they  are  mostly  ill-natured,  so  are  in  unison 
¥ ith  my  present  feelings,  w hile  fifty  troops 


of  infernal  spirits  are  driving  post  from  eaf 
to  ear  along  my  jaw-bones  ; and,  secondly . 
they  are  so  short,  that  you  cannot  leave  off 
in  the  middle,  and  so  hurt  my  pride  in  the 
idea  that  you  found  any  work  of  mine  too 
heavy  to  get  through. 

I have  a request  to  beg  of  you,  and  I cot 
only  beg  of  you,  but  conjure  you,  by  all 
your  wishes  and  by  all  your  hopes,  that  the 
muse  will  spare  the  satiric  wink  in  the 
moment  of  your  foibles ; that  she  will 
warble  the  song  of  rapture  round  youf 
hymeneal  couch ; and  that  she  will  shed  oa 
your  turf  the  honest  tear  of  elegiac  grati- 
tude! Grant  my  request  as  speedily  as 
possible — send  me  by  the  very  first  fly  or 
coach  from  this  place,  three  copies  of  the 
last  edition  of  my  poems,  which  place  to  my 
account. 

Now  may  the  good  things  of  prose,  and 
the  good  things  of  verse,  come  among  thy 
hands,  until  they  be  filled  with  the  good 
things  of  this  life,  prayeth  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXXII1. 

TO  MR.  M’AULEY,  OF  DUMBARTON. 

Ellisland,  June  4 th,  1789. 

Dear  Sir — Though  I am  not  without 
my  fears  respecting  my  fate,  at  that  grand, 
universal  inquest  of  right  and  wrong,  com- 
monly called  The  Last  Bay,  yet  I trust 
there  is  one  sin,  which  that  arch-vagabond, 
Satan,  who  I understand  is  to  be  king’s  evi- 
dence, cannotthrow  in  my  teeth, — I mean 
ingratitude.  There  is  a certain  pretty  large 
quantum  of  kindness  for  which  I remain,  and 
from  inability,  I fear  must  still  remain,  your 
debtor;  but  though  unable  to  repay  the 
debt,  I assure  you.  Sir,  I shall  ever  warmly 
remember  the  obligation.  It  gives  me  the 
sincerest  pleasure  to  hear  by  my  old  acquaint- 
ance, Mr.  Kennedy,  that  you  are,  in  immor- 
tal Allan’s  language,  “ Hale,  and  weel,  and 
living ; ” and  that  your  charming  family  are 
well,  and  promising  to  be  an  amiable  and 
respectable  addition  to  the  company  of  per- 
formers, whom  the  Great  Manager  of  the 
Drama  of  Man  is  bringing  into  action  for 
the  succeeding  age. 

With  respect  to  my  welfare,  a subject  in 
which  you  once  warmly  and  effectively  in- 
terested yourself,  I am  here  in  my  old  way, 
holding  my  plough,  marking  the  growth  of 
my  corn,  or  the  health  of  my  dairy ; arid  at 
times  sauntering  by  the  delightful  winding* 


TO  MR.  M‘MURDO. 


S43 


of  the  Nith,  on  the  margin  of  which  I have 
built  my  humble  domicile,  praying  for  sea- 
sonable weather,  or  holding  an  intrigue  with 
the  Muses,  the  only  gipsies  with  whom  I 
have  now  any  intercourse.  As  I am  entered 
into  the  holy  state  of  matrimony,  I trust  my 
face  is  turned  completely  Zion-ward ; and 
as  it  is  a rule  with  all  honest  fellows  to 
repeat  no  grievances,  I hope  that  the  little 
poetic  licences  of  former  days  will,  of  course, 
fall  under  the  oblivious  influence  of  some 
good  matured  statute  of  celestial  prescription. 
In  my  family  devotion,  which,  like  a good 
Presbyterian,  I occasionally  give  to  my 
household  folks,  I am  extremely  fond  of  the 
psalm,  "Let  not  the  errors  of  my  youth,” 
&c.,  and  that  other,  “Lo!  children  are  God’s 
heritage,”  & c.,  in  which  last  Mrs.  Burns, 
who,  by  the  bye,  has  a glorious  “ wood-note 
wild  ” at  either  old  song  or  psalmody,  joins 
toe  with  the  pathos  of  Handel’s  Messiah. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CLXXIV. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

Ellisland,  June  8 tk,  1789. 

My  dear  Friend — I am  perfectly 
ashamed  of  myself  when  I look  at  the  date 
of  your  last.  It  is  not  that  I forget  the 
friend  of  my  heart  and  the  companion  of  my 
peregrinations  ; but  I have  been  condemned 
to  drudgery  beyond  sufferance,  though  not, 
thank  God,  beyond  redemption.  I have  had 
collection  of  poems  by  a lady  put  into  my 
bands  to  prepare  them  for  the  press ; which 
horrid  task,  with  sowing  corn  with  ray  own 
hand,  a parcel  of  masons,  wrights,  plasterers, 
&c.,  to  attend  to,  roaming  on  business 
through  Ayrshire — all  this  was  against  me, 
and  the  very  first  dreadful  article  was  of 
itself  too  much  for  me. 

13th. — I have  not  had  a moment  to  spare 
from  incessant  toil  since  the  8th.  Life,  my 
dear  Sir,  is  a serious  matter.  You  know, 
by  experience,  that  a man’s  individual  self  is 
a good  deal,  but  believe  me,  a wife  and 
a family  of  children,  whenever  you  have  the 
honour  to  be  a husband  and  a father,  will 
show  you  that  youi  present  and  most 
anxious  hours  of  solitude  are  spent  on 
trifles.  The  welfare  of  those  who  are  very 
dear  to  us,  whose  only  support  hope  and 
stay  we  are — this,  to  a generous  mind,  is 
another  sort  of  more  important  object  of 
care  than  any  concerns  whatever  which 
centre  merely  in  the  individual.  On  the 


other  hand,  let  no  young,  unmarried,  lake- 
belly  dog  among  you,  make  a song  of  hia 
pretended  liberty  and  freedom  from  care 
If  the  relations  we  stand  in  to  king,  country, 
kindred,  and  friends,  be  any  thing  but  the 
visionary  fancies  of  dreaming  metaphy- 
sicians; if  religion,  virtue,  magnanimity, 
generosity,  humanity,  and  justice,  be  ought 
but  empty  sounds  ; then  the  man  who  may 
be  said  to  live  only  for  others,  for  the 
beloved,  honourable  female,  whose  tender 
faithful  embraces  endears  life,  and  for  the 
helpless  little  innocents  who  are  to  be  the 
men  and  women,  the  worshippers  of  his  God, 
the  subjects  of  his  king,  and  the  support,  nay 
the  very  vital  existence,  of  his  country,  in 
the  ensuing  age — compare  such  a man  with 
any  fellow  whatever,  who,  whether  he  bustle 
and  push  in  business  among  labourers, 
clerks,  statesmen ; or  whether  he  roar  arid 
rant,  and  drink  and  sing  in  taverns — a 
fellow  over  whose  grave  no  one  will  breathe 
a single  heigh-ho,  except  from  the  cobweb-tie 
of  what  is  called  good  fellowship — who  has 
no  view  nor  aim  but  what  terminates  in 
himself — if  there  be  any  grovelling  earth- 
born  wretch  of  our  species,  a renegade  to 
common  sense,  who  would  fain  believe  that 
the  noble  creature  man  is  no  better  than  a 
sort  of  fungus,  generated  out  of  nothing, 
nobody  knows  how,  and  soon  dissipating  in 
nothing  nobody  knows  where ; such  a stupid 
beast,  such  a crawling  reptile,  might  balance 
the  foregoing  unexaggerated  comparison,  but 
no  one  else  would  have  the  patience. 

Forgive  me,  my  dear  Sir,  for  this  long 
silence.  To  make  you  amends,  I shall  send 
you  soon,  and  more  encouraging  still, 
without  any  postage,  one  or  two  rhymes  of 
my  later  manufacture.  R.  B 


NO.  CLXXY. 

TO  MR.  M’MURDO. 

Ellisland , June  19th,  1789. 

Sir — A poet  and  a beggar  are,  in  so  many 
points  of  view,  alike,  that  one  might  take 
them  for  the  same  individual  character  unde? 
different  designations;  were  it  not  that 
though,  with  a trifling  poetic  licence,  most 
poets  may  be  styled  beggars,  yet  the  con- 
verse of  the  proposition  does  not  hold,  that 
every  beggar  is  a poet.  In  one  particular, 
however,  they  remarkably  agree ; if  you  help 
either  the  one  or  the  other  to  a mug  of  ale, 
or  the  picking  of  a bone,  they  will  very  wil- 
lingly repay  you  with  a song.  This  occult 


CORRESPONDENCE  OE  BURNS. 


S5u 


to  me  at  present,  as  I have  just  dispatcher]  a 
well  lined  rib  of  John  Kirkpatrick’s  High- 
lander— a bargain  for  which  I am  indebted 
to  you,  in  the  style  of  our  ballad  printers, 
“Five  excellent  new  songs/’  The  enclosed 
is  nearly  my  newest  song,  and  one  that  lias 
cost  me  some  pains,  though  that  is  but  an 
equivocal  mark  of  its  excellence.  Two  or 
three  others,  which  I have  by  me,  shall  do 
themselves  the  honour  to  wait  on  your  after 
leisure : petitioners  for  admittance  into  favour, 
must  not  harass  the  condescension  of  their 
benefactor. 

You  see.  Sir,  what  it  is  to  patronise  a poet. 
*Tis  like  being  a magistrate  in  a petty 
o rough;  you  do  them  the  favour  to  preside 
n their  council  for  one  year,  and  your  name 
ears  the  prefatory  stigma  of  bailie  for  life. 
With,  not  the  compliments,  but  the  best 
shes,  the  sincerest  prayers  of  the  season 
r you,  that  you  may  see  many  and  happy 
years  with  Mrs.  M’Murdo,  and  your  family ; 
two  blessings,  by  the  bye,  to  which  your 
lank  does  not,  by  any  means,  entitle  you — 
a loving  wife  and  fine  family  being  almost 
the  only  good  things  of  this  life  to  which 
the  farm-house  and  cottage  have  an  exclu- 
sive right.  I have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir, 
your  much  indebted  and  very  humble  ser- 
vant, B.  B. 


NO.  CLXXVh 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  June  21$f,  1789. 

Dear  Madam — Will  you  take  the  effu- 
sions, the  miserable  effusions  of  low  spirits, 
just  as  they  flow  from  their  bitter  spring  ? 

1 know  not  of  any  particular  cause  for  this 
worst  of  all  my  foes  besetting  me ; but  for 
some  time  my  soul  has  been  beclouded  with 
a thickening  atmosphere  of  evil  imaginations 
and  gloomy  presages. 

Monday  Evening . 

T have  just  heard  Mr.  Kirkpatrick  preach 
« sermon.  He  is  a man  famous  for  his 
benevolence,  and  I revere  him ; but,  from 
such  ideas  of  my  Creator,  good  Lord,  deliver 
me ! Religion,  my  honoured  friend,  is  surely 
a simple  business,  as  it  equally  concerns  the 
ignorant  and  the  learned,  the  poor  and  the 
rich.  That  there  is  an  incomprehensible 
Great  Being,  to  whom  I owe  my  existence, 
and  that  he  must  be  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  operations  and  progress  of  the  in- 
ternal machinery,  and  consequent  outward  ' 


deportment  of  this  creature  which  he  has 
made — these  are,  I taink,  self-evident  propo* 
sitions.  That  there  is  a real  and  et<rra! 
distinction  between  virtue  and  vice,  and  con 
sequently,  that  I am  an  accountable  creature ; 
that  from  the  seeming  nature  of  the  human 
mind,  as  well  as  from  the  evident  imperfec- 
tion, nay,  positive  injustice,  in  the  adminis- 
tration of  affairs,  both  in  the  natural  and 
moral  worlds,  there  must  be  a retributive 
scene  of  existence  beyond  the  grave — must, 
I think,  be  allowed  by  every  one  who  will 
give  himself  a moment’s  reflection.  I will 
go  farther,  and  affirm,  that  from  the  sub- 
limity, excellence,  and  purity  of  his  doctrine 
and  precepts,  unparalleled  by  all  the  aggre- 
gated wisdom  and  learning  of  many  preceding 
ages,  though,  to  appearance,  he  himself  was 
the  obscurest  and  most  illiterate  of  our 
species — therefore  Jesus  Christ  was  from 
God. 

Whatever  mitigates  the  woes,  or  increases 
the  happiness  of  others,  this  is  my  criterion 
of  goodness;  and  whatever  injures  society 
at  large,  or  any  individual  in  it,  this  is  my 
measure  of  iniquity. 

What  think  you.  Madam,  of  my  creed? 
I trust  that  I have  said  nothing  that  will 
lessen  me  in  the  eye  of  one  whose  good 
opinion  I value  almost  next  to  the  approba* 
tion  of  my  own  mind.  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXXVH. 

TO  MISS  WILLIAMS.  (90) 

Ellisland,  1 789. 

Madam — Of  the  many  problems  in  the 
nature  of  that  wonderful  creature,  man,  this 
is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary : — that  he 
shall  go  on  from  day  to  day,  from  week  to 
week,  from  month  to  month,  or  perhaps 
from  year  to  year,  suffering  a hundred  times 
more  in  an  hour  from  the  impotent  consci- 
ousness of  neglecting  what  he  ought  to  do, 
than  the  very  doing  of  it  would  cost  him.  I 
am  deeply  indebted  to  you,  first,  for  a most 
elegant  poetic  compliment ; then,  for  a polite, 
obliging  letter ; and,  lastly,  for  your  excellent 
poem  on  the  slave-trade;  and  yet,  wretch 
that  I am  ! though  the  debts  were  debts  of 
honour,  and  the  creditor  a lady,  I have  pu* 
off  and  put  off  even  the  very  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  obligation,  until  you  must  indeed 
be  the  very  angel  I take  you  for,  if  you  can 
forgive  me. 

Your  poem  I have  read  with  the  highest 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


351 


p;easure  I have  a w ay  whenever  I read  a 
’,.iok  — 1 mean  a book  in  our  own  trade. 
Via  dam,  a poetic  one — and  when  it  is  my 
ov vn  property,  that  I take  a pencil  and  mark 
at  the  ends  of  verses,  or  note  on  margins  and 
odd  paper,  little  criticisms  of  approbation  or 
disapprobation  as  I peruse  along.  I will 
make  no  apology  for  presenting  you  with  a 
few  unconnected  thoughts  that  occurred  to 
me  in  my  repeated  perusals  of  your  poem. 
I want  to  show  you  that  I have  honesty 
enough  to  tell  you  what  I take  to  be  truths, 
even  when  they  are  not  quite  on  the  side  of 
approbation ; and  I do  it  in  the  firm  faith 
that  you  have  equal  greatness  of  mind  to 
hear  them  with  pleasure. 

I had  lately  the  honour  of  a letter  from 
Dr.  Moore,  where  he  tells  me  that  he  has 
sent  me  some  books ; they  are  not  yet  come 
to  hand,  but  I hear  they  are  on  the  way. 

Wishing  you  all  success  in  your  progress 
in  the  path  of  fame,  and  that  you  may 
equally  escape  the  danger  of  stumbling 
through  incautious  speed,  or  losing  ground 
through  loitering  neglect.  R.  B.  (91) 


WO.  CLXXVIII. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  LOGAN.  (92) 
Ellisland , near  Dumfries,  Aug.  7th,  1789. 

Dear  Sir — I intended  to  have  written 
you  long  ere  now,  and,  as  I told  you,  I had 
gotten  three  stanzas  and  a half  on  my  way 
in  a poetic  epistle  to  you;  but  that  old 
enemy  of  all  good  works,  the  devil,  threw  me 
into  a prosaic  mire,  and  for  the  soul  of  me  I 
cannot  get  out  of  it.  I dare  not  write  you 
a long  letter,  as  I am  going  to  intrude  on 
your  time  with  a long  ballad.  I have,  as  you 
w ill  shortly  see,  finished  “ The  Kirk’s  Alarm;” 
but  now  that  it  is  done,  and  I have  laughed 
once  or  twice  at  the  conceits  in  some  of  the 
stanzas,  I am  determined  not  to  let  it  get 
into  the  public;  so  I send  you  this  copy, 
the  first  I have  sent  to  A yrshire,  except  some 
few  of  the  stanzas,  which  I wrote  off  in 
embryo,  for  Gavin  Hamilton,  under  the 
express  provision  and  request  that  you  will 
only  read  it  to  a few  of  us,  and  do  not  on 
any  account  give,  or  permit  to  be  taken,  any 
copy  of  the  ballad.  If  I could  be  of  any 
service  to  Dr.  M‘Gill,  I would  do  it,  though 
it  should  be  at  a much  greater  expense  than 
irritating  a few  bigoted  priests;  but  I am 
afraid  serving  him  in  his  present  embarras  is 
a task  too  hard  for  me.  I have  enemies 
enow,  God  knows,  though  I do  not  wantonly 

81 


add  to  the  number.  Still,  as  I think  there  is 
some  merit  in  two  or  three  of  the  thoughts* 
I send  it  to  you  as  a small,  but  sincere 
testimony  how  much,  and  with  what  respect 
ful  esteem,  I am,  dear  Sir,  your  obliged 
humble  servant,  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXXIX. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP 

Ellisland,  Sept.  6th,  1789. 

Dear  Madam — I have  mentioned  in  my 
last,  my  appointment  to  the  Excise,  and  the 
birth  of  little  Frank;  who,  by  the  bye,  I 
trust  will  be  no  discredit  to  the  honourable 
name  of  Wallace,  as  he  has  a fine  manly 
countenance,  and  a figure  that  might  do 
credit  to  a little  fellow  two  months  older; 
and  likewise  an  excellent  good  temper,  though 
when  he  pleases  he  has  a pipe,  only  not 
quite  so  loud  as  the  horn  that  his  immortal 
namesake  blew,  as  a signal  to  take  out  the 
pin  of  Stirling  bridge. 

I had  some  time  ago  an  epistle,  part 
poetic  and  part  prosaic,  from  your  poetess, 
Mrs.  J.  Little,  a very  ingenious,  but  modest 
composition.  I should  have  written  her  as 
she  requested,  but  for  the  hurry  of  this  new 
business.  I have  heard  of  her  and  her  com* 
positions  in  this  country ; and,  I am  happy 
to  add,  always  to  the  honour  of  her  character. 
The  fact  is,  I know  not  well  how  to  write  to 
her ; I should  sit  down  to  a sheet  of  paper 
that  I kuew  not  how  to  stain.  I am  no  dab 
at  fine-drawn  letter- writing ; and,  except 
when  prompted  by  friendship  or  gratitude, 
or,  which  happens  extremely  rarely,  inspired 
by  the  muse  (I  know  not  her  name)  that 
presides  over  epistolary  writing,  I sit  down, 
when  necessitated  to  write,  as  I would  sit 
down  to  beat  hemp. 

Some  parts  of  your  letter  of  the  20th 
August,  struck  me  with  the  most  melan- 
choly concern  for  the  state  of  your  mind  at 
present. 

Would  I could  write  you  a letter  of  com- 
fort, I would  sit  down  to  it  with  as  much 
pleasure  as  I would  to  write  an  epic  poem  of 
my  own  composition,  that  should  equal  the 
Iliad.  Religion,  my  dear  friend,  is  the  true 
comfort ! A strong  persuasion  in  a future 
state  of  existence ; a proposition  so  obviously 
probable,  that,  setting  revelation  aside,  every 
nation  and  people,  so  far  as  investigation  has 
reached,  for  at  least  near  four  thousand 
years,  have,  in  some  mode  or  other,  firmly 
believed  it.  In  vain  would  we  reason  aud 


§52 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


pretend  to  <loubt.  I hare  myself  done  so  to 
ft  very  danug  pitch ; but  when  I reflected 
that  I was  opposing  the  most  ardent  wishes, 
ftnd  the  most  darling  hopes  of  good  men, 
and  flying  in  the  face  of  all  human  belief,  in 
all  ages,  I was  shocked  at  my  own  conduct. 

I know  not  whether  I have  ever  sent  you 
the  following  lines,  or  if  you  have  ever  seen 
them ; but  it  is  one  of  my  favourite  quota- 
tions, which  I keep  constantly  by  me  in  my 
rogress  through  life,  in  the  language  of  the 
ook  of  Job:— 

Against  the  day  of  battle  and  of  war- 
ip  oken  of  religion 

•’Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning 
bright, 

*Tis  this  that  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night. 
When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends 
are  few ; 

When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes 
pursue : 

*Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the 
smart, 

Disarms  affliction,  or  repels  his  dart ; 

Within  the  breast  bids  purest  raptures  rise, 
Bids  smiling  conscience  spread  her  cloudless 
skies.” 

I have  been  busy  with  Zeluco.  The 
doctor  is  so  obliging  as  to  request  my  opinion 
of  it ; and  I have  been  revolving  in  my  mind 
•ome  kind  of  criticisms  on  novel-writing,  but 
it  is  a depth  beyond  my  research.  I shall, 
however,  digest  my  thoughts  on  the  subject 
as  well  as  I can.  Zeluco  is  a most  sterling 
l»erformance. 

Farewell ! A Dieu , U bon  Dieu,  je  vout 
#o  mine  tide  l 


WO.  CLXXX. 

TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL,  CARSE. 

Ellisland,  Oct.  1 Qth,  1789. 

Sir-  "Big  with  the  idea  of  this  important 
day  at  Friars  C&rse,  I have  watched  the 
elements  and  skies  in  the  tull  persuasion 
that  they  would  announce  it  to  the  astonished 
w orld  by  some  phenomena  of  terrific  portent. 
Yesternight  until  a very  late  hour  did  I wait 
arith  anxious  horror  for  the  appearance  of  some 
comet  firing  half  the  sky;  or  aerial  armies  of 
sanguinary  Scandinavians,  darting  athwart 
the  startled  heavens,  rapid  as  the  ragged 
lightning,  and  horrid  as  those  convulsions  of 
nature  that  bury  nations. 

The  elements,  however,  seem  to  take  the 


matter  very  quietly;  they  did  not  even  usher 
in  this  morning  with  triple  suns  and  a 
shower  of  blood,  symbolical  of  the  three 
potent  heroes,  and  the  mighty  claret-shed  of 
the  day.  For  me,  as  Thomson  in  his 
Winter  says  of  the  storm — I shall  “ Hear 
astonished,  and  astonished  sing  ” 

The  whistle  and  the  man ; I sing 
The  man  that  won  the  whistle,  &c. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys. 

Three  merry  boys,  I tr.ow,  are  we ; 

And  mony  a night  we’ve  merry  been. 

And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be. 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 

A cuckold  coward  loun  is  he  : 

Wha  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa*. 

He  is  the  king  amang  us  three. 

To  leave  the  heights  of  Parnassus,  and 
come  to  the  humble  vale  of  prose.  I have 
some  misgivings  that  I take  too  much  upon 
me,  when  I request  you  to  get  your  guest. 
Sir  Robert  Lawrie,  to  frank  the  two  enclosed 
covers  for  me,  the  one  of  them  to  Sir 
William  Cunningham,  of  Robertland,  Bar* 
at  Kilmarnock — the  other,  to  Mr.  Allan 
Masterton,  Writing-Master,  Edinburgh.  The 
first  has  a kindred  claim  on  Sir  Robert,  as 
being  a brother  baronet,  and  likewise  a keen 
Foxite : the  other  is  one  of  the  worthiest 
men  in  the  world,  and  a man  of  real  genius  ! 
so,  allow  me  to  say,  he  has  a fraternal  claim 
on  you.  I want  them  franked  for  to-morrow, 
as  I cannot  get  them  to  the  post  to-night. 
I shall  send  a servant  again  for  them  in  the 
evening.  Wishing  that  your  head  may  be 
crowned  with  laurels  to-night,  and  free  from 
aches  to-morrow,  I have  the  honour  to  be. 
Sir,  your  deeply  indebted  humble  servant. 


* 310.  CLXXXI. 

TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL. 

Ellisland,  1789. 

Sir — I wish  from  my  inmost  soul  it  were 
in  my  power  to  give  you  a more  substantial 
gratification  and  return  for  all  the  goodness 
to  the  poet,  than  transcribing  a few  of  his 
idle  rhymes.  However,  “an  old  song,” 
though  to  a proverb  an  instance  of  insignifi- 
cance, is  generally  the  only  coin  a poet  has 
to  pay  with. 

If  my  poems  which  I have  transcribed,  and 
mean  still  to  transcribe,  into  your  book,  were 
equal  to  the  grateful  respect  and  high  esteem 


TO  MR.  RICHARD  BROWN. 


I bear  for  the  gentleman  to  whom  I pres*  nt 
them,  they  would  be  the  inest  poems  in  the 
language.  As  they  are,  they  will  at  least 
be  a testimony  with  what  sincerity  I have 
the  honour  to  be,  Sir,  your  devoted  humble 
servant  R.  B 


no.  clxxxii. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

Ellisland , Nov.  1st , 1789. 

My  Dear  Friend — I had  written  you 
long  ere  now,  could  I have  guessed  where  to 
find  you,  for  I am  sure  you  have  more  good 
sense  than  to  waste  the  precious  days  of 
vacation  time  in  the  dirt  of  business  and 
Edinburgh.  Wherever  you  are,  God  bless 
you,  and  lead  you  not  into  temptation,  but 
deliver  you  from  evil ! 

I do  not  know  if  I have  informed  you  that 
I am  now  appointed  to  an  Excise  division, 
in  the  middle  of  which  my  house  and  farm 
lie.  In  this  I was  extremely  lucky.  Without 
ever  having  been  an  expectant,  as  they  call 
their  journeymen  excisemen,  I was  directly 
plantedrdown  to  all  intents  and  purposes  an 
officer  of  Excise,  there  to  flourish  and  bring 
forth  fruits — worthy  of  repentance. 

I know  not  how  the  word  exciseman,  or 
still  more  opprobrious,  gauger,  will  sound  in 
your  ears.  I,  too,  have  seen  the  day  when 
my  auditory  nerves  would  have  felt  very 
delicately  on  this  subject ; but  a wife  and 
children  are  tilings  which  have  a wonderful 
power  in  blunting  these  kind  of  sensations. 
Fifty  pounds  a-year  for  life,  and  a provision 
for  widows  an  1 orphans,  you  will  allow  is  no 
bad  settlement  for  a poet.  For  he  ignominy 
of  the  profession,  I have  the  encouragement 
which  I once  heard  a recruiting  sergeant 
give  to  a numerous,  if  not  a respectable 
audience,  in  thi  streets  of  Kilmarnock: — 
“ Gentlemen,  fr  your  further  and  better 
encouragement,  I can  assure  you  that  oui 
regiment  is  the  most  blackguard  corps  under 
the  crown,  and  consequently  with  us  an 
honest  fellow  has  the  surest  chance  of  pre- 
ferment.” 

You  need  n t doubt  that  I find  several 
veVy  unpleasant  and  disagreeable  circum- 
stances in  my  business;  but  I am  tired  with 
and  disgusted  at  the  language  of  complaint 
against  the  evils  of  life.  Human  existence, 
in  the  most  favourable  situations,  does  not 
abound  with  p'easures,  and  has  its  incon- 
veniences and  ills ; capricious  foolish  man 
mistakes  these  'nconveuiences  and  ills  as  if 
▲ A 


353 

they  were  the  peculiar  property  of  his  parti- 
cular situation ; and  hence  that  eternal 
fickleness,  that  love  of  change,  which  has 
ruined,  and  daily  does  ruin,  many  a fine 
fellow,  as  well  as  many  a blockhead,  and  is 
almost  without  exception  a constant  source 
of  disappointment  and  misery. 

I long  to  hear  from  you  how  you  go  on — • 
not  so  much  in  business  as  in  life.  Are  you 
pretty  well  satisfied  with  your  own  exertions, 
and  tolerably  at  ease  in  your  internal  re- 
flections? ’Tis  much  to  be  a great  characte? 
as  a lawyer,  but  beyond  comparison  more  to 
be  a great  character  as  a man.  That  you 
may  be  both  the  one  and  the  other  is  the 
earnest  wish,  and  that  you  will  be  both  ia 
the  firm  persuasion  of,  my  dear  Sir,  &c. 

K.  B. 


NO.  CLXXXIII. 

TO  MR.  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Ellisland,  November  Mh,  1789. 

I have  been  so  hurried,  my  ever  dear 
friend,  that  though  I got  both  your  letters, 
I have  not  been  able  to  command  an 
hour  to  answer  them  as  I wished ; and  even 
now,  you  are  to  look  on  this  as  merely  con- 
fessing debt,  and  craving  days.  Few  things 
could  have  given  me  so  much  pleasure  as 
the  news  that  you  were  once  more  safe  and 
sound  on  terra  firma,  and  happy  in  that  place 
where  happiness  is  alone  to  be  found — in  the 
fireside  circle.  May  the  benevolent  Director 
of  all  things  peculiarly  bless  you  in  all  those 
endearing  connections  consequent  on  the 
tender  and  venerable  names  of  husband  and 
father ! I have  indeed  been  extremely 
lucky  in  getting  an  additional  income  of 
£50  a-year,  while  at  the  same  time,  the 
appointment  will  not  cost  me  above  £10  or 
£12  per  annum  of  expenses  more  than  I 
must  have  inevitably  incurred.  The  worst 
circumstance  is,  that  the  Excise  division 
which  I have  got  is  so  extensive,  no  less 
than  ten.  parishes  to  ride  over  ; and  it 
abounds  besides  with  so  much  business,  that 
I can  scarcely  steal  a spare  moment.  How- 
ever, labour  endears  rest,  and  both  together 
are  absolutely  necessary  for  the  proper  en- 
joyment of  human  existence.  I cannot 
meet  you  anywhere.  No  less  than  an 
order  from  the  board  of  Excise,  at  Edin- 
burgh, is  necessary  before  I can  have  so 
much  time  as  to  meet  you  in  Ayrshire 
But  do  you  come,  and  see  me.  We  must 
have  a social  day,  and  perhaps  lengthen  it 


854 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


out  with  half  the  night,  before  you  go  again 
to  sea.  You  are  the  earliest  friend  I now 
have  on  earth,  my  brothers  excepted;  and 
i3  not  that  an  endearing  circumstance  ? 
When  you  and  I first  met,  we  were  at  the 
green  period  of  human  life.  The  twig 
would  easily  take  a bent,  but  would  as 
easily  return  to  its  former  state.  You  and 
I not  only  took  a mutual  bent,  but,  by  the 
melancholy,  though  strong  influence  of 
being  both  of  the  family  of  the  unfortunate, 
we  were  entwined  with  one  another  in  our 
growth  towards  advanced  age  : and  blasted 
be  the  sacrilegious  hand  that  should  at- 
tempt to  undo  the  union ! You  and  I must 
have  one  bumper  to  our  favourite  toast, 
“ May  the  companions  of  our  youth  be  the 
friends  of  our  old  age ! ” Come  and  see  me 
one  year ; I shall  see  you  at  Port-Glasgow 
the  next ; and  if  we  can  contrive  to  have  a 
gossiping  between  our  two  bed-fellows,  it 
will  be  so  much  additional  pleasure.  Mrs. 
Burns  joins  me  in  kind  compliments  to  you 
and  Mrs.  Brown.  Adieu!  I am  ever,  my 
dear  Sir,  yours,  R.  B. 


no.  CLxxxnr. 

TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  Esa. 

OF  FINTRY. 

December  9 1\  1789. 

Sir — I hive  a good  while  had  a wish  to 
trouble  you  with  a letter,  and  had  certainly 
done  it  long  ere  now — but  for  a humiliating 
something  that  throws  cold  water  on  the 
resolution,  as  if  one  should  say,  “ You  have 
found  Mr.  Graham  a very  powerful  and  kind 
friend  indeed,  and  that  interest  he  is  so 
kindly  taking  in  your  concerns  you  ought, 
by  every  thing  in  your  power,  to  keep  alive 
and  cherish.”  Now,  though  since  God  has 
thought  proper  to  make  one  powerful  and 
another  powerless,  the  connection  of 
obliger  and  obliged  is  all  fair  ; and  though 
my  being  under  your  patronage  is  highly 
honourable,  yet,  Sir,  allow  me  to  flatter  my- 
self, that,  as  a poet  and  an  honest  man, 
you  first  interested  yuurself  in  my  welfare, 
and  principally  as  such,  still  you  permit  me 
to  approach  you. 

I have  found  the  Excise  business  go  on  a 
great  deal  smoother  with  me  than  1 ex- 
pected, owing  a good  deal  to  the  generous 
friendship  of  Mr.  Mitchel,  ray  collector,  and 
the  kind  assistance  of  Mr.  Findlater,  my 
supervisor.  ] dare  to  be  honest,  and  I fear 


no  labour.  Nor  do  I find  my  hurried  lift 

greatly  inimical  to  my  correspondence  with 
the  Muses.  Their  visits  to  me,  indeed,  and 
I believe  to  most  of  their  acquaintance,  lika 
the  visits  of  good  angels,  are  short  and  far 
between ; but  I meet  them  now  and  then  as 
I jog  through  the  hills  of  Nithsdale,  just  as 
I used  to  do  on  the  banks  of  Ayr.  I taka 
the  liberty  to  enclose  you  a few  bagatelles, 
all  of  them  the  productions  of  my  leisure 
thoughts  in  my  Excise  rides. 

If  you  know  or  have  ever  seen  Captain 
Grose,  the  antiquary,  you  will  enter  into 
any  humour  that  is  in  the  verses  on  him. 
Perhaps  you  have  seen  them  before,  as  I 
sent  them  to  a London  newspaper.  Though 
I dare  say  you  have  none  cf  the  solemn- 
league-and-covenant  fire,  which  shone  so 
conspicuous  in  Lord  George  Gordon,  and 
the  Kilmarnock  weavers,  yet  I think  you 
must  have  heard  of  Dr.  M’Gili,  one  of  the 
clergymen  of  Ayr,  and  his  heretical  book. 
God  help  him,  poor  man!  Though  he  is 
one  of  the  worthiest,  as  well  as  one  of  the 
ablest,  of  the  whole  priesthood  of  the  Kirk 
of  Scotland,  in  every  sense  of  that  ambigu- 
ous term,  yet  the  poor  Doctor  and  his 
numerous  family  are  in  iminent  danger  of 
being  thrown  out  to  the  mercy  of  the 
winter-winds.  The  enclosed  ballad  on  that 
business  is,  I confess,  too  local,  but  I laughed 
myself  at  some  conceits  in  it,  though  I am 
convinced  in  my  conscience  that  there  are  a 
good  many  heavy  stanzas  in  it  too. 

The  election  ballad,  as  you  will  see,  alludes 
to  the  present  canvass  in  our  string  of 
boroughs.  I do  not  believe  there  will  be 
such  a hard  run  match  in  the  whole  general 
election. 

* • # • 

I am  too  little  a man  to  have  any  political 
attachments ; I am  deeply  indebted  to,  and 
have  the  warmest  veneration  for,  individuals 
of  both  parties  : but  a man  who  has  it  in 
his  power  to'  be  the  father  of  a country,  and 
who  * * * * *,  (93)  is  a character  that  oae 
cannot  speak  of  with  patience. 

Sir  J.  J.  does  “what  man  can  do,”  but 
yet  £ doubt  his  fate.  R.  B. 


NO.  CLXXXV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Pllisland,  December  13 th,  1789. 

Many  thanks,  my  dear  Madan?,  for  your 
sheetful  of  rhymes.  Though  at  present  I 


TO  LADY  CONSTABLE. 


3-55 


tm  below  the  veriest  prose,  yet  from  you 
every  thing  pleases.  I am  groaning  under 
the  miseries  of  a diseased  nervous  system — ■ 
a system,  the  state  of  which  is  most  con- 
ducive to  our  happiness,  or  the  m«  st  pro- 
ductive of  our  misery.  For  now  near  three 
weeks  I have  been  so  ill  with  a nervous 
headache,  that  I have  been  obliged  for  a 
time  to  give  up  my  Excise-books,  being 
•carce  able  to  lift  my  head,  much  less  to 
ride  once  a- week  over  ten  muir  parishes. 
What  is  man  ? To  day,  in  the  luxuriance 
of  health,  exulting  in  the  enjoyment  of 
existence  ; in  a few  days,  perhaps  in  a few 
hours,  loaded  with  conscious  painful  being, 
counting  the  tardy  pace  of  the  lingering 
moments  by  the  repercussions  of  anguish,  { 
and  refusing  or  denying  a comforter.  Day 
follows  night,  and  night  comes  after  day, 
only  to  curse  him  with  life  which  gives  him 
no  pleasure ; and  yet  the  awful,  dark  ter- 
mination of  that  life  is  something  at  which  j 
he  recoils. 

Tell  us,  ye  dead  ; will  none  of  you  in  pity 

Disclose  the  secret 

What  His  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be  ? 

’tig  no  matter : 

A little  time  will  make  us  learn’d  as  you  are. 

Can  it  be  possible,  that  when  I resign  this 
frail,  feverish  being,  I shall  still  find  myself 
in  conscious  existence  ? When  the  last 
gasp  of  agony  has  announced  that  I am  no 
more  to  those  that  knew  me,  and  the  few 
who  loved  me;  when  the  cold,  stiffened, 
unconscious,  ghastly  corse  is  resigned  into 
the  earth,  to  be  the  prey  of  unsightly  rep- 
tiles, and  to  become  in  time  a trodden  clod, 
•hall  I be  yet  warm  in  life,  seeing  and  seen, 
enjoying  and  enjoyed  ? Ye  venerable  sages, 
mid  holy  flamens,  is  there  probability  in 
your  conjectures,  truth  in  your  stories,  of 
another  world  beyond  death ; or  are  they  all 
alike  baseless  visions,  and  fabricated  fables  ? 
If  there  is  another  life,  it  must  be  only  for 
the  just,  the  benevolent,  the  amiable,  and 
the  humane ; what  a flattering  idea  then  is 
a world  to  come!  Would  to  God  I as 
firmly  believed  it  as  I ardently  wish  it! 
There,  I should  meet  an  aged  parent,  now  at 
rest  from  the  many  bufferings  of  an  evil 
world,  against  which  he  so  long  and  so 
bravely  struggled.  There  should  I meet  the 
friend,  the  disinterested  friend  of  my  early 
life ; #the  man  who  rejoiced  to  see  me, 
because  he  loved  me  and  could  serve  me. 
Muir,  thy  weakness  were  the  aberrations  of 
human  nature,  but  thy  heart  glowed  with 
every  thing  generous,  manly,  and  noble ; 
fcnd  if  emanation  from  the  All-good  Being 


animated  a human  frame,  it  wa3  thine! 
There  should  I,  with  speechless  agony  of 
rapture,  again  recognize  my  lost,  my  ever 
dear  Mary  i whose  bosom  was  fraught  with 
truth,  honour,  constancy,  and  love. 

My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ? 

Where  is  thy  place  of  heavenly  rest  ? 

Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 

Jesus  Christ,  thou  amiablest  of  characters! 
I trust  thou  art  no  impostor,  and  that  th$ 
revelation  of  blissful  scenes  of  existence 
beyond  death  and  the  grave,  is  not  one  of 
the  many  impositions  which  time  after  time 
have  been  palmed  on  credulous  mankind. 
I trust  that  in  thee  “ shall  all  the  families  of 
the  earth  be  blessed,”  by  being  yet  con- 
nected together  in  a better  world,  where 
every  tie  that  bound  heart  to  heart,  in  this 
state  of  existence,  shall  be,  far  beyond  our 
present  conceptions,  more  endearing. 

I am  a good  deal  inclined  to  think  with 
those  who  maintain,  that  what  are  called 
nervous  affections  are  in  fact  diseases  of  the 
mind.  I cannot  reason,  I cannot  think; 
and  but  to  you  I would  not  venture  to 
write  any  thing  above  an  order  to  a cobbler. 
You  have  felt  too  much  of  the  ills  of  life  not 
to  sympathise  with  a diseased  wretch,  who 
has  impaired  more  than  half  of  any  faculties 
he  possessed.  Your  goodness  will  excuse 
this  distracted  scrawl,  which  the  writer  dare 
scarcely  read,  and  which  he  would  throw 
into  the  fire,  were  he  able  to  write  any 
thing  better,  or  indeed  any  thing  at  all. 

Rumour  told  me  something  of  a son  of 
yours,  who  was  returned  from  the  East  or 
West  Indies.  If  you  have  gotten  new# 
from  James  or  Anthony,  it  was  cruel  in  you 
not  to  let  me  know  ; as  1 promised  you,  oa 
the  sincerity  of  a man,  who  is  weary  of  one 
world,  and  anxious  about  another,  that 
scarce  any  thing  could  give  me  so  much 
pleasure  as  to  hear  of  any  good  thing  be- 
falling my  honoured  friend. 

If  you  have  a minute’s  leisure,  take  up 
your  pen  in  pity  to  le  pauvre  miserable, 

R.  B. 


NO.  CLXXXVI. 

TO  LADY  WINIFRED  MAXWELL 
CONSTABLE.  (94) 

Ellisland , December  1 6th,  1789, 

My  Lady — In  vain  I have,  from  day  to  day, 
expected  to  hear  from  Mrs.  Young,  as 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


promised  me  at  Dalswinton  that  she  would 
do  me  the  honour  to  introduce  me  at 
Timvald ; and  it  was  impossible,  not  from 
your  ladyship’s  accessibility,  but  from  my 
own  feelings,  that  I could  go  alone.  Lately, 
indeed,  Mr.  Maxwell  of  Carruchen,  in  his 
usual  goodness,  offered  to  accompany  me, 
when  an  unlucky  indisposition  on  my  part 
hirsdered  my  embracing  the  opportunity. 
To  court  the  notice  or  the  tables  of  the 
grteat,  except  where  I sometimes  have  had 
a little  matter  to  ask  of  them,  or,  more  often, 
the  pleasanter  task  of  witnessing  my  grati- 
tude to  them,  is  what  I never  have  done, 
and  I trust  never  shall  do.  But  with  your 
ladyship  I have  the  honour  to  be  connected 
by  one  of  the  strongest  and  most  endearing 
ties  in  the  whole  moral  world.  Common  suf- 
ferers, in  a cause  where  even  to  be  unfortu- 
nate is  glorious,  the  cause  of  heroic  loyalty  ! 
Though  my  fathers  had  not  illustrious 
honours  and  vast  properties  to  hazard  in  the 
contest,  though  they  left  their  humble 
cottages  only  to  add  so  many  units  more  to 
the  uni  oted  crowd  that  followed  their 
leaders,  yet  what  they  could  they  did,  and 
what  they  had  they  lost : with  unshaken 
firmness,  and  unconcealed  political  attach- 
ments, they  shook  hands  with  ruin  for  what 
they  esteemed  the  cause  of  their  king  and 
their  country.  This  language  and  the  en- 
closed verses  (95)  are  for  your  ladyship’s 
eye  alone.  Poets  are  not  very  famous  for 
their  prudence  ; but  as  I can  do  nothing  for 
a cause  which  is  now  nearly  no  more,  I do 
not  wish  to  hurt  myself.  I have  thp  honour 
to  be,  my  lady,  your  ladyship’s  obliged  and 
obedient  humble  servant,  B.  B. 


KO.  CLXXXVII. 

TO  PROVOST  MAXWELL 

OF  LOCHMABEN. 

Ellisland,  December  20th,  1789. 

Dear  Provost — As  my  friend,  Mr. 
Graham,  goes  for  your  good  town  to-morrow, 
1 cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  send  you 
a few  lines,  and,  as  I have  nothing  to  say,  I 
have  chosen  this  sheet  of  foolscap,  and 
begun,  as  you  see,  at  the  top  of  the  first 
page,  because  I have  ever  observed,  that 
w hen  once  people  have  fairly  set  out,  they 
know  not  where  to  stop.  Now  that  my  first 
sentence  is  concluded,  I have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  pray  Heaven  to  help  me  on  to 
another.  Shall  I write  you  on  politics  or 
religion,  two  master  subjects  for  your  say  era 


of  nothing  ? Of  the  first,  I dare  say  by  thi« 
time  you  are  nearly  surfeited  (96) ; and  for 
the  last,  whatever  they  may  talk  of  it,  who 
make  it  a kind  of  company  concern,  I never 
could  endure  it  beyond  a soliloquy.  I might 
write  you  on  farming,  on  building,  on  mar- 
keting ; but  my  poor  distracted  mind  is  so 
torn,  so  jaded,  so  racked  and  bedeviled  with 
the  task  of  the  superlatively  damned  to 
make  one  guinea  do  the  business  of  three , 
that  I detest,  abhor,  and  swoon,  at  the  very 
wrord  business,  though  no  less  than  four 
letters  of  my  very  short  surname  are  in  it. 

Well,  to  make  the  matter  short,  I shall 
betake  myself  to  a subject  ever  fruitful  of 
themes — a subject  the  turtle  feast  of  the 
sons  of  Satan,  and  the  delicious  secret  sugar 
plum  of  the  babes  of  grace — a subject 
sparkling  with  all  the  jewels  that  wit  can 
find  in  the  mines  of  genius,  and  pregnant 
with  all  the  stores  of  learning  from  Moses 
and  Confucius  to  Franklin  and  Priestley — • 
in  short,  may  it  please  your  lordship,  I 
intend  to  write  • * * 

[ Here  the  poet  inserted  a song.] 

If  at  any  time  you  expect  a field-day  in 
your  town,  a day  when  dukes,  earls,  and 
knights,  pay  their  court  to  weavers,  tailors, 
and  cobblers,  I should  like  to  know  of  it  two 
or  three  days  before-hand.  It  is  not  that  I 
care  three  skips  of  a cur  dog  for  the  politics, 
but  I should  like  to  see  such  an  exhibition 
of  human  nature.  If  you  meet  with  that 
worthy  old  veteran  in  religion  and  good 
fellowship,  Mr.  Jeffrey,  or  any  of  his  amiable 
family  (97),  I beg  you  will  give  them-  my 
best  compliments.  B.  B. 


no.  clxxxvih. 

TO  MR.  SUTHERLAND,  PLAVER, 

ENCLOSING  A PROLOGUE. 

Monday  Morning. 

I was  much  disappointed,  my  dear  Sir* 
in  wanting  your  most  agreeable  company 
yesterday.  However,  I heartily  pray  for 
good  weather  next  Sunday;  and  whatever 
aerial  Being  has  the  guidance  of  the  ele- 
ments, may  take  any  other  half  dozen 
Sundays  he  pleases,  and  clothe  them  with 
Vapours,  and  clouds,  and  storms. 

Until  he  terrify  himself 
At  combustion  of  his  own  raising. 

I shall  see  you  on  Wednesday  forenooo. 
In  the  greatest  hurry,  R.  B. 


TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 


357 


NO.  3LXXXIX. 

TO  SIR  JOHN  SINCLAIR. 

1790. 

Sir — The  following'  circumstance  has,  I 
believe,  been  omitted  in  the  statistical  ac- 
count, transmitted  to  you,  of  the  parish  of 
Dunscore,  in  Nithsdale.  I beg  leave  to  send 
it  to  you,  because  it  is  new,  and  may  be 
useful.  How  far  it  is  deserving  of  a place 
in  your  patriotic  publication,  you  are  the 
best  judge. 

To  store  the  minds  of  the  lower  classes 
with  useful  knowledge,  is  certainly  of  very 
great  importance,  both  to  them  as  indi- 
viduals, and  to  society  at  large.  Giving 
them  a turn  for  reading  and  reflection,  is 
giving  them  a source  of  innocent  and  lau- 
dable amusement,  and,  besides,  raises  them 
to  a more  dignified  degree  in  the  scale  of 
rationality.  Impressed  with  this  idea,  a 
gentleman  in  this  parish,  Robert  Riddel,  Esq., 
of  Glenriddel,  set  on  foot  a species  of  circu- 
lating library,  on  a plan  so  simple,  as  to  be 
practicable  in  any  corner  of  the  country ; 
and  so  useful,  as  to  deserve  the  notice  of 
every  country  gentleman,  who  thinks  the 
improvement  of  that  part  of  his  own  species, 
whom  chance  has  thrown  into  the  humble 
walks  of  the  peasant  and  the  artizan,  a 
matter  worthy  of  his  attention. 

Mr.  Riddel  got  a number  of  his  own 
tenants,  and  farming  neighbours,  to  form 
themselves  into  a society  for  the  purpose  of 
having  a library  among  themselves.  They 
entered  into  a legal  engagement  to  abide  by 
it  for  three  years ; with  a saving  clause  or 
two,  in  case  of  removal  to  a distance,  or  of 
death.  Each  member,  at  his  entry,  paid  five 
shillings ; and  at  each  of  their  meetings, 
which  were  held  every  fourth  Saturday,  six- 
pence more.  With  their  entry-money,  and 
the  credit  which  they  took  on  the  faith  of 
their  future  funds,  they  laid  in  a tolerable 
stock  of  books  at  the  commencement.  What 
authors  they  were  to  purchase,  was  always 
decided  by  the  majority.  At  every  meeting, 
all  the  books,  under  certain  fines  and  for- 
feitures, by  way  of  penalty,  were  to  be  pro- 
duced ; and  the  members  had  their  choice  of 
the  volumes  in  rotation.  He  whose  name 
stood  for  that  night  first  on  the  list,  had  his 
choice  of  what  volume  he  pleased  in  the 
whole  collection ; the  second  had  his  choice 
after  the  first;  the  third  after  the  second; 
and  so  on  to  the  last.  At  next  meeting,  he 
who  had  been  first  on  the  list  at  the  pre- 
ceding meeting,  was  last  at  this;  he  who 
had  been  second  was  first;  and  so  on 
through  the  whole  three  years.  At  the  ex- 


piration of  the  engagement,  the  books  were 
sold  by  auction,  but  only  among  the  mem- 
bers themselves;  and  each  man  had  his 
share  of  the  common  stock,  in  money  or  in 
books,  as  he  chose  to  be  a purchaser  or  not. 

At  the  breaking  up  of  this  little  society, 
which  was  formed  under  Mr.  Riddel’s 
patronage,  what  with  benefactions  of  books 
from  him,  and  what  with  their  own  pur- 
chases, they  had  collected  together  upwards 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  volumes.  It  will 
easily  be  guessed  that  a good  deal  of  trash 
would  be  bought.  Among  the  books,  how* 
ever,  of  this  little  library,  were — Blair’s  Ser- 
mons, Robertson’s  History  of  Scotland, 
Hume’s  History  of  the  Stuarts,  The  Spec- 
tator, Idler,  Adventurer,  Mirror,  Lounger, 
Observer,  Man  of  Feeling,  Man  of  the 
World,  Chrysal,  Don  Quixote,  Joseph 
Andrews,  &c.  A peasant  who  can  read, 
and  enjoy  such  books,  is  certainly  a much 
superior  being  to  his  neighbour  who,  perhaps 
stalks  beside  his  team,  very  little  removed, 
except  in  shape,  from  the  brutes  he  drives. 

Wishing  your  patriotic  exertions  their  so 
much  merited  success,  I am.  Sir,  your  hum- 
ble servant  A Peasant  (98). 


no.  cxc. 

TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 

Ellisland,  January  IDA,  1790. 

Dear  Brother — I mean  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  frank,  though  I have  not  in  my 
present  frame  of  mind  much  appetite  for 
exertion  in  writing.  My  nerves  are  in  & 
state.  I feel  that  horrid  hypo- 
chondria pervading  every  atom  of  both  body 
and  soul.  This  farm  has  undone  my  enjoy- 
ment of  myself.  It  is  a ruinous  affair  on  all 

hands.  But  let  it  go  to ! I’ll  fight 

it  out,  and  be  off  with  it. 

We  have  gotten  a set  of  very  decent 
players  here  just  now.  I have  seen  them 
an  evening  or  two.  David  Campbell,  m 
Ayr,  wrote  to  me  by  the  manager  of  tha 
company,  a Mr.  Sutherland,  who  is  a man 
of  apparent  worth.  On  New-y ear-day  even- 
ing I gave  him  the  following  prologue,  which 
he  spouted  to  his  audience  with  applause 
“No  song  nor  dance  I bring  from  yon  great 

city,”  &c. 

I can  no  more.  If  once  I was  clear  of 
this  damned  farm,  I should  respire  more  al 
ease. 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


WO.  CXCI. 

TO  WILLIAM  DUNBAR,  W.  S. 

Ellisland,  January  14 th,  1790. 

Since  we  are  here  creatures  of  a day, 
since  “ a few  summer  days,  and  a few  winter 
nights,  and  the  life  of  man  is  at  an  end,” 
why,  my  dear  much-esteemed  Sir,  should 
you  and  I let  negligent  indolence— for  I 
know  it  is  nothing  worse — step  in  between 
us,  and  bar  the  enjoyment  of  a mutual  cor- 
respondence? We  are  not  sliapen  out  of 
the  common,  heavy,  methodical  clod,  the 
elemental  stuff  of  the  plodding  selfish  race, 
the  sons  of  Arithmetic  and  Prudence ; our 
feelings  and  hearts  are  not  benumbed  and 
poisoned  by  the  cursed  influence  of  riches, 
which,  whatever  blessing  they  may  be  in 
other  respects,  are  no  friends  to  the  nobler 
qualities  of  the  heart : in  the  name  of 
random  sensibility,  then,  let  never  the  moon 
change  on  our  silence  any  more.  I have 
had  a tract  of  bad  health  most  part  of  this 
winter,  else  you  had  heard  from  me  long 
ere  now.  Thank  Heaven,  I am  now  got  so 
much  better  as  to  be  able  to  partake  a little 
in  the  enjoyments  of  life. 

Our  friend,  Cunningham,  will  perhaps 
nave  told  you  of  my  going  into  the  Excise. 
The  truth  is,  I found  it  a very  convenient 
business  to  have  £50  per  annum,  nor  have  I 
yet  felt  any  of  these  mortifying  circum- 
stances in  it  that  I was  led  to  fear. 

Feb.  2nd. — I have  not,  for  sheer  hurry  of 
business,  been  able  to  spare  five  minutes  to 
finish  my  letter.  Besides  my  farm  business, 
I ride  on  my  Excise  matters  at  least  200 
miles  every  week.  I have  not  by  any  means 
given  up  the  Muses.  You  will  see  in  the 
3rd  vol.  of  Johnson’s  Scots  songs  that  I 
aave  contributed  my  mite  there. 

B it,  my  dear  Sir,  little  ones  that  look  up 
|o  you  for  paternal  protection  are  an  im- 
portant charge.  I have  already  two  fine 
healthy  stout  little  fellows,  and  I wish  to 
throw  some  light  upon  them.  I have  a 
thousand  reveries  and  schemes  about  them, 
and  their  future  destiny.  Not  that  I am  a 
Utopian  projector  in  these  things.  I am 
resolved  never  to  breed  up  a son  of  mine  to 
any  of  the  learned  professions.  I know  the 
value  of  independence;  and  since  I cannot 
(give  my  sons  an  independent  fortune,  I shall 
give  them  an  independent  line  of  life.  What 
a chaos  of  hurry,  chance,  and  changes  is  this 
world,  when  one  sits  soberly  down  to  reflect 
on  it ! To  a father,  who  himself  knows  the 
world,  the  thought  that  he  shall  have  sons 
>o  usher  into  it  must  fill  him  with  dread; 


but  if  he  have  daughters,  the  prospect  in  a 
thoughtful  moment  is  apt  to  shock  him. 

I hope  Mrs.  Fordyce  and  the  two  young 
ladies  are  well.  Do  let  me  forget  that  they 
are  nieces  of  yours,  and  let  me  say  that  I 
never  saw  a more  interesting,  sweeter  pair 
of  sisters  in  my  life.  I am  the  fool  of  my 
feelings  and  attachments.  I often  take  up  a 
volume  of  my  Spenser  to  realise  you  to  my 
imagination  (99),  and  think  over  the  social 
scenes  we  have  had  together.  God  grant 
that  there  may  be  another  world  more  con- 
genial to  honest  fellows  beyond  this.  A 
world  where  these  rubs  and  plagues  of 
absence,  distance,  misfortunes,  ill-health, 
&c.,  shall  no  more  damp  hilarity  and  divide 
friendship.  This  I know  is  your  throng 
season,  but  half  a page  will  much  oblige^ 
my  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely,  R.  B. 


HO.  CXCII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  January  25 th,  1790. 

It  has  been  owing  to  unremitting  hurry  of 
business  that  I have  not  written  to  you. 
Madam,  long  ere  now.  My  health  is  greatly 
better,  and  I now  begin  once  more  to  share 
in  satisfaction  and  enjoyment  with  the  rest 
of  my  fellow-creatures. 

Many  thanks,  my  much-esteemed  friend, 
for  your  kind  letters;  but  why  will  you  make 
me  run  the  risk  of  being  contemptible  and 
mercenary  in  my  own  eyes  ? When  I pique 
myself  on  my  independent  spirit,  I hope  it 
is  neither  poetic  licence,  nor  poetic  rant : 
and  I am  so  flattered  with  the  honour  you 
have  done  me,  in  making  me  your  compeer 
in  friendship  and  friendly  correspondence, 
that  I cannot,  without  pain,  and  a degree  of 
mortification,  be  reminded  of  the  real  ine- 
quality between  our  situations. 

Most  sincerely  do  I rejoice  with  you,  dear 
Madam,  in  the  good  news  of  Anthony.  Not 
only  your  anxiety  about  his  fate,  but  my 
own  esteem  for  such  a noble,  warm-hearted, 
manly  young  fellow,  in  the  little  I had  of  his 
acquaintance,  has  interested  me  deeply  in  his 
fortunes. 

Falconer,  the  unfortunate  author  of  the 
"Shipwreck,”  which  you  so  much  admire,  is 
no  more.  After  witnessing  the  dreadful 
catastrophe  he  so  feelingly  describes  in  his 
poem,  and  after  weathering  many  bard  gales 
of  fortune,  he  went  to  the  bottom  with  the 
Aurora  frigate  l 


TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 


I forget  what  part  of  Scotland  had  the 
houour  of  giving  him  birth,  but  he  was  the 
ion  of  obscurity  and  misfortune.  He  waa 
one  of  those  daring  adventurous  spirits, 
which  Scotland,  beyond  any  other  country, 
is  remarkable  for  producing.  Little  does 
the  fond  mother  think,  as  she  hangs  delighted 
over  the  sweet  little  leech  at  her  bosom, 
where  the  poor  fellow  may  hereafter  wander, 
*nd  what  may  be  his  fate.  I remember  a 
stanza  in  an  old  Scottish  ballad  (100),  which, 
notwithstanding  its  rude  simplicity,  speaks 
feelingly  to  the  heart : — 

“ Little  did  my  mother  think. 

That  day  she  cradled  me. 

What  land  I was  to  travel  in. 

Or  what  death  I should  die ! w 

Old  Scottish  songs  are,  you  know,  a fa- 
vourite study  and  pursuit  of  mine;  and  now 
I am  on  that  subject,  allow  me  to  give  you 
two  stanzas  of  another  old  simple  ballad, 
which  I am  sure  will  please  you.  The  catas- 
trophe of  the  piece  is  a poor  ruined  female, 
lamenting  her  fate.  She  concludes  with  this 
pathetic  wish : — 

wOh  that  my  father  had  ne’er  on  me  smil’d ; 

Oh  that  my  mother  had  ne’er  to  me  sung ; 
Oh  that  my  cradle  had  not  e’er  been  rock’d ; 

But  that  I had  died  when  I was  young ! 

Oh  that  the  turf-clad  grave  it  were  my  bed ; 

My  blankets  were  my  winding-sheet; 

The  clocks  and  the  worms  my  bedfellows  a’; 

And  oh  sae  soundly  sweet  as  I should 
sleep  ! ” 

I do  not  remember  in  all  my  reading  to  have 
met  with  anything  more  truly  the  language 
of  misery,  than  the  exclamation  in  the  last 
line.  Misery  is  like  love ; to  speak  its 
language  truly,  the  author  must  have  felt  it. 

I am  every  day  expecting  the  doctor  to 
give  your  little  godson  (101)  the  small-pox. 
It  is  rife  in  the  country,  and  I tremble 
for  his  fate.  By  the  way,  I cannot  help 
congratulating  you  ou  his  looks  and  spirit. 
Every  persou  who  sees  him  acknowledges 
him  to  be  the  finest,  handsomest  child  he 
has  ever  seen.  I am  myself  delighted  with 
the  manly  swell  of  his  little  chest,  and  a cer- 
tain miniature  dignity  in  the  carriage  of  hi3 
head,  and  the  glance  of  his  fine  black  eye, 
which  promise  the  undaunted  gallantry  of  an 
independent  mind. 

I thought  to  have  sent  you  some  rhymes, 
but  time  forbids.  I promise  you  poetry 
until  you  are  tired  of  it,  next  time  I have 
the  hoi  our  of  assuring  you  how  tr  dy  I am, 
fee.  **  R.  B. 


NO.  CXCIXI. 

TO  MR.  IETER  HILL, 

BOOKSELLER,  EDINBURGH. 

* Ellisland , Feb.  2nd , 1790. 

No ! I will  not  say  one  word  about 
apologies  or  excuses  for  not  writing ; — I am  a 
poor,  rascally  gauger,  condemned  to  gallop 
at  least  200  miles  every  wreek  to  inspect 
dirty  ponds  and  yeasty  barrels,  and  where 
can  I find  time  to  write  to,  or  importance  to 
interest  any  body  ? The  upbraidings  of  my 
conscience  nay  the  upbraidings  of  my  wife, 
have  persecuted  me  on  your  account  these 
two  or  three  months  past.  I wish  to  God  I 
was  a great  man,  that  my  correspondence 
might  throw  light  upon  you,  to  let  the  world 
see  what  you  really  are  : and  then  I would 
make  your  fortune,  without  putting  my 
hand  in  my  pocket  for  you,  which,  like  all 
other  great  men,  I suppose  I would  avoid  as 
much  as  possible.  What  are  you  doing,  and 
how  are  you  doing  ? Have  you  lately  seen 
any  of  my  few  friends  ?'  What  has  become 
of  the  borough  reform,  or  how  is  the 
fate  of  my  poor  namesake.  Mademoiselle 
Burns,  decided  ? Oh  man ! but  for  thee  and 
thy  selfish  appetites,  and  dishonest  artifices, 
that  beauteous  form,  and  that  once  innocent 
and  still  ingenuous  mind,  'might  have  shone 
conspicuous  and  lovely  in  the  faithful  wife, 
and  the  affectionate  mother;  and  shall  the 
unfortunate  sacrifice  to  thy  pleasures  have 
no  claim  on  thy  humanity  1 (102) 

I saw  lately  in  a review  some  extracts 
from  a new  poem,  called  the  “ Village 
Curate ; ” send  it  me.  I want  likewise  a 
cheap  copy  of  “ The  World.”  Mr.  Arm- 
strong, the  young  poet,  who  does  me  the 
honour  to  mention  me  so  kindly  in  his 
works,  please  give  him  my  best  thanks  for 
the  copy  of  his  book.  I shall  write  him,  my 
first  leisure  hour.  I like  his  poetry  much, 
but  I think  his  style  in  prose  quite  aston- 
ishing. 

Your  book  came  safe,  and  I am  going  tc 
trouble  you  with  further  commissions,  f 
call  it  troubling  you — because  I want  only, 
books  ; the  cheapest  way,  the  best;  so  you 
may  have  to  hunt  for  them  in  the  evening 
auctions.  I want  Smollett’s  Works,  for  the 
sake  of  his  incomparable  humour.  I have 
already  Roderick  Random,  and  Humphrey 
Clinker.  Perigrine  Pickle,  Launcelot  Greaves, 
and  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom,  I still  want ; 
but  as  I said,  the  veriest  ordinary  copies 
will  serve  me.  I am  nice  only  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  my  poets.  I forget  the  price  of 
Cowper’s  Poems,  but  I believe  J must  havg 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


them.  T saw,  the  other  day,  proposals  for  a 
publication,  entitled,  “ Bank’s  new  and  com- 
plete Christian’s  Family  Bible,”  printed  for 
C.  Cooke,  Paternoster  Rcw,  London.  He 
promises,  at  least,  to  give  in  the  work,  I think 
it  is  three  hundred  and  odd  engravings,  to 
which  he  has  put  the  names  of  the  first 
artists  in  London.  (103)  You  will  know  the 
character  of  the  performance,  as  some  num- 
bers of  it  are  published : and  if  it  is  really 
what  it  pretends  to  be,  set  me  down  as  a 
subscriber,  and  send  me  the  published 
numbers. 

Let  me  hear  from  you,  your  first  leisure 
minute,  and  trust  me,  you  shall  in  future 
have  no  reason  to  complain  of  my  silence. 
The  dazzling  perplexity  of  novelty  will  dis- 
sipate, and  leave  me  to  pursue  my  course  in 
the  quiet  path  of  methodical  routine. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CXCIT. 

TO  MR.  W.  NICOL. 

Ellisland,  Feb.  9th , 1790. 

My  dear  Sir — That mar*  of  yours 

is  dead.  I would  freely  have  given  her  price 
to  have  saved  her ; she  has  vexed  me  beyond 
description.  Indebted,  as  I was,  to  your 
goodness  beyond  what  I can  ever  repay,  l 
eagerly  grasped  at  your  offer  to  have  the 
mare  with  me.  That  I might  at  least  show 
my  readiness  in  wishing  to  be  grateful,  I 
took  every  care  of  her  m my  power.  She 
was  never  crossed  for  riding  above  half  a 
score  of  times  by  me,  or  in  my  keeping.  I 
drew  her  in  the  plough,  one  of  three,  for  one 
poor  week.  I refused  fifty-five  shillings  for 
her,  which  was  the  highest  bode  I could 
squeeze  for  her.  I fed  her  up  and  had  her 
in  fine  order  for  Dumfries  fair;  when  four 
or  five  days  before  the  fair,  she  was  seized 
with  an  unaccountable  disorder  in  the  sinews, 
or  somewhere  in  the  bones  of  the  neck; 
with  a weakness  or  total  want  of  power  in 
her  fillets,  and,  in  short,  the  whole  vertebrae 
of  her  spine  seemed  to  be  diseased  and 
unhinged,  and  in  eight  and  forty  hours,  in 
spite  of  the  two  best  farriers  in  the  country, 

f?he  died,  and  be to  her ! The  farriers 

said  that  she  had  been  quite  strained  in  the 
fillets  beyond  cure  before  you  had  bought 
her;  and  that  the  poor  devil,  though  she 
might  keep  a little  flesh,  had  been  jaded  and 
quite  worn  out  with  fatigue  and  oppression. 
While  she  was  with  me,  she  waa  under  my 


own  eye,  and,  l assure  you  ray  much- valued 
friend,  everything  was  dene  for  her  that 
could  be  done ; and  the  accident  has  vexed 
me  to  the  heart.  In  fact  1 could  not  pluck 
up  spirits  to  write  to  you,  on  account  of  ths 
unfortunate  business. 

There  is  little  new  in  this  country.  On* 
theatrical  company,  of  which  you  must  have 
heard,  leave  us  this  week.  Their  merit  and 
character  are,  indeed,  very  great,  both  on  the 
stage  and  in  private  life ; not  a worthless 
creature  among  them ; and  their  encourage- 
ment has  been  accordingly.  Their  usual  run 
is  from  eighteen  to  twenty-five  pounds  a- 
night;  seldom  less  than  the  one,  and  the 
house  will  hold  no  more  than  the  other. 
There  have  been  repeated  instances  of  send- 
ing away  six,  and  eight,  and  ten  pounds 
a-night  for  want  ol  room.  A new  theatre  is 
to  be  built  by  subscription ; the  first  stone 
is  to  be  laid  on  Friday  first  to  come.  Thre« 
hundred  guineas  have  been  raised  by  tliirtj 
subscribers,  and  thirty  more  might  have  been 
got  if  wanted.  The  manager,  Mr.  Suther- 
land, was  introduced  to  ine  by  a friend  from 
Ayr;  and  a worthier  or  cleverer  fellow  I 
have  rarely  met  with.  Some  of  our  clergy 
have  slipt  in  by  stealth  now  and  then ; but 
they  have  got  up  a farce  of  their  own.  You 
must  have  heard  how  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lawson 
of  Kirkmahoe,  seconded  by  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Kirkpatrick  of  Dunscore,  and  the  rest  of 
that  faction,  have  accused,  in  formal  process, 
the  unfortunate  and  Rev.  Mr.  Heron,  of 
Kirkgunzeon,  that,  in  ordaining  Mr.  Nielson 
to  the  cure  of  souls  in  Kirkbean,  he,  the 
said  Heron,  feloniously  and  treasonably 
bound  the  said  Nielson  to  the  confession  of 
faith,  so  far  as  it  was  agreeable  to  reason  and 
the  word  of  God  ! 

Mrs.  B.  begs  to  be  remembered  most 
gratefully  to  you.  Little  Bobby  and  Frank 
are  charmingly  well  and  healthy.  I am 
jaded  to  death  with  fatigue.  For  these  two 
or  three  months,  on  an  average,  I have  not 
ridden  less  than  200  miles  per  week.  I have 
done  little  in  the  poetic  way.  I have  given 
Mr.  Sutherland  two  Prologues ; one  of 
which  was  delivered  last  week.  I have  like- 
wise strung  four  or  five  barbarous  stanzas,  to 
the  tune  of  Chevy  Chase,  by  way  of  Elegy 
on  your  poor  unfortunate  mare,  beginning 
(the  name  she  got  here  was  Peg  Nicholson) 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a good  bay  mare, 

As  ever  trode  on  aim  ; 

But  now  she’s  floating  down  the  Nith, 
And  past  the  mouth  o’  Cairn. 

My  best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Nicol,  and 
little  Neddy,  and  all  the  family;  I hope  Ned 


TO  MU.  CUNNINGHAM. 


SSI 


U a good  scholar,  and  will  come  out  to 
gather  nuts  and  apples  with  me  next  harvest. 


NO.  CXCT. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM.  (104) 
Ellisland,  February  Ydth,  1790. 

I beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  and  much- 
valued friend,  for  writing  to  you  on  this 
very  unfashionable,  unsightly  sheet. 

My  poverty,  but  not  my  will,  consents. 

But  to  make  amends,  since  of  modish  post 
I have  none,  except  one  poor  widowed  half- 
sheet of  gilt,  which  lies  in  my  drawer,  among 
my  plebeian  foolscap  pages,  like  the  widow 
of  a man  of  fashion,  whom  that  unpolite 
ecoundrel.  Necessity,  has  driven  from  Bur- 
gundy and  Pineapple,  to  a dish  of  Bohea 
with  the  scandal-bearing  help-mate  of  a 
village-priest ; or  a glass  of  whisky-toddy, 
with  a ruby -nosed  yoke-fellow  of  a foot- 
padding exciseman — I make  a vow  to  enclose 
this  sheet-full  of  epistolary  fragments  in  that 
my  only  scrap  of  gilt-paper. 

I am,  indeed,  your  worthy  debtor  for  three 
friendly  letters.  I ought  to  have  written  to 
you  long  ere  now,  but  it  is  a literal  fact,  I have 
scarcely  a spare  moment.  It  is  not  that  I 
will  not  write  to  you : Miss  Burnet  is  not 
more  dear  to  her  guardian  angel,  nor  his 
grace  the  Duke  of  Queen  sberry  to  the 
powers  of  darkness,  than  my  friend  Cun- 
ningham to  me.  It  is  not  that  I cannot. 
write  to  you ; should  you  doubt  it,  take  the 
following  fragment,  which  was  intended  for 
you  some  time  ago,  and  be  convinced  that  I 
can  anthesize  sentiment,  and  circumvolute 
periods,  as  well  as  any  coiner  of  phrase  in 
the  regions  of  philology. 

December,  1789, 

My  Dear  Cunningham — Where  are 

you  ? And  what  are  you  doing  ? Can  you 
be  that  son  of  levity,  who  takes  up  a friend- 
ship as  he  takes  up  a fashion ; or,  are  you, 
like  some  other  of  the  worthiest  fellows  in 
the  world,  the  victim  of  indolence,  laden 
with  fetters  of  ever-increasing  weight  ? 

What  strange  beings  we  are ! Since  we 
nave  a portion  of  conscious  existence, 
equally  capable  of  enjoying  pleasure,  hap- 
piness, and  rapture,  or  of  suffering  pain, 
wretchedness,  and  misery;  it  is  surely 
worthy  of  an  inquiry  whether  there  be  not 
nuch  a thing  as  a science  of  life;  whether 


method,  economy,  and  fertility  cf  expedi- 
ents, be  not  applicable  to  enjoyment;  and 
whether  there  be  not  a want  of  dexterity 
in  pleasure,  which  renders  our  little  scantling 
of  happiness  still  less;  and  a profuseness, 
and  intoxication  in  bliss,  which  leads  to 
satiety,  disgust,  and  self-abhorrence.  There 
is  not  a doubt  but  that  health,  talents, 
character,  decent  competency,  respectable 
friends,  are  real  substantial  blessings ; and 
yet,  do  we  not  daily  see  those  who  enjoy 
many  or  all  of  these  good  things,  contrive, 
notwithstanding,  to  be  a3  unhappy  as  others 
to  whose  lot  few  of  them  have  fallen  ? I 
believe  one  great  source  of  this  mistake  or 
misconduct  is  owing  to  a certain  stimulus, 
with  us  called  ambition,  which  goads  us  up 
the  hill  of  life;  not  as  we  ascend  other 
eminences,  for  the  laudable  curiosity  of 
viewing  an  extended  landscape,  but,  rather, 
for  the  dishonest  pride  of  looking  dowr 
on  others  of  our  fellow-creatures,  seem 
ingly  diminutive  in  humbler  stations,  &c, 
&c. 

Sunday,  February  14 th,  1790. 

God  help  me  ! I am  now  obliged  to  join 

Night  to  day,  and  Sunday  to  the  week. 

If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  orthodox  faith 
of  these  churches,  I am past  re- 
demption, and,  what  is  worse, to 

all  eternity.  I am  deeply  read  in  Boston’s 
Four-fold  State,  Marshall  on  Sanctification. 
Guthrie’s  Trial  of  a Saving  Interest,  &c. ; 
but,  “ there  is  no  balm  in  Gilead,  there  is  no 
physician  there,”  for  me;  so  I shall  e’en 
turn  Arminian,  and  trust  to  “Sincere  though 
imperfect  obedience.” 

Tuesday,  1 6th. 

Luckily  for  me,  I was  prevented  from 
the  discussion  of  the  knotty  point  at  which 
I had  just  made  a full  stop.  All  my  fears 
and  cares  are  of  this  world:  if  there  ia 
another,  an  honest  man  has  uothing  to  fear 
from  it.  I hate  a man  that  wishes  to  be  8 
deist ; but  I fear,  every  fair,  unprejudiced 
inquirer  must,  in  some  degree,  be  a sceptic 
It  is  not  that  there  are  any  very  staggering 
arguments  against  the  immortality  of  man ; 
but,  like  electricity,  phlogiston,  &c.,  the 
subject  is  so  involved  in  darkness,  that  we 
want  data  to  go  upon.  One  thing  frightens 
me  much : that  we  are  to  live  for  ever, 
seems  too  good  news  tc  be  true.  That  we 
are  to  enter  into  a new  scene  of  existence, 
where,  exempt  from  want  and  pain,  we  shall 
enjoy  ourselves  and  our  friends  without 
satiety  or  separation; — how  much  should 


362 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


I be  indebted  to  any  one  who  could  fully, 
assure  me  that  this  was  certain! 

My  time  is  once  more  expired.  I will 
Write  to  Mr.  Cleghorn  soon.  God  bless  him 
and  all  his  concerns ! And  may  all  the 
powers  that  preside  over  conviviality  and 
friendship  be  present  with  all  their  kindest 
influence,  when  the  bearer  of  this,  Mr. 
Syme,  and  you  meet ! I wish  I could  also 
make  one. 

Finally,  brethren,  farewell ! Whatsoever 
things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are 
gentle,  whatsoever  things  are  charitable, 
whatsoever  things  are  kind,  think  on  these 
things,  and  think  on. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CXCVI. 

TO  MR.  HILL. 

Ellisland,  March  2nd,  1790. 

At  a late  meeting  of  the  Monkland 
Friendly  Society,  it  was  resolved  to  augment 
their  library  by  the  following  books,  which 
you  are  to  send  us  as  soon  as  possible : — 
The  Mirror,  The  Lounger,  Man  of  Feeling,  , 
Man  of  the  W'orld  (these,  for  my  own  sake,  » 
I wish  to  have  by  the  first  carrier),  Knox’s  I 
History  of  the  Reformation ; Rae’s  History  ' 
of  the  Rebellion  in  1715  ; any  good  History 
of  the  Rebellion  in  1745;  A Display  of 
the  Secession  Act  and  Testimony,  by  Mr. 
Gib;  Hervey’s  Meditations;  Beveridge’s 
Thoughts ; and  another  copy  of  Watson’s 
Body  of  Divinity. 

I wrote  to  Mr.  A.  Masterton  three  or 
four  montlw  ago,  to  pay  some  money  he 
owed  me  into  your  hands,  and  lately,  I 
wrote  to  you  to  the  same  purpose ; but  I 
have  heard  from  neither  one  nor  other  of 
you. 

In  addition  to  the  books  I commissioned 
in  my  last,  i want  very  much  An  Index  to 
the  Excise  Laws,  or  an  Abridgement  of  all 
the  Statutes  now  in  force  relative  to  the 
Excise,  by  Jellinger  Symons;  I want  three 
copies  of  this  book  ; if  it  is  now  to  be  had, 
cheap  or  dear,  get^it  for  me.  An  honest 
country  neighbour  of  mine  wants,  too,  a 
Family  Bible,  the  larger  the  better,  but 
ffecond-handed,  for  he  does  not  choose  to 
give  above  ten  shillings  for  the  book.  I 
want  likewise  for  myself,  as  you  can  pick 
them  up,  second-har.ded,  or  cheap,  copies  of 
Otway’s  Dramatic  Works,  Ben  Jonson’s, 
Dryden’f,  Congreve’s,  Wycherley’s,  Van- 
burgh’s,  Cibber’s,  or  any  Dramatic  Works 
of  the  more  modern  Macklin,  Garrick, 
Toite,  Colrnan,  or  Sheridan.  A good  copy, 


too,  of  Moliere,  in  French,  I much  want 
Any  other  good  dramatic  authors  in  that 
language  I want  also;  but  comic  authors 
chiefly,  though  I should  wish  to  have 
Racine,  Corneille,  and  Voltaire  too.  I am  in 
no  hurry  for  all,  or  any  of  these,  but  if  you 
accidently  meet  with  them  very  cheap,  get 
them  for  me.  (105) 

And  now,  to  quit  the  dry  walk  of  business, 
how  do  you  do,  my  dear  friend  ? — and  how 
is  Mrs.  Hill?  I trust,  if  now  and  then  not 
so  elegantly  handsome,  at  least  as  amiable, 
and  sings  as  divinely  as  ever.  My  good 
wife,  too,  has  a charming  "wood-note  wild;** 
now  could  we  four . 

I am  out  of  all  patience  with  this  vile 
world,  for  one  thing.  Mankind  are  by 
nature  benevolent  creatures,  except  in  a few 
scoundrelly  instances.  I do  not  think  that 
avarice  of  the  good  things  we  chance  to 
have  is  born  with  us  : but,  we  are  placed 
here  amid  so  much  nakedness,  and  hunger, 
and  poverty,  and  want,  that  we  are  under  a 
cursed  necessity  of  studying  selfishness,  in. 
order  that  we  may  exist!  Still  there  are, 
in  every  age,  a few  souls,  that  all  the  wants 
and  woes  of  life  cannot  debase  to  selfish- 
ness, or  even  to  the  necessary  alloy  of 
caution  and  prudence.  If  ever  I am  in 
danger  of  vanity,  it  is  when  I contemplate 
myself  on  this  side  of  my  disposition  and 
character.  God  knows,  I am  no  saint ; I 
have  a whole  host  of  follies  and  sins  to 
answer  for ; but  if  I could,  and  I believe  I 
do  it  as  far  as  I can,  I would  wipe  away  all 
tears  from  all  eyes.  Adieu ! R.  F. 


NO.  CXCVII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  April  10th,  1790. 

I have  just  now,  my  ever-honoured 
friend,  enjoyed  a very  high  luxury,  in  read- 
ing a paper  of  the  Lounger.  You  knsw  my 
national  prejudices.  I had  often  read  and 
admired  the  Spectator,  Adventurer,  Rambler, 
and  World ; but  still,  with  a certain  regret 
that  they  were  so  thoroughly  and  entirely 
English.  Alas  ! have  I often  said  tb  myself, 
what  are  all  the  boasted  advantages  which 
my  country  reaps  from  the  union,  that  can 
counterbalance  the  annihilation  of  her  inde- 
pendence, and  even  her  very  name ! I often 
repeat  that  couplet  of  my  f^ourite  poet^ 
Goldsmith — 

States,  of  native  liberty  possest. 

Though  very  poor,  may  yet  be  very  blest. 


TO  COLLECTOR  MITCHELL. 


m 


Notl  ing  can  reconcile  me  to  the  common 
terms,  English  ambassador,  English  court, 
&c.  And  I am  out  of  all  patience  to  see 
that  equivocal  character,  Hastings,  im- 
peached by  "the  Commons  of  England.” 
Tell  me,  my  friend,  is  this  weak  prejudice  ? 
i believe,  on  my  conscience,  such  ideas  as — 
**my  country,  her  independence,  her  hon- 
our, the  illustrious  names  that  mark  the 
history  of  my  native  land,”  &c. — I believe 
these,  among  your  men  of  the  world, — men 
who,  in  fact,  guide  for  the  most  part  and 
govern  our  world, — are  looked  on  as  so  many 
modifications  of  wrorig-headedness.  They 
know  the  use  of  bawling  out  such  terms,  to 
rouse  or  lead  the  rabble  ; but  for  their 
own  private  use,  with  almost  all  the  able 
statesmen  that  ever  existed,  or  now  exist, 
when  they  talk  of  right  and  wrong,  they 
only  mean  proper  and  improper ; and  their 
measure  of  conduct  is  not  what  they  ought, 
but  what  they  dare.  For  the  truth  of 
this,  1 shall  not  ransack  the  history  of 
nations,  but  appeal  to  one  of  the  ablest 
judges  of  men  that  ever  lived — the  cele- 
brated Earl  of  Chesterfield.  In  fact,  a man 
who  could  thoroughly  control  his  vices 
whenever  they  interfered  with  his  interests, 
end  who  could  completely  put  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  every  virtue  as  oft  m as  it 
suited  his  purposes,  is,  on  the  Stanhopian 
plan,  the  perfect  man ; a man  to  lead 
nations.  But  are  great  abilities,  complete 
without  a flaw,  and  polished  without  a 
blemish,  the  standard  of  human  excellence  ? 
This  is  certainly  the  staunch  opinion  of  men 
of  the  world;  but  I call  on  honour,  virtue, 
and  worth,  to  give  the  Stygian  doctrine  a 
loud  negative ! However,  this  must  be 
allow  ed,  that,  if  you  abstract  from  man  the 
idea  of  an  existence  beyond  the  grave,  then 
the  true  measure  of  human  conduct  is, 
proper  and  improper;  virtue  and  vice,  as 
dispositions  of  the  heart,  are,  in  that  case, 
of  scarcely  the  same  import  and  value  to  the 
world  at  large,  as  harmony  and  discord  in 
the  modifications  of  sound;  and  a delicate 
sense  of  honour,  like  a nice  ear  for  music, 
though  it  may  sometimes  give  the  possessor 
an  ecstacy  unknown  to  the  coarser  organs 
of  the  herd,  yet,  considering  the  harsh 
gratings,  and  inharmonic  jars,  in  this  ill- 
tuned  state  of  being,  it  is  odds  but  the 
individual  would  be  as  happy,  and  certainly 
would  be  as  much  respected,  b.y  the  true 
judges  of  society  as  it  would  then  stand, 
without  either  a good  ear  or  a good  heart. 

^ou  must  know,  I have  just  met  with  the 
Mirror  and  Lounger  for  the  first  time,  and  I 
fcBQ  quite  in  raptures  with  them;  I should 


be  glad  to  have  your  opinion  of  some  of  the 
papers.  The  one  I have  just  read.  Lounger, 
No.  61,  has  cost  me  more  honest  tears  thai* 
any  thing  I hav»  read  of  a long  time.  (106) 
Mackenzie  has  t«sen  called  the  Addison  of 
the  Scots,  and,  in  my  opinion,  Addison 
would  not  be  hurt  at  the  comparison.  If  he 
has  not  Addison’s  exquisite  humour,  he  as 
certainly  outdoes  him  in  the  tender  and  the 
pathetic.  His  Man  of  Feeling  (but  I am 
not  counsel-learned  in  the  law3  of  criticism) 
I estimate  as  the  first  performance  in  its 
kind  I ever  saw.  From  what  book,  moral 
or  even  pious,  will  the  susceptible  young 
mind  receive  impressions  more  congenial  to 
humanity  and  kindness,  generosity  and  be- 
nevolence— in  short,  more  of  all  that  enno- 
bles the  soul  to  herself,  or  endears  her  to 
others — than  from  the  simple  affecting  tale 
of  poor  Harley? 

Still,  with  all  my  admiration  of  Mackenzie’s 
writings,  I do  not  know  if  they  are  the  fittest 
reading  for  a young  man  who  is  about  to  set 
out,  as  the  phrase  is,  to  make  his  way  into 
life.  Do  not  you  think,  Madam,  that  among 
the  few  favoured  of  Heaven  in  the  structure 
of  their  minds  (for  such  there  certainly  are), 
there  may  be  a purity,  a tenderness,  a 
dignity,  an  elegance  of  soul,  which  are  of  no 
use,  nay,  in  some  degree,  absolutely  dis- 
qualifying, for  the  truly  important  business 
of  making  a man’s  way  into  life ! If  I am 
not  much  mistaken,  my  gallant  young  friend, 
A******,  is  very  much  under  these  disquali- 
fications ; and,  for  the  young  females  of  a 
family  I could  mention,  well  may  they  excite 
parental  solicitude,  for  I,  a common  ac- 
quaintance, or  as  my  vanity  will  have  it,  a 
humble  friend,  have  often  trembled  for  a 
turn  of  mind  which  may  render  them  emi- 
nently happy,  or  peculiarly  miserable ! 

I have  been  manufacturing  some  verses 
lately ; but  as  I have  got  the  most  hurried 
season  of  Excise  business  over,  1 hope  to 
have  more  leisure  to  transcribe  any  thing 
that  may  show  how  much  I have  the  honour 
to  be.  Madam,  yours,  &c.  R.  B. 


no.  cxcvm. 

TO  COLLECTOR  MITCHELL 

Ellisland,  1790. 

Sir — I shall  not  fail  to  wait  on  Captain 
Riddel  to-night — I wish  and  pray  that  the 
goddess  of  justice  herself  would  appear  to- 
morrow among  our  hon.  gentlemen,  merely 
to  give  them  a word  in  their  ear  that  mexiy 


864 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


to  the  thief  is  injustice  to  the  honest  man. 
For  my  part,  I ha  ve  galloped  over  my  ten 
parishes  these  four  days,  until  this  moment 
that  I am  just  alighted,  or  rather,  that  my 
poor  jackass-skeleton  of  a horse  has  let  me 
down  ; for  the  miserable  devil  has  been  on 
his  knees  half  a score  of  times  within  the 
last  twenty  miles,  telling  me,  in  his  own 
way,  “ Behold,  am  not  I thy  faithful  jade  of 
a horse,  on  which  thou  hast  ridden  these 
many  years ! ” 

In  short.  Sir,  I have  broke  my  horse’s 
wind,  and  almost  broke  my  own  neck, 
besides  some  injuries  in  a part  that  shall  be 
nameless,  owing  to  a hard-hearted  stone  of 
a saddle.  I find  that  every  offender  has  so 
many  great  men  to  espouse  his  cause,  that  I 
shall  not  be  surprised  if  I am  committed  to 
the  strong-hold  of  the  law  to-morrow  for 
insolence  to  the  dear  friends  of  the  gentle- 
men of  the  country.  I have  the  honour  to 
be.  Sir,  your  obliged  and  obedient  humble 
R.  B. 


NO.  CXCIX 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Dumfries , Excise-Office,  July  14fA,  1790. 

Sir — Coming  into  towm  this  morning  to 
attend  my  duty  in  this  office,  it  being  col- 
lection-day, I met  with  a gentleman  who 
tells  me  he  is  on  his  way  to  London ; so  I 
take  the  opportunity  of  writing  to  you,  as 
franking  is  at  present  under  a temporary 
death.  I shall  harve  some  snatches  of  leisure 
through  the  day,  amid  our  horrid  business 
and  bustle,  and  I shall  improve  them  as  well 
as  I can ; but  let  my  letter  be  as  stupid  as 
• * * *,  as  miscellaneous  as  a newspaper, 
as  short  as  a hungry  grace-before-meat,  or 
as  long  as  a lawT-paper  in  the  Douglas  cause ; 
as  ill-spelt  as  country  John’s  billet-doux, 
or  as  unsightly  a scrawl  as  Betty  Byre- 
Mucker’s  answer  to  it ; I hope,  considering 
circumstances,  you  will  forgive  it ; and  as  it 
will  put  you  to  no  expense  of  postage,  I 
shall  have  the  less  reflection  about  it. 

I am  sadly  ungrateful  in  not  returning 
you  my  thanks  for  your  most  valuable  pre- 
sent, Zeluco.  In  fact,  you  are  in  some 
degree  blameable  for  my  neglect.  You  were 
pleased  to  express  a wish  for  my  opinion  of 
the  work,  which  so  flattered  me,  that  nothing 
less  would  serve  my  overweening  fancy,  than 
a formal  criticism  on  the  book.  In  fact,  I 
have  gravely  planned  a comparative  view  of 
Fielding,  Richardson  and  Smollett,  in 


your  different  qualities  and  mer.ts  aa  novel 
writers.  This,  I own,  betrays  my  ridiculous 
vanity,  and  I may  probably  never  bring  the 
business  to  bear;  but  I am  fond  of  the 
spirit  young  Elihu  shows  in  the  book  of 
Job — “And  I said,  I will  also  declare  my 
opinion.”  I have  quite  disfigured  my  copy 
of  the  book  wfith  my  annotations.  I never 
take  it  up  without  at  the  same  time  taking 
my  pencil,  and  marking  with  asterisks, 
parentheses,  &c.,  w7herever  I meet  with  an 
original  thought,  a nervous  remark  on  life 
and  manners,  a remarkable,  w'ell-turned 
period,  or  a character  sketched  with  un- 
common precision. 

Though  I should  hardly  think  of  fairly 
writing  out  my  “Comparative  View,”  I 
shall  certainly  trouble  you  with  my  remarks, 
such  as  they  are. 

I have  just  received  from  my  gentleman 
that  horrid  summons  in  the  book  of  Rev©* 
lation — “ That  time  shall  be  no  more ! ” 

The  little  collection  of  sonnets  have  some 
charming  poetry  in  them.  If,  indeed,  I am 
indebted  to  the  fair  author  for  the  book  (107), 
and  not,  as  I rather  suspect,  to  a celebrated 
author  of  the  other  sex,  I should  certainly 
have  written  to  the  lady,  with  my  grateful 
acknowledgments,  and  my  own  ideas  of  the 
comparative  excellence  of  her  pieces.  I 
would  do  this  last,  not  from^any  vanity  of 
thinking  that  my  remarks  could  be  of  much 
consequence  to  Mrs.  Smith,  but  merely  from 
my  own  feelings  as  an  author,  doing  as  ! 
would  be  done  by.  R.  B. 


no.  cc. 

TO  MR.  MURDOCH, 

TEACHER  OP  FRENCH,  LONDON. 

Ellisland,  July  1 6th,  1790. 

My  dear  Sir — I received  a letter  from 
you  a long  time  ago,  but,  unfortunately,  as  it 
was  in  the  time  of  my  peregrinations  and 
journeyings  through  Scotland,  I mislaid  or 
lost  it,  and,  by  consequence,  your  direction 
along  with  it.  Luckily,  my  goid  star 
brought  me  acquainted  with  Mr.  Kennedy, 
who,  I understand  is  an  acquaintance  of 
yours  : and  by  his  means  and  mediation . X 
hope  to  replace  that  link  which  my  un- 
fortunate negligence  had  so  unluckily  broke 
in  the  chain  of  our  correspondence.  I was 
the  more  vexed  at  the  vile  accitlent,  as  mf 
brother  William,  a journeyman  saddler,  hag 
been  for  some  time  in  London,  and  wished 


TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 


m 


ibove  all  things  for  your  direction,  that  he 
ought  have  paid  his  respects  to  his  father’s 
friend. 

His  last  address  he  sent  to  me  was/'  Win, 
Burns,  it  Mr.  Barber’s,  saddler.  No.  181, 
Strand  ’ I writ  him  by  Mr.  Kennedy,  but 
neglected  to  ask  him  for  your  address ; so, 
if  you  find  a spare  half  minute,  please  let 
my  brother  know  by  a card  where  and  when 
he  will  find  you,  and  the  poor  fellow  will 
joyfully  wait  on  you,  as  one  of  the  few 
surviving  friends  of  the  man  whose  name, 
and  Christian  name  too,  he  has  the  honour 
to  bear. 

The  next  letter  I write  you  shall  be  a long 
one.  I have  much  to  tell  you  of  “hair- 
breath  ’scapes  in  th’  imminent  deadly 
breach,”  with  all  the  eventful  history  of  a 
life,  the  early  years  of  which  owed  so  much 
to  your  kind  tutorage ; but  this  at  an  hour 
of  leisure.  My  kindest  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Murdoch,  and  family.  I am  ever,  my  dear 
Sir,  your  obliged  friend,  R.  B.  (108) 


mo.  cci. 

TO  MR.  M’MURDC. 

Ellisland,  August  2nd,  1790. 

Sir — Now,  that  you  are  over  with  the 
sirens  of  Flattery,  the  harpies  of  Corruption, 
and  the  furies  of  Ambition — these  infernal 
deities,  that  on  all  sides,  and  in  all  parties, 
preside  over  the  villainous  business  of  poli- 
tics— permit  a rustic  muse  of  your  acquain- 
tance to  do  her  best  to  soothe  you  with  a 
song. 

Ybu  knew  Henderson — I have  not  flat- 
tered his  memory.  I have  the  honour  to 
be,  Sir,  your  obliged  humble  servant, 

R.  B 


SfO.  CCII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

August  8th,  1790. 

Dear  Madam — After  a long  day’s  toil, 
plague  and  care,  I sit  down  to  write  to  you. 
Ask  me  not  why  I have  delayed  it  so  long? 
It  was  owing  to  hurry,  indolence,  and  fifty 
other  things;  in  short,  to  anything  but 
forgetfulness  of  la  plus  aimable  de  son  sexe. 
By  the  bye,  you  are  indebted  your  best 
courtesy  to  me  for  this  last  compliment,  as 
1 pay  it  from  my  sincere  conviction  of 


its  truth — a quality  rather  rare  in  compli. 
ments  of  these  grinning,  bowing,  scraping 
times. 

Well,  I hope  writing  to  you  will  ease  a 
little  my  troubled  soul.  Sorely  has  it  been- 
bruised  to-day  ! A ci-devant  friend  of  mine, 
and  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  yours,  has 
given  my  feelings  a wound  that  I perceiv* 
will  gangrene  dangerously  ere  it  cure.  Ha 
has  wounded  my  pride.  R.  B. 


no.  com. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  August  8 th,  1790. 

Forgive  me,  my  once  dear,  and  ever 
dear  friend,  my  seemiag  negligence.  You 
cannot  sit  down  and  fancy  the  busy  life  I 
lead. 

I laid  down  my  goose  feather  to  beat  my 
brains  for  an  apt  simile,  and  had  some 
thoughts  of  a country  grannum  at  a family 
christening — a bride  on  the  market-day 
before  her  marriage,  or  a tavern-keeper  at 
an  election  dinner ; but  the  resemblance 
that  hits  my  fancy  best  is,  that  blackguard 
miscreant,  Satan,  who  roams  about  like  a 
roaring  lion,  seeking,  searching  lvhom  he 
may  devour.  However,  tossed  about  as  I 
am,  if  I choose  (and  who  would  not  choose?) 
to  bind  down  with  the  crampets  of  atten- 
tion the  brazen  foundation  of  integrity,  I 
may  rear  up  the  superstructure  of  inde- 
pendence, and  from  its  daring  turrets  bid 
defiance  to  the  storms  of  fate.  And  is 
not  this  a “ consummation  devoutly  to  be 
wished  ? ” 

Thy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share ; 

Lord  of  the  lion- heart,  and  eagle-eye  l 
Thy  steps  I follow  with  my  bosom  bare. 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the 
sky! 

Are  not  these  noble  verses  ? They  are 
the  introduction  of  Smollett’s  Ode  to  In- 
dependence: if  you  have  not  seen  the  poem, 
I will  send  it  to  you.  How  wretched  is  the 
man  that  hangs  on  by  the  favours  of  the 
great!  To  shrink  from  every  dignity  of 
man,  at  the  approach  of  a lordly  piece  of 
self-consequence,  who,  amid  all  his  tinsel 
glitter  and  stately  hauteur,  is  but  a creature 
formed  as  thou  art  — and  perhaps  not 
so  well  formed  as  thou  art — came  into  the 
world  a puling  infant  &z  though  didst,  and 
must  go  out  of  it}  as  all  men  must,  a naked 
corse.  R*  B.  (109) 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


NO.  CCIY. 

TO  DR.  ANDERSON 

Sir — I am  much  indebted  to  ay  worthy 
friend,  Dr.  Blacklock,  for  introducing  me  to 
a,  gentleman  of  Dr.  Anderson’s  celebrity  ; 
but  when  you  do  me  the  honour  to  ask  my 
assistance  in  your  proposed  publication, 
alas.  Sir  ! you  might  as  well  think  to  cheapen 
a little  honesty  at  the  sign  of  an  advocate’s 
wig,  or  humility  under  the  Geneva  band. 
I am  a miserable  hurried  devil,  worn  to  the 
marrow  in  the  friction  of  holding  the  noses 
of  the  poor  publicans  to  the  grindstone  of 
the  Excise!  and,  like  Milton’s  Satan,  for 
private  reasons,  am  forced 
To  do  what  yet  though  damn'd  I would  abhor. 
• — and,  except  a couplet  or  two  of  honest 
execration  * • * ♦ 

R.  B.  (110) 


NO.  CCV. 

TO  CRAUFORD  TAIT,  Eso, 

EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland,  October  15th,  1790. 

Dear  Sir — Allow  me  to  introduce  to 
your  acquaintance  the  bearer,  Mr.  Wm.  Dun- 
can, a friend  of  mine,  whom  I have  long 
known  and  long  loved.  His  father,  whose 
only  son  he  is,  has  a decent  little  property 
in  Ayrshire,  and  has  bred  the  young  man  to 
the  law,  in  which  department  he  comes  up 
an  adventurer  to  your  good  town.  I shall 
give  you  my  friend’s  character  in  two  words : 
as  to  his  head,  he  has  talents  enough,  and 
more  than  enough,  for  common  life ; as  to 
his  heart,  when  nature  had  fashioned  the 
kindly  clay  that  composes  it,  she  said,  “I 
can  no  more.” 

You,  ray  good  Sir,  were  born  under  kinder 
stars  ; but  your  fraternal  sympathy,  I well 
know,  can  enter  into  the  feelings  of  the 
young  man  who  goes  into  life  with  the  lau- 
dable ambition  to  do  something,  and  to  be 
something,  among  his  fellow-creatures,  but 
whom  the  consciousness  of  friendless  obscu- 
rity presses  to  the  earth,  and  wounds  to  the 
soul. 

Even  the  fairest  of  his  virtues  are  against 
him.  That  independent  spirit,  and  that 
ingenuous  modesty,  qualities  inseparable  from 
a noble  mind,  are,  with  the  million,  circum- 
stances not  a little  disqualifying.  What 
pleasure  is  in  the  power  of  the  fortunate  and 
the  happy,  by  their  notice  and  patronage. 


to  brighten  the  countenance  and  gkd  tkt 
heart  of  such  depressed  youth ! I am  not 
so  angry  with  mankind  for  their  deaf  eco- 
nomy of  the  purse : the  goods  of  this  world 
cannot  be  divided  without  being  lessened — • 
but  why  be  a niggard  of  that  which  bestows 
bliss  on  a fellow-creatuie,  yet  takes  nothing 
from  our  own  means  of  enjoyment?  We 
wrap  ourselves  up  in  the  cloak. of  our  own 
better  fortune,  and  turn  away  our  eyes, 
lest  the  wants  and  woes  of  our  brother 
mortals  should  disturb  the  selfish  apathy  of 
our  souls! 

I am  the  worst  hand  in  the  world  at  ask- 
ing a favour.  That  indirect  address,  that 
insinuating  implication,  which,  without  any 
positive  request,  plainly  expresses  your  wish, 
is  a talent  not  to  be  acquired  at  a plough- 
tail.  Tell  me  then,  for  you  can,  in  what 
periphrasis  of  language,  in  what  circumvo- 
lution of  phrase,  I shall  envelope,  yet  not 
conceal,  this  plain  story — “ My  dear  Mr. 
Tait,  my  friend  Mr.  Duncan,  whom  I have 
the  pleasure  of  introducing  to  you,  is  a 
young  lad  of  your  own  profession,  and  a 
gentleman  of  much  modesty  and  great 
worth.  Perhaps,  it  may  be  in  your  power 
to  assist  him  in  the,  to  him,  important  con- 
sideration of  getting  a place,  but,  at  all 
events,  your  notice  and  acquaintance  will  be 
a very  great  acquisition  to  him  ; and  I dare 
pledge  myself,  that  he  will  never  disgrace 
your  favour.” 

You  may  possibly  be  surprised.  Sir,  at 
such  a letter  from  me ; ’tis,  I own,  in  the 
usual  way  of  calculating  these  matters,  more 
than  our  acquaintance  entitles  me  to ; but 
my  answer  is  short : — cr  all  the  men  at  your 
time  of  life,  whom  I knew  in  Edinburgh, 
you  are  the  most  accessible  on  the  side  on 
which  I have  assailed  you.  You  are  very 
much  altered,  indeed,  from  what  you  were 
when  I knew  you,  if  generosity  point  the 
path  you  will  not  tread,  or  humanity  call  to 
you  in  vain. 

As  to  myself,  a being  to  whose  interest 
I believe  you  are  still  a well-wisher,  I am 
here,  breathing  at  all  times,  thinking  some- 
times, and  rhyming  now  and  then  F very 
situation  has  its  share  of  the  cares  and 
pains  of  life,  and  my  situation,  I am  per- 
suaded, has  a full  ordinary  allowance  of  its 
pleasures  and  enjoyments. 

My  best  compliments  to  your  father  and 
Miss  Tait.  If  you  have  an  opportunity, 
please  remember  me  in  the  solemn-Jeague- 
and-covenant  of  friendship  to  Mrs.  Lewi* 
Hay.  I am  a wretch  tor  not  writing  her; 
but  I am  so  hackneyed  with  self-accusation 
in  that  way,  that  my  conscience  lies  in 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


367 


fcosom  with  scarce  tbs  sensibility  of  an 
oyster  in  its  shell.  Where  is  Lady  M'Ken- 
zie ? wherever  she  is,  God  bless  her!  I 
likewise  beg  leave  to  trouble  you  with 
compliments  to  Mr.  Wm.  Hamilton,  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  and  family,  and  Mrs.  Chalmers, 
when  you  are  in  that  country.  Should 
you  meet  with  Miss  Nimmo,  please  re- 
member me  kindly  to  her. 

R.  B. 


HO.  CCVL 

TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

Ellisland,  1790. 

Dear  Sir — -Whether  in  the  way  of  my 
trade,  I can  be  of  auy  service  to  the  Rev. 
Doctor,  is,  I fear,  very  doubtful.  Ajax’s 
shield  consisted,  I think,  of  seven  bull  hides, 
and  a plate  of  brass,  which,  altogether,  set 
Hector’s  utmost  force  at  defiance.  Alas  ! I 
am  not  a Hector,  aud  the  worthy  Doctor’s 
foes  are  as  securely  armed  as  Ajax  was. 
Ignorance,  superstition,  bigotry,  stupidity, 
malevolence,  self-conceit,  envy — all  strongly 
bound  in  a massy  frame  of  brazen  impu- 
dence. Good  God,  Sir ! to  such  a shield, 
humour  is  the  peck  of  a sparrow,  and  satire 
the  pop-gun  of  a scbool-boy.  Creation-dis- 
gracing scelerats  such  as  they,  God  only 
can  mend,  and  the  devil  only  can  punish.  In 
the  comprehensive  vay  of  Caligula,  I wish 
they  all  had  but  one  neck.  I feel  impotent 
as  a child  to  the  ardour  of  my  wishes ! Oh, 
for  a withering  curse  to  blast  the  germens  of 
their  wicked  machinations.  Oh,  for  a poison- 
ous tornado,  winged  from  the  torrid  zone  of 
Tartarus,  to  sweep  the  spreading  crop  of 
their  villanous  contrivances  to  the  lowest 
hdl.  5LB, 


NO.  CCVII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP.  (Ill) 

Ellisland , November,  1790. 

* h&  cold  waters  to  a thirsty  soul,  so  is 
good  news  from  a far  country.” 

Fate  has  long  owed  me  a letter  of  good 
news  from  you,  in  return  for  the  many 
tidings  of  sorrow  which  I have  received.  In 
this  instance,  I most  cordially  obey  the  apos- 
tle— “ Rejoice  with  them  that  do  rejoice.” — 
EV  me  to  sing  for  joy,  is  no  new  thing ; but 


to  preach  for  joy,  as  I have  done  in  the  com- 
mencement of  this  epistle,  is  a pitch  of  ex- 
travagant rapture  to  which  I never  roa« 
before. 

I read  your  letter — I literally  jumped  for 
joy.  How  could  such  a mercurial  creature 
as  a poet  lumpishly  keep  his  seat,  on  the 
receipt  of  the  best  newTs  from  his  best  friend. 
I seized  my  gilt-headed  Wangee  rod,  an  in- 
strument indispensably  necessary,  in  my 
left  hand,  in  the  moment  sf  inspiration  and 
rapture;  and  stride,  stride  — quick  and 
quicker — out  skipt  I among  the  broomy 
banks  of  Nith  to  muse  over  my  joy  by 
retail.  To  keep  within  the  bounds  of  prose 
was  impossible.  Mrs.  Little’s  is  a more  ele- 
gant, but  not  a more  sincere  compliment  to 
the  sweet  little  fellow,  than  I,  extempore 
almost,  poured  out  to  him  in  the  following 
verses : — 

Sweet  flow’ret,  pledge  o’  meikle  love. 

And  ward  o’  mony  a prayer. 

What  heart  o’  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 
Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair ! 

November  hirples  o’er  the  lea 
Chill  on  thy  lovely  form  ; 

And  gane,  alas  ! the  shelt’ring  tree 
Should  shield  thee  frae  the  storm. 

May  He,  who  gives  the  rain  to  pour. 

And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw, 

Protect  thee  frae  the  driving  show’r. 

The  bitter  frost  and  snaw  ! 

May  He,  the  friend  of  woe  and  want. 

Who  heals  life’s  various  stounds. 

Protect  and  guard  the  mother-plant. 

And  heal  her  cruel  wounds  ! 

But  late  she  flourish’d,  rooted  fast, 

Fair  on  the  summer  morn ; 

Now,  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast. 
Unshelter’d  and  forlorn. 

Best  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gem. 
Unscath’d  by  ruffian  ha©d  ! 

And  from  thee  ma«?y  a parent  stem 
Arise  to  deck  our  land ! 

I am  much  flattered  by  your  approbation 
of  my  “ Tam  o’  Shanter,”  which  you  express 
in  your  former  letter ; though,  by  the  bye, 
you  load  me  in  that  said  letter  with  accusa- 
tions heavy  and  many,  to  all  which  I plead 
not  guilty ! Your  book  is,  I hear,  on  the 
road  to  reach  me.  As  to  printing  of  poetry, 
when  you  prepare  it  for  the  press,  you  have 
only  to  spell  it  right,  and  place  the  capital 
letters  properly — as  to  the  punctuation,  the 
printers  do  that  themselves. 

I have  a copy  of  “ Tam  o’  Shanter”  ready 
I to  send  you  by  the  first  opportunity — it  ii 
| too  heavy  to  send  by  post. 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


I heard  of  Mr.  Corbet  (112)  lately.  He, 
ill  consequence  of  your  recommendation,  is 
most  zealous  to  serve  me.  Please  favour  me 
soon  with  an  account  of  your  good  folks ; if 
Mrs.  II.  is  recovering,  and  the  young  gentle- 
man doing  well.  II.  B. 


NO.  CCVIII. 

TO  CHARLES  SHARPE,  Esq., 

©P  HOD  DAM,  UNDER  A FICTITIOUS 

SIGNATURE,  ENCLOSING  A BALLAD. 

1791. 

It  is  true,  Sir,  you  are  a gentleman  of  rank 
and  fortune,  and  I am  a poor  devil — you  are 
a feather  in  the  cap  of  Society,  and  I am  a 
very  hobnail  in  his  shoes;  yet  I have  the 
honour  to  belong  to  the  same  family  with 
you,  and  on  that  score  I now  address  you. 
You  will,  perhaps,  suspect  that  I am  going  to 
claim  affinity  with  the  ancient  and  honour- 
able house  of  Kirkpatrick.  No,  no.  Sir;  I 
cannot  indeed  be  properly  said  to  belong  to 
any  house,  or  even  any  province  or  kingdom ; 
as  my  ‘mother,  who  for  many  years  was 
spouse  to  a marching  regiment,  gave  me  into 
this  bad  world,  aboard  the  packet-boat, 
somewhere  between  Donaghadee  and  Port- 
patrick.  By  our  common  family,  I mean, 
Sir,  the  family  of  the  muses.  I am  a fiddler 
and  a poet ; and  you,  I am  told,  play  an  ex- 
quisite violin,  and  have  a standard  taste  in 
the  belles  lettres.  The  other  day,  a brother 
catgut  gave  me  a charming  Scots  air  of  your 
composition.  If  I was  pleased  with  the 
tune,  I was  in  raptures  with  the  title  you 
have  given  it;  and,  taking  up  the  idea,  I 
have  spun  it  into  the  three  stanzas  enclosed. 
Will  you  allow  me,  Sir,  to  present  you  them, 
as  the  dearest  offering  that  a misbegotten 
son  of  poverty  and  rhyme  has  to  give ! I 
have  a longing  to  take  you  by  the  hand  and 
unburden  my  heart  by  saying, — “Sir,  I 
honour  you  as  a man  who  supports  the  dig- 
nity of  human  nature,  amid  an  age  when 
frivolity  and  avarice  have,  between  them,  de- 
based us  below  the  brutes  that  perish ! ” 
But,  alas,  Sir ! to  me  you  are  unapproach- 
able. It  is  true,  the  muses  baptised  me  in 
Castalian  streams;  but  the  thoughtless 
gipsies  forgot  to  give  me  a name.  As  the 
sex  have  served  many  a good  fellow,  the 
Nine  have  given  me  a great  deal  of  pleasure; 
but,  bewi telling  jades  ! they  have  beggared 
ine.  Would  they  but  spare  me  a little  of 
thek  caat-linen!  w^re  it  only  to  put  it  in 


my  power  to  say  that  I have  a shirt  on  my 
back ! But  the  idle  wenches,  like  Solomon’s 
lilies,  “ they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin  ;” 
so  I must  e’en  continue  to  tie  ray  remnant  of 
a cravat,  like  the  hangman’s  rope,  round  ray 
naked  throat,  and  coax  my  galligaskins  to 
keep  together  their  many-coloured  fragments. 
As  to  the  affair  of  shoes,  I have  given  that 
up.  My  pilgrimages  in  my  ballad-trade, 
from  town  to  town,  and  on  your  stony- 
hearted turnpikes  too,  are  what  not  even  the 
hide  of  Job’s  behemoth  could  bear.  The 
coat  on  my  back  is  no  more;  I shall  not 
speak  evil  cf  the  dead.  It  would  be  equally 
unhandsome  and  ungrateful  to  find  fault  wfith 
my  old  surtout,  which  so  kindly  supplies 
and  conceals  the  want  of  that  coat.  My  hat, 
indeed,  is  a great  favourite;  and  though  I 
got  it  literally  for  an  old  song,  I would  not 
exchange  it  for  the  best  beaver  in  Britain.  I 
was,  during  several  years,  a kind  of  factotum 
servant  to  a country  clergyman,  where  I 
picked  up  a good  many  scraps  of  learning, 
particularly  in  some  branches  of  the  mathe- 
matics. Whenever  I feel  inclined  to  rest 
myself  on  my  way,  I take  my  seat  under  a 
hedge,  laying  my  poetic  wallet  on  the  one 
side,  and  my  fiddle-case  on  the  other,  and, 
placing  my  hat  between  my  legs,  I can  by 
means  of  its  brim,  or  rather  brims,  go 
through  the  whole  doctrine  of  the  conic 
sections. 

However,  Sir,  don’t  let  me  mislead  you,  as 
if  I would  interest  your  pity.  Fortune  has 
so  much  forsaken  me,  that  she  has  taught  me 
to  live  without  her ; and,  amid  all  my  rags 
and  poverty,  I am  as  independent,  and  much 
more  happy,  than  a monarch  of  the  world. 
According  to  the  hackneyed  metaphor,  I 
value  the  several  actors  in  the  great  drama 
of  life,  simply  as  they  act  their  parts.  I can 
look  on  a worthless  fellow  of  a duke  with 
unqualified  contempt,  and  can  regard  an 
honest  scavenger  with  sincere  respect.  As 
you,  Sir,  go  through  your  role  with  such  dis- 
tinguished merit,  permit  me  to  make  one  in 
the  chorus  of  universal  applause,  and  assure 
you,  that,  with  the  highest  respect,  I hare 
the  honour  to  be,  &c.  (113)  — * — • 


NO.  CCIX. 

TO  LADY  W.  M.  CONSTABLE. 

Ellisland,  11  th  January,  1791. 

My  Lady — Nothing  less  than  the  un- 
lucky accident  of  having  lately  broken  my 
right  arm,  could  have  prevented  me,  thi 


TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 


36§ 


moment  I received  yiitr  ladyship’s  elegant 
present  (j  14)  by  Mrs.  Miller,  from  returning 
you  my  warmest  and  most  grateful  acknow- 
leclgmeiits.  I assure  your  ladyship,  I shall 
set  it  apart — the  symbols  of  religion  shall 
only  be  more  sacred.  In  the  moment  of 
poetic  composition,  the  box  shall  be  my  in- 
spiring genius.  When  I would  breathe  the 
comprehensive  wish  of  benevolence  for  the 
happiness  of  others,  I shall  recollect  your 
ladyship ; when  I would  interest  my  fancy 
in  the  distresses  incident  to  humanity,  I 
shall  remember  the  unfortunate  Mary. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCX. 

TO  WILLIAM  DUNBAR,  W.S. 

Ellisland  January  17 th,  1791. 

I am  not  going  to  Elysium,  most  noble 
colonel  (115),  but  am  still  here  in  this 
sublunary  world,  serving  my  God  by  propa- 
gating his  image,  and  honouring  my  king 
by  begetting  him  loyal  subjects. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  await 
my  friend.  May  the  thorns  of  care  never 
beset  his  path  ! May  peace  be  an  inmate 
of  his  bosom,  and  rapture  a frequent 
visitor  of  his  soul ! May  the  blood-hounds 
of  misfortune  never  track  his  steps,  nor  the 
screech-owl  of  sorrow  alarm  his  dwelling  ! 
May  enjoyment  tell  thy  hours,  and  pleasure 
number  thy  days,  thou  friend  of  the  bard ! 
“Blessed  be  he  that  blesseth  thee,  and 
cursed  be  he  that  curseth  thee ! ” 

As  a further  proof  that  I am  still  in  the 
land  of  existence,  I send  you  a poem,  the 
latest  I have  composed.  I have  a particular 
reason  for  wishing  you  only  to  show  it  to 
■elect  friends,  should  you  think  it  worthy  a 
friend’s  perusal ; but  if,  at  your  first  leisure 
hour,  you  will  favour  me  with  your  opinion 
of,  and  strictures  on  the  performance,  it 
will  be  an  additional  obligation  on,  dear 
Eif,  your  deeply  indebted  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCXI. 

TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

Ellisland , January  17 th,  1791, 

Take  these  two  guineas,  and  place  them 
Over  against  that  damned  account  of  yours, 
which  has  gagged  my  mouth  these  five  or 

£ B 


six  months!  I can  as  little  write  good 
things  as  apologies  to  a man  I owe  money 
•to.  Oh  the  supreme  curse  of  making  three 
guineas  do  the  business  of  five  ! Not  all  the 
labours  of  Hercules  ; not  all  the  Hebrews* 
three  centuries  of  Egyptian  bondage,  were 
such  an  insuperable  business,  such  aa 
infernal  task ! ! Poverty,  thou  half-sister  of 
death,  thou  cousin-german  of  hell ! — where 
shall  I find  force  of  execration  equal  to  the 
amplitude  of  thy  demerits  ? Oppressed  by 
thee,  the  venerable  ancient,  grown  hoary  in 
the  practice  of  every  virtue,  laden  with  years 
and  wretchedness,  implores  a little,  little 
aid  to  support  his  existence,  from  a stony- 
hearted son  ol  Mammon,  whose  sun  of 
prosperity  neve  knew  a cloud,  and  is  by 
him  denied  and  insult  M.  Oppressed  by  thee, 
the  man  of  sentiment,  whose  heart  glows 
with  independence,  and  melts  with  sensi- 
bility, inwardly  pines  under  the  neglect,  or 
writhes,  in  bitterness  of  soul,  Under  the 
contumely  of  arrogant,  unfeeling  wealth. 
Oppressed  by  thee,  the  son  of  genius, 
whose  ill-starred  ambition  plants  him  at  the 
tables  of  the  fashionable  and  polite,  must 
see,  in  suffering  silence,  his  remark  neg- 
lected, and  his  person  despised,  while 
shallow  greatness,  in  his  idiot  attempts  at 
wit,  shall  meet  with  countenance  and  ap- 
plause. Nor,  is  it  only  the  family  of  worth 
that  have  reason  to  complain  of  thee  : — the 
children  of  folly  and  vice,  though  in  common 
with  thee  the  offspring  of  evil,  smart  equally 
under  thy  rod.  Owing  to  thee,  the  man  of 
unfortunate  disposition  and  neglected  educa- 
tion, is  condemned  as  a fool  for  his  dis- 
sipation, despised  and  shunned  as  a needy 
wretch,  when  his  follies  as  usual  bring  him 
to  want ; and  when  his  unprincipled  neces- 
sities drive  him  to  dishonest  practices,  he  is 
abhorred  as  a miscreant,  and  perishes  by  the 
justice  of  his  country.  But,  far  otherwise  is 
the  lot  of  the  man  of  family  and  fortune. — ■ 
His  early  follies  and  extravagance  are 
spirit  and  fire; — his  consequent  wants  are 
the  embarrasments  of  an  honest  fellow; 
and  when,  to  remedy  the  matter,  he  has 
gained  a legal  commission  to  plunder  distant 
provinces,  or  massacre  peaceful  nations,  he 
returns,  perhaps,  laden  with  the  spoil  of 
rapine  and  murder;  lives  wicked  and  res- 
pected, and  dies  a scoundrel  and  a lord. 
Nay,  worst  of  all,  alas  for  helpless  woman ! 
— the  needy  prostitute,  who  has  shivered  at 
the  corner  of  the  street,  waiting  to  earn  the 
wages  of  casual  prostitution,  is  left  neglected 
and  insulted,  ridden  down  bv  the  chariot 
wheels  of  the  coroneted  rip,  hurry  mg  on  fca 
the  guilty  assignation — she  vho>  without 


870 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS, 


the  same  necessities  to  plead,  riots  nightly- 
in  the  same  guilty  trade. 

Well ! divines  may  say  of  it  what  they 
please;  but  execration  is  to  the  mind  what 
phlebotomy  is  to  the  body — the  vital  sluices 
of  both  are  wonderfully  relieved  by  their 
respective  evacuations.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCXII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM, 

Ellisland  Jan.  23 d,  1791. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  to 
you,  my  dear  friend  ! As  many  of  the  good 
things  of  this  life,  as  is  consistent  with  the 
usual  mixture  of  good  and  evil  in  the  cup  of 
being ! 

I have  just  finished  a poem  (“Tam  o’  Shan- 
ter  which  you  will  receive  enclosed.  It  is 
my  first  essay  in  the  way  of  tales. 

I have  these  several  months  been  hammer- 
ing at  an  elegy  on  the  amiable  and  accom- 
plished Miss  Burnet.  I have  got,  and  can 
get,  no  farther  than  the  following  fragment, 
on  which  please  give  me  your  strictures.  In 
all  kinds  of  poetic  composition,  I set  great 
store  by  your  opinion ; but  in  sentimental 
verses,  in  the  poetry  of  the  heart,  no  Roman 
Catholic  ever  set  more  value  on  the  infallibi- 
lity of  the  Holy  Father,  than  I do  on  yours. 

I mean  the  introductory  couplets  as  text 
Verses. 

ELEGY  ON  THE  LATE  MISS  BURNET 
OF  MONBODDO. 

Life  ne’er  exulted  in  so  rich  a prize. 

As  Burnet  lovely  from  her  native  skies ; 

Nor  envious  death  so  triumph’d  in  a blow, 
Aa  that  which  laid  th’  accomplish’d  Burnet 
low. — &c. 

lot  me  hear  from  you  soon.  Adieu ! 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCXIII. 

TO  A.  F.  TYTLER,  ESQ.  (116) 

Ellisland , February  1791. 

Bib — Nothing  less  than  the  unfortunate 
accident  I have  met  with  could  have  pre- 
vented my  grateful  acknowledgments  for 
your  letter.  His  own  favourite  poem,  and 
that  an  essay  in  the  walk  of  the  muses  en- 
tirely new  to  him,  where  consequently  his 
hopes  and  fears  were  on  the  most  anxious 
alarm  for  his  success  in  the  attempt — to 
have  that  poem  so  much  apphuded  by  one 


of  the  first  judges,  was  the  most  delicious 
vibration  that  ever  thrilled  along  the  heart- 
strings of  a poor  poet  However,  Provi- 
dence, to  keep  up  the  proper  proportion  of 
evil  with  the  good,  which  it  seems  is  neces- 
sary in  this  sublunary  state,  thought  proper 
to  check  my  exultation  by  a very  serious 
misfortune.  A day  or  two  after  I rec^ved 
your  letter,  my  horse  came  down  with  me 
and  broke  my  right  arm.  As  this  is  the 
first  service  my  arm  has  done  me  since  its 
disaster,  I find  myself  unable  to  do  more 
than  just,  in  general  terms,  thank  you  for 
this  additional  instance  of  your  patronage 
and  friendship.  As  to  the  faults  you  de- 
tected in  the  piece,  they  are  truly  there ; ote 
of  them,  the  hit  at  the  lawyer  and  priest.  I 
shall  cut  out ; as  to  the  falling  oil*  in  the 
catastrophe,  for  the  reason  you  justly  adduce* 
it  cannot  easily  be  remedied.  Your  appro- 
bation, Sir,  has  given  me  such  additional 
spirits  to  persevere  in  this  species  of  poetic 
composition,  that  I am  already  revolving  two 
or  three  stories  in  my  fancy.  If  I can  bring 
these  floating  ideas  to  bear  any  kind  of  em- 
bodied form,  it  will  give  me  an  additional 
opportunity  of  assuring  you  how  much  I 
have  the  honour  to  be,  &c.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCXIV. 

TO * 

Ellisland,  1791. 

Dear  Sir — I am  exceedingly  to  blame 
in  not  writing  you  long  ago ; but  the 
truth  is,  that  I am  the  most  indolent  of  all 
human  beings,  and  when  I matriculate  in 
the  Herald’s  Office,  I intend  that  my  sup- 
porters shall  be  two  sloths,  my  crest  a slow- 
worm,  and  the  motto,  “ Deil  take  the  for- 
most.”  So  much  by  way  of  apology  for 
not  thanking  you  sooner  for  your  kind  ex- 
ecution of  my  commission. 

I would  have  sent  you  the  poem;  but 
somehow  or  other  it  found  its  way  into  the 
public  papers,  where  you  must  have  seen 
it.  I am.  ever,  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 

R.  B. 


WO.  eexv. 

TO  THE  REV.  G.  BAIRD.  (117) 

Ellisland,  1791. 

Reverend  Sir — Why  did  you,  my  dear 
Sic,  write  to  me  in  such  a hesitating  style* 


TO  THE  KEY.  ARCH.  ALISON. 


371 


es  the  business  of  poor  Bruce?  Don’t  I 
know,  and  have  I not  felt,  the  many  ills,  the 
peculiar  ills,  that  poetic  flesh  is  heir  to? 
You  shall  have  your  choice  of  all  the  un- 
published poems  I have;  and  had  your 
letter  had  my  direction  so  as  to  have  reached 
me  sooner  (it  only  came  to  my  hand  this 
moment),  I should  have  directly  put  you 
out  of  suspense  on  the  subject.  I only  ask, 
that  some  prefatory  advertisement  in  the 
book,  as  well  as  the  subscription  bills,  may 
bear,  that  the  publication  is  solely  for  the 
benefit  of  Bruce’s  mother.  I would  not  put 
it  iu  the  power  of  ignorance  to  surmise,  or 
malice  to  insinuate,  that  I clubbed  a share 
in  the  work  from  mercenary  motives.  Nor 
need  you  give  me  credit  for  any  remarkable 
generosity  in  my  part  of  the  business.  I 
have  such  a host  of  peccadilloes,  failings, 
follies,  and  backslidings  (any  body  but  my- 
self might  perhaps  give  some  of  them  a 
worse  appellation),  that  by  way  of  some 
balance,  however  trifling,  in  the  account, 
I am  fain  to  do  any  good  that  occurs  in  my 
•ery  limited  power  to  a fellow  creature,  just 
for  the  selfish  purpose  of  clearing  a little 
the  vista  of  retrospection.  JR.  B 


if  we  can  place  an  old  idea  in  a new  light 
How  far  I have  succeeded  as  to  this  la*t,  you 
will  judge  from  what  follows  : — * • 

I have  proceeded  no  farther. 

Your  kind  letter,  with  your  kind  remem * 
brance  of  your  godson,  came  safe.  This  last, 
Madam,  is  scarcely  what  my  pride  can  bear. 
As  to  the  little  fellow,  he  is,  partiality  apart* 
the  finest  boy  I have  for  a long  time  seen. 
He  is  now  seventeen  months  old,  has  the 
small-pox  and  measles  over,  has  cut  several 
teeth,  and  never  had  a grain  of  doctors' 
drugs  in  his  bowels. 

I am  truly  happy  to  hear  that  the  “ little 
flow’ret”  is  blooming  so  fresh  and  fair,  and 
that  the  “mother  plant”  is  rather  recovering 
her  drooping  head.  Soon  and  well  may  her 
“ cruel  wounds”  be  healed ! I have  written 
thus  far  with  a good  deal  of  difficulty. 
When  I get  a little  abler,  you  shall  heal 
farther  from.  Madam,  yours,  B*  B. 


NO.  CCXYII. 

TO  THE  REV.  ARCH.  ALISON. 


NO.  CCXVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  Feb . 7 th,  1791. 

When  I tell  you.  Madam,  that  by  a fall, 
not  from  my  horse,  but  with  my  horse,  I 
have  been  a cripple  some  time,  and  that  this 
is  the  first  day  my  arm  and  hand  have  been 
able  to  serve  me  in  writing,  you  will  allow 
that  it  is  too  good  an  apology  for  my  seem- 
ingly ungrateful  silence.  Iam  now  getting 
better,  and  am  able  to  rhyme  a little,  which 
implies  some  tolerable  ease,  as  I cannot  think 
that  the  most  poetic  genius  is  able  to  com- 
pose on  the  rack. 

I do  not  remember  if  ever  I mentioned  to 
you  my  having  an  idea  of  composing  an 
elegy  on  the  late  Miss  Burnet  of  Monboddo. 
I had  the  honour  of  being  pretty  well  ac- 
quainted with  her,  and  have  seldom  felt  so 
much  at  the  loss  of  an  acquaintance,  as  when 
I heard  that  so  amiable  and  accomplished  a 
piece  of  God’s  work  was  no  more.  I have, 
as  yet,  gone  no  farther  than  the  following 
fragment,  of  which  please  let  me  have  your 
opinion.  You  know  that  elegy  is  a subject 
so  much  exhausted,  that  any  new  idea  on 
the  bustnt  »S8  is  not  to  be  expected : ’tis  well 


Ellisland,  near  Dumfries, 
Feb.  Uth,  1791. 

Sir — You  must,  by  this  time,  have  set 
me  down  as  one  of  the  most  ungrateful  of 
men.  You  did  me  the  honour  to  present 
me  with  a book,  which  does  honour  to 
science  and  the  intellectual  powers  of  man, 
and  I have  not  even  so  much  as  acknow- 
ledged the  receipt  of  it.  The  fact  is,  you 
yourself  are  to  blame  for  it.  Blattered  as  I 
was  by  your  telling  me  that  you  wished  to 
have  my  opinion  of  the  work,  the  old 
spiritual  enemy  of  mankind,  who  knows 
well  that  vanity  is  one  of  the  sins  that  most 
easily  beset  me,  put  it  into  my  head  to 
ponder  over  the  performance  with  the  look- 
out of  a critic,  and  to  draw  up,  forsooth,  a 
deep  learned  digest  of  strictures  on  a com- 
position, of  which,  in  fact,  until  I read  the 
book,  I did  not  even  know  the  first  prin- 
ciples. I own.  Sir,  that  at  first  glance 
several  of  your  propositions  startled  me  aa 
paradoxical.  That  the  martial  clangor  of  a 
trumpet  had  something  in  it  vastly  more 
grand,  heroic,  and  sublime,  than  the  twingle 
twangle  of  a Jew’s  harp:  that  the  delicate 
flexure  of  a rose-twig,  when  the  half-blowii 
flower  is  heavy  with  the  tears  of  the  dawn, 
was  infinitely  more  beautiful  -and  elegant 
than  the  upright  stub  of  a burdock ; and 
that  from  something  innate  and  independent 


33 


873 


CORRESPONDENCE  OE  BURNS. 


of  all  associations  of  ideas — these  I had  set 
down  as  irrefragable,  orthodox  truths,  until 
perusing  your  book  shook  my  faith.  In 
short,  Sir,  except  Euclid’s  Elements  of 
Geometry,  which  I made  a shift  to  unravel 
by  my  father’s  fireside,  in  the  winter  even- 
ings of  the  first  season  I held  the  plough,  I 
never  read  a book  which  gave  me  such  a 
quantum  of  information,  and  added  so  much 
to  my  stock  of  ideas,  as  your  “ Essays  on 
the  Principles  of  Taste.”  One  thing,  Sir, 
you  must  forgive  my  mentioning  as  an 
uncommon  merit  in  the  work — I mean  the 
language.  To  clothe  abstract  philosophy  in 
elegance  of  style  sounds  something  like  a 
contradiction  in  terms ; but  you  have  con- 
vinced me  that  they  are  quite  compatible. 

I enclose  you  some  poetic  bagatelles  of 
my  late  composition.  The  one  in  print  is 
my  first  essay  in  the  way  of  telling  a tale. 
I am,  Sir,  &c.  R.  B.  (118) 


NO.  CCXVIII. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Ellisland,  Feb.  2 Sth,  1791. 

1 jo  not  know.  Sir,  whether  you  are  a 
*nbscriber  to  Grose’s  Antiquities  of  Scot- 
land. If  you  are,  the  enclosed  poem  will 
not  be  altogether  new  to  you.  Captain 
Grose  did  me  the  favour  to  send  me  a 
dozen  copies  of  the  proof  sheet,  of  which 
Ihis  is  one.  Should  you  have  read  the  piece 
before,  still  this  will  answer  the  principal 
end  I have  in  view — it  will  give  me  another 
opportunity  of  thanking  you  for  all  your 
goodness  to  the  rustic  bard ; and  also  of 
showing  you,  that  the  abilities  you  have 
been  pleased  to  commend  and  patronise  are 
still  employed  in  the  way  you  wish. 

The  Elegy  on  Captain  Henderson  is  a 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  a man  I loved 
much.  Poets  have  in  this  the  same  advan- 
tage as  Roman  Catholics ; they  can  be  of 
service  to  their  friends  after  they  have 
passed  that  bourne  where  all  other  kindness 
ceases  to  be  of  avail.  Whether,  after  all, 
either  the  one  or  the  other  be  of  any  real 
service  to  the  dead,  is,  1 fear,  very  proble- 
matical, but  I am  sure  they  are  highly 
gratifying  to  the  living,  and  as  a very 
orthodox  text,  I forget  where  in  Scripture, 
ftays,  “ whatsoever  is  not  of  faith  is  sin 
eo  say  I.  whatsoever  is  not  detrimental  to 
society,  and  is  of  positive  enjoyment,  is  of 


God,  the  giver  of  all  good  things,  and  ought 
to  be  received  and  enjoyed  by  his  creatures 
with  thankful  delight.  As  almost  all  my 
religious  tenets  originate  from  my  heart,  I 
am  wonderfully  pleased  with  the  idea,  that  I 
can  still  keep  up  a tender  intercourse  with 
the  dearly  beloved  friend,  or  still  more  dearly 
beloved  mistress,  who  is  gone  to  the  world 
of  spirits. 

The  ballad  on  Queen  Mary  was  begun 
while  I was  busy  with  Percy’s  Reliques  of 
English  Poetry.  By  the  way,  how  much  is 
every  honest  heart,  which  has  a tincture  of 
Caledonian  prejudice,  obliged  to  you  for  y6ur 
glorious  story  of  Buchanan  and  Targe! 
’Twas  an  unequivocal  proof  of  your  loyal 
gallantry  of  soul,  giving  Targe  the  victory 
I should  have  been  mortified  to  the  ground 
if  you  had  not. 

I have  just  read  over  once  more  of  many 
times,  your  Zeluco.  I marked  with  my 
pencil,  as  I went  along,  every  passage  that 
pleased  me  particularly  above  the  rest ; and 
one  or  two,  which,  with  humble  deference,  I 
am  disposed  to  think  unequal  to  the  merits 
< 4 the  book.  I have  sometimes  thought  to 
transcribe  these  marked  passages,  or  at  least 
so  much  of  them  as  to  point  where  they  are, 
and  send  them  to  you.  Original  strokes 
that  strongly  depict  the  human  heart,  is 
your  and  Fielding’s  province,  beyond  any 
other  novelist  I have  ever  perused.  Richard- 
son indeed  might,  perhaps,  be  excepted ; but 
unhappily,  his  dramatis  personae  are  beings 
of  another  world;  and  however  they  may 
captivate  the  inexperienced,  romantic  fancy 
of  a boy  or  a girl,  they  will  ever,  in  propor- 
tion as  we  have  made  human  nature  our 
study,  dissatisfy  our  riper  years. 

As  to  my  private  concerns,  I am  going  on, 
a mighty  tax-gatherer  before  the  Lord,  and 
have  lately  had  the  interest  to  get  myself 
ranked  on  the  list  of  Excise  as  a supervisor. 

I am  not  yet  employed  as  such,  but  in  a few 
years  I shall  fall  into  the  file  of  supervisor- 
ship  by  seniority.  I have  had  an  immense 
loss  in  the  death  of  the  Earl  of  Glencairn, 
the  patron  from  whom  all  my  fame  and 
fortune  took  its  rise.  Independent  of  my 
grateful  attachment  to  him,  which  was 
indeed  so  strong  that  it  pervaded  my  very 
soul,  and  was  entwined  with  the  thread  of 
my  existence : so  soon  as  the  prince’s  friends  * 
had  got  in  (and  every  dog  you  know  has  his 
day),  my  getting  forward  in  the  Excise  would 
have  been  an  easier  business  than  otherwise 
it  will  be.  Though  this  was  a consumma- 
tion devoutly  to  be  wished,  yet,  thank 
Heaven,  I can  live  and  rhyme  as  I am ; and 
as  to  my  boys,  poor  little  fellows!  if  I 


TO  HR.  CUNNINGHAM. 


373 


cannot  place  them  on  as  high  an  elevation  in 
life  as  I could  wish,  I shall,  if  I am  favoured 
so  much  by  the  Disposer  of  events  as  to  see 
that  period,  fix  them  on  as  broad  and  inde- 
pendent a basis  as  possible.  Among  the 
many  wise  adages  w'hich  have  been  treasured 
up  by  orir  Scottish  ancestors,  this  is  one  of 
the  best— Better  be  the  head  o’  the  com- 
monalty, than  the  tail  o’  the  gentry. 

But  I am  got  on  a subject  which,  however 
interesting  to  me,  is  of  no  manner  of  con- 
sequence to  you ; so  I shall  give  you  a short 
poem  on  the  other  page,  and  close  this  with 
assuring  you  how  sincerely  I have  the  honour 
to  be,  yours,  &c.  R.  B. 


NO.  ccxix. 

TO  MRS.  GRAHAM, 

OF  FINTRY. 

Ellisland,  1791. 

Madam — Whether  it  is  that  the  story  of 
©ur  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  has  a peculiar 
effect  on  the  feelings  of  a poet,  or  whether  I 
have  in  the  enclosed  ballad  succeeded  beyond 
my  usual  poetic  success,  I know  not ; but  it 
has  pleased  me  beyond  any  effort  of  my 
muse  for  a good  while  past ; on  that  account, 
I enclose  it  particularly  to  you.  It  is  true, 
the  purity  of  my  motives  may  be  suspected. 
I am  already  deeply  indebted  to  Mr.  Graham’s 
goodness ; and  what,  in  the  usual  ways  of 
men,  is  of  infinitely  greater  importance, 
Mr.  G.  can  do  me  service  of  the  utmost 
importance  in  time  to  come.  I was  born  a 
poor  dog ; and,  however  I may  occasionally 
pick  a better  bone  than  I used  to  do,  I know 
I must  live  and  die  poor : but  I will  indulge 
the  flattering  faith  that  my  poetry  will  con- 
siderably outlive  my  poverty ; and  without 
any  fustian  affectation  of  spirit,  I can  pro- 
mise and  affirm,  that  it  must  be  no  ordinary 
craving  of  the  latter  shall  ever  make  me  do 
any  thing  injurious  to  the  honest  fame  of 
the  former.  Whatever  may  be  my  failings — 
for  failings  are  a part  of  human  nature — may 
they  ever  be  those  of  a generous  heart  and 
an  independent  mind ! It  is  no  fault  of 
mine  that  I was  born  to  dependence,  nor  is 
it  Mr.  Graham’s  cliiefest  praise  that  he  can 
conmand  influence:  but  it  is  his  merit  to 
bestow,  not  only  with  the  kindness  of  a 
brother,  but  with  the  politeness  of  a gentle- 
man ; and  I trust  it  shall  be  mine  to  receive 
with  thankfulness,  and  remember  with  un- 
iiminished  gratitude.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCXX, 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland , March  12th,  1791. 

If  the  foregoing  piece  be  worth  your 
strictures,  let  me  have  them.  For  my  own 
part,  a thing  that  I have  just  composed 
always  appears  through  a double  portion  of 
that  partial  medium  in  which  an  author  will 
ever  view  his  own  works.  I believe,  in 
general,  novelty  has  something  in  it  that 
inebriates  the  fancy,  and  not  unfrequently 
dissipates  and  fumes  away  like  other  intoxi- 
cation, and  leaves  the  poor  patient,  as  usual, 
with  an  aching  heart.  A striking  instance 
of  this  might  be  adduced,  in  the  revolution 
of  many  a hymeneal  honey-moon.  But  lest 
I sink  into  stupid  prose,  and  so  sacrilegiously 
intrude  on  the  office  of  my  parish  priest,  I 
shall  fill  up  the  page  in  my  own  way,  and 
give  you  another  song  of  my  late  composition, 
which  will  appear  perhaps  in  Johnson’s 
work,  as  well  as  the  former. 

You  must  know  a beautiful  Jacobite  air. 
“ There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes 
hame.”  When  political  combustion  ceases 
to  be  the  object  of  princes  and  patriots,  it 
then,  you  know,  becomes  the  lawful  prey  of 
historians  and  poets. 

" By  yon  castle  wa’,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

I heard  a man  sing,  tho’  his  head  it  waa 
grey; 

And  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  fast  down 
came — 

There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes 
hame,”  &c. 

If  you  like  the  air,  and  if  the  stanzas  hit 
your  fancy,  you  cannot  imagine,  my  dear 
friend,  how  much  you  would  oblige  me,  if, 
by  the  charms  of  your  delightful  voice,  you 
would  give  my  honest  effusion  to  “the 
memory  of  joys  that  are  past,”  to  the  few 
friends  whom  you  indulge  in  that  pleasure. 
But  I have  scribbled  on  till  I hear  the  clock 
has  intimated  the  near  approach  of 

" That  hour,  o’  night’s  black  arch  the  key- 
stane.  * 

So,  good  night  t®  you!  Sound  be  your 
sleep,  and  delectable  your  dreams ! A-propoj8 
how  do  you  like  this  thought  in  a ballad  £ 
have  just  now  on  the  tapis  ? 

I look  to  the  west  when  I gan  to  rest, 

That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumber* 
may  be ; 

Far,  far  in  the  west  is  he  I loe  best, 


274 


CORRESPONDENCE  OP  BURNS. 


The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and 
me! 

Good  night  once  more,  and  God  bless 
you!  R.  B. 


no.  ccxxi. 

TO  MR.  ALEXANDER  DALZEL  (119), 

FACTOR,  F1NDLAYSTON. 

Ellisland,  March  19 th,  1791. 

My  Dear  Sir — I have  taken  the  liberty 
to  frank  this  letter  to  you,  as  it  encloses  an 
idle  poem  of  mine,  which  I send  you;  and, 
God  knows,  you  may  perhaps  pay  dear 
enough  for  it,  if  you  read  it  through.  Not 
that  this  is  my  own  opinion:  but  the 
author,  by  the  time  he  has  composed  and 
corrected  his  work,  has  quite  pored  away 
all  his  powers  of  critical  discrimination. 

I can  easily  guess,  from  my  own  heart, 
what  you  have  felt  on  a late  most  melan- 
choly event.  God  knows  what  I have 
suffered  at  the  loss,  of  my  best  friend,  my 
first  and  dearest  patron  and  benefactor  ; the 
man  to  whom  I owe  all  that  I am  and  have  ! 
I am  gone  into  mourning  for  him,  and  with 
more  sincerity  of  grief  than  I fear  some  will, 
who,  by  nature’s  ties,  ought  to  feel  on  the 
occasion. 

I will  be  exceedingly  obliged  to  you, 
indeed,  to  let  me  know  the  news  of  the 
noble  family,  how  the  poor  mother  and  the 
two  sisters  support  their  loss.  I had  a 
packet  of  poetic  bagatelles  ready  to  send  to 
Lady  Betty,  when  I saw  the  fatal  tidings 
in  the  newspaper.  I see,  by  the  same 
channel,  that  the  honoured  remains  of  my 
noble  patron  are  designed  to  be  brought 
to  the  family  burial-place.  Dare  I trouble 
you  to  let  me  know  privately  before  the  day 
of  interment,  that  I may  cross  the  country, 
and  steal  among  the  crowd,  to  pay  a tear 
to  the  last  sight  of  my  ever  revered  bene- 
factor! It  will  oblige  me  beyond  expres- 
sion. R.  B. 


NO.  ccxxi i. 

TO  MR3.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  April  IltA,  1791. 

1 am  once  more  able,  my  honoured 
fKend,  to  return  you  with  my  own  hand, 
thanks  for  the  many  instances  of  your 


friendship,  and  particularly  for  ycsr  kind 
anxiety  in  this  last  disaster  that  my  evil 
genius  had  in  store  for  me.  However,  life 
is  chequered — joy  and  sorrow — for  on 
Saturday  morning  last,  Mrs.  Burns  made 
me  a present  of  a fine  boy  ; rather  stouter, 
but  not  so  handsome  as  your  godson  was 
at  this  time  of  life.  Indeed,  I look  on  your 
little  namesake  to  be  my  chef  d' oeuvre  in 
that  species  of  manufacture,  as  I look  on 
“ Tam  o’  Shanter  ” to  be  my  standard  per- 
formance in  the  poetical  line.  ’Tis  true, 
both  the  one  and  the  other  discover  a spicn 
of  roguish  waggery,  that  might  perhaps  bn 
a$  well  spared  ; but  then  they  also  show,  in 
my  opinion,  a force  of  genius,  and  a finish- 
ing polish,  that  I despair  of  ever  excelling. 
Mrs.  Burns  is  getting  stout  again,  and  laid 
as  lustily  about  her  to-day  at  breakfast,  as 
a reaper  from  the  corn-ridge.  That  is  thn 
peculiar  privilege  and  blessing  of  our  hale, 
sprightly  damsels,  that  are  bred  among  the 
hay  and  heather.  (120)  We  cannot  hope 
for  that  highly  polished  mind,  that  charming 
delicacy  of  soul,  which  is  found  among  the 
female  world  in  the  more  elevated  stations 
of  life,  and  which  is  certainly  by  far  the 
most  bewitching  charm  in  the  famous  cestus 
of  Venus.  It  is  indeed  such  an  inestimable 
treasure,  that  where  it  can  be  had  in  its 
native  heavenly  purity,  unstained  by  some 
one  or  other  of  the  many  shades  of  affect- 
tion,  and  unalloyed  by  some  one  or  other  of 
the  many  species  of  caprice,  I declare  to 
Heaven  I should  think  it  cheaply  purchased 
at  the  expense  of  every  other  earthly  good ! 
But  as  this  angelic  creature  is,  I am  afraid, 
extremely  rare  in  any  station  and  rank  of 
life,  and  totally  denied  to  such  an  humble 
one  as  mine,  we  meaner  mortals  must  put 
up  with  the  next  rank  of  female  excellence ; 
a3  fine  a figure  and  face  we  can  produce  as 
any  rank  of  life  whatever ; rustic,  native 
grace;  unaffected  modesty  and  unsullied 
purity;  nature’s  mother-wit,  and  the  rudi- 
ments of  taste ; a simplicity  of  soul,  unsus- 
picious of,  because  unacquainted  with,  the 
crooked  ways  of  a selfish,  interested,  disin- 
genuous world ; and  the  dearest  charm  of  all 
the  rest,  a yielding  sweetness  of  disposition, 
and  a generous  warmth  of  heart,  grateful 
for  love  on  our  part,  and  ardently  glowing 
with  a more  than  equal  return  ; these,  with 
a healthy  frame,  a sound  vigorous  constitu- 
tion, which  your  higher  ranks  can  scarcely 
ever  hope  to  enjoy,  are  the  charms  of  lovely 
woman  in  my  humble  walk  of  life. 

This  is  the  greatest  effort  iny  broken  arm 
has  yet  made.  Do  let  me  hear,  l y first  post, 
how  cher  petit  Monsieur  (121)  comes  <M 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 


S75 


With  his  small-pox.  May  Almighty  goodness 
preserve  and  restore  him!  R.  B. 


HO.  CCXXIII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

June  llth,  1791. 

Let  me  interest  you,  my  dear  Cunning- 
ham, in  behalf  of  the  gentleman  who  waits 
on  you  with  this.  He  is  a Mr.  Clarke,  of 
Moffat,  principal  schoolmaster  there,  and  is 
at  present  suffering  severely  under  the  perse- 
cution of  one  or  two  powerful  individuals  of 
his  employers.  He  is  accused  of  harshness 
to  boys  that  were  placed  under  his  care. 
God  help  the  teacher,  if  a man  of  sensibility 
and  genius,  and  such  is  my  friend  Clarke, 
when  a booby  father  presents  him  with  his 
booby  son,  and  insists  on  lighting  up  the 
rays  of  science  in  a fellow’s  head  whose 
skull  is  impervious  and  inaccessible  by  any 
other  way  than  a positive  fracture  with  a 
cudgel — a fellow,  whom,  in  fact,  it  savours  of 
impiety  to  attempt  making  a scholar  of,  as 
he  has  been  marked  a blockhead  in  the  book 
of  fate,  at  the  Almighty  fiat  of  his  Creator. 

The  patrons  of  Moffat-school  are  the 
ministers,  magistrates,  and  town-council  of 
Edinburgh,  and  as  the  business  comes  now 
before  them,  let  me  beg  my  dearest  friend  to 
do  everything  in  his  power  to  serve  the  in- 
terests of  a man  of  genius  and  worth,  and  a 
man  whom  I particularly  respect  and  esteem. 
You  know  some  good  fellows  among  the  ma- 
gistracy and  council,  but  particularly  you 
have  much  to  say  with  a reverend  gentle- 
man, to  whom  you  have  the  honour  of  being 
very  nearly  related,  and  whom  this  country 
and  age  have  had  the  honour  to  produce.  I 
need  not  naipe  the  historian  of  Charles  V. 
(122)  I tell  him,  through  the  medium  of  his 
nephew’s  influence,  that  Mr.  Clarke*  is  a 
gentleman  who  will  not  disgrace  even  his 
patronage.  I know  the  merits  of  the  cause 
thoroughly,  and  say  it,  that  my  friend  is 
falling  a sacrifice  to  prejudiced  ignorance. 

God  help  the  children  of  dependence ! 
Hated  and  persecuted  by  their  enemies,  and 
too  often,  alas  ! almost  unexceptionably,  re- 
ceived by  their  friends  with  disrespect  and 
reproach,  under  the  thin  disguise  of  cold 
civility  and  humiliating  advice.  Oh  ! to  be 
a sturdy  savage,  stalking  in  the  pride  of  his 
independence,  amid  the  solitary  wilds  of  his 
deserts,  rather  than  in  civilized  life  helplessly 
to  tremble  for  a subsistence,  precarious  as 
the  caprice  of  a fellow-creature ! Every 
man  has  his  virtues,  and  no  man  is  without 


his  failings ; and  curse  on  that  privileged 
plain-dealing  of  friendship,  which,  in  the 
hour  of  my  calamity,  cannot  reach  forth  the 
helping  hand,  without,  at  the  same  time, 
pointing  out  those  failings,  and  apportioning 
them  their  share  in  procuring  my  present 
distress.  My  friends,  for  such  the  world 
calls  ye,  and  such  ye  think  yourselves  to  be, 
pass  by  my  virtues  if  you  please,  but  do, 
also,  spare  my  follies — the  first  will  witness 
in  my  breast  for  themselves,  and  the  last 
will  give  pain  enough  to  the  ingenuous  mind 
without  you.  And  since  deviating  more  or 
less  from  the  paths  of  propriety  and  recti- 
tude must  be  incident  to  human  nature,  do 
thou,  Fortune,  put  it  in  my  power,  always 
from  myself,  and  of  myself,  to  bear  the  con- 
sequence of  those  errors ! I do  not  want  to 
be  independent  that  I may  sin,  but  I want  to 
be  independent  in  my  shining. 

To  return  in  this  rambling  letter  to  the 
subject  I set  out  with,  let  me  recommend  my 
friend,  Mr.  Clarke,  to  your  acquaintance  and 
good  offices ; his  worth  entitles  him  to  the 
one,  and  his  gratitude  will  merit  the  other. 
I long  much  to  hear  from  you.  Adieu. 


HO.  CCXXIV. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 

Ellisland,  1791. 

My  Lord — Language  sinks  under  the 
ardour  of  my  feelings,  when  I would  thank 
your  lordship  for  the  honour  you  have  done 
me  in  inviting  me  to  make  one  at  the  coro- 
nation of  the  bust  of  Thomson.  In  my  first 
enthusiasm  in  reading  the  card  you  did  me 
the  honour  to  write  me,  I overlooked  every 
obstacle,  and  determined  to  go ; but  I fear  it 
will  not  be  in  my  power.  A week  or  two’* 
absence  in  the  very  middle  of  my  harvest,  ia 
what  I much  doubt  I dare  not  venture  on. 
I once  already  made  a pilgrimage  up  the 
whole  course  of  the  Tweed,  and  fondly 
would  I take  the  same  delightful  journey 
down  the  windings  of  that  delightful  stream. 

Your  lordship  hints  at  an  ode  for  the 
occasion ; but  who  would  write  after  Collins? 
I read  over  his  verses  to  the  memory  of 
Thomson,  and  despaired.  I got  indeed  to  tk* 
length  of  three  or  four  stanzas,  in  the  way 
of  address  to  the  shade  of  the  bard,  on 
crowning  his  bust.  I shall  trouble  your 
lordship  with  the  subjoined  copy  of  them, 
which,  I am  afraid,  will  be  but  too  con- 
vincing a proof  how  unequal  I am  to  the 
task.  However,  it  affords  me  an  opportunity 


33* 


m 


CORRESPON DEN CE  OF  BURRS. 


of  approaching  your  lordship,  and  declaring 
how  sincerely  and  gratefully  I have  the 
honour  to  be,  &c.  R.  B. 


NO.  ccxxv. 

TO  LADY  E.  CUNNINGHAM.  (123) 

My  Lady — I would,  as  usual,  have 
availed  myself  of  the  privilege  your  goodness 
has  allowed  me,  of  sending  you  anything  I 
compose  in  my  poetical  way ; but,  as  I have 
resolved,  so  soon  as  the  shock  of  my  irre- 
parable loss  would  allow  me,  to  pay  a 
tribute  to  my  late  benefactor,  I determined 
to  make  that  the  first  piece  I should  do 
myself  the  honour  of  sending  you.  Had 
the  wing  of  my  fancy  been  equal  to  the 
ardour  of  my  heart,  the  enclosed  had  been 
much  more  worthy  your  perusal : as  it  is, 
l beg  leave  to  lay  it  at  your  ladyship’s 
feet.  (124)  As  all  the  world  knows  my 
obligations  to  the  late  Earl  of  Glencairn  ; I 
would  wish  to  show,  as  openly,  that  my  heart 
glows,  and  shall  ever  glow,  with  the  most 
grateful  sense  and  remembrance  of  his  lord- 
ship’s goodness.  The  sables  I did  myself 
the  honour  to  wear  to  his  lordship’s 
memory,  were  not  the  "mockery  of  woe.” 
Nor  shall  my  gratitude  perish  with  me  ! If, 
among  my  children,  I shall  have  a son  that 
has  a heart,  he  shall  hand  it  down  to  his 
child  as  a family  honour,  and  a family  debt, 
that  my  dearest  existence  I owe  to  the 
noble  house  of  Glencairn  ! 

I was  about  to  say,  my  lady,  that  if  you 
♦hink  the  poem  may  venture  to  see  the 
3ght,  I would,  in  some  way  or  other,  give  it 
4o  the  world.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCXXYI. 

TO  MR.  THOMAS  SLOAN. 

Ellisland,  Sept.  1st,  1791. 

My  Dear  Sloan — Suspense  is  worse 
than  disappointment;  for  that  reason,  I 
hurry  to  tell  you  that  I just  now  learn  that 
Mr.  Ballantine  does  not  chose  to  interfere 
more  in  the  business.  I am  truly  sorry  for 
it,  but  cannot  help  it. 

You  blame  me  for  not  writing  you  sooner, 
but  you  will  please  to  recollect  that  you 
omitted  one  little  necessary  piece  of  infor- 
mation— yo”r  address. 

However,  you  know  equally  well  my  hur- 
*l3d  life,  indolent  temper,  and  strength 


attachment.  It  must  be  a longer  period 
than  the  longest  life  "in  the  world’s  bald 
and  undegenerate  days,”  that  will  make  me 
forget  so  dear  a friend  as  Mr.  Sloan.  I am 
prodigal  enough  at  times,  but  I will  not  part 
with  such  a treasure  as  that. 

I can  easily  enter  into  the  embarras  of 
your  present  situation.  You  know  my 
favourite  quotation  from  Young : — 

" On  reason  build  Resolve  l 

That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man.* 

And  that  other  favourite  one  from  Thom- 
son’s Alfred : — 

" What  proves  the  hero  truly  great. 

Is,  never,  never  to  despair.” 

Or,  shall  I quote  you  an  author  of  your 
acquaintance  ? 

" Whether  doing,  suffering,  or 

FORBEARING, 

You  may  do  miracles — by  persevering.” 

I have  nothing  new  to  tell  you.  The  few 
friends  we  have  are  going  on  in  the  old  way. 
I sold  my  crop  on  this  day  se’nnight,  and 
sold  it  very  well.  A guinea  an  acre,  on  an 
average,  above  value.  But  such  a scene  of 
drunkenness  was  hardly  ever  seen  in  this 
country.  After  the  roup  was  over,  about 
thirty  people  engaged  in  a battle,  every  man 
for  his  own  hand,  and  fought  it  out  for 
three  hours.  Nor  was  the  scene  much  better 
in  the.house.  No  fighting,  indeed,  but  folks 
lying  drunk  on  the  floor,  and  decanting, 
until  both  my  dogs  got  so  drunk  by  attend- 
ing them,  that  they  could  not  stand.  You 
will  easily  guess  how  I enjoyed  the  scene,  as 
I was  no  farther  off  than  you  used  to  see 
me. 

Mrs.  B.  and  family  have  been  in  Ayrshire 
these  many  weeks. 

Farewell!  and  God  bless  you,  my  dear 
friend  1 R.  B 


no.  ccxvn. 

TO  COLONEL  FULLARTON, 

O OF  FULLARTON.  (125) 

Ellisland,  Oct.  3rd,  1791. 
Sir — I have  just  this  minute  got  the 
frank,  and  next  minute  must  send  it  to  post, 
else  I purposed  to  have  sent  you  two  or 
three  other  bagatelles  that  might  have  amused 
a vacant  hour,  about  as  well  as  " Six  excel- 
lent new  Songs,”  or  the  "Aberdeen  prognos- 
tications for  the  year  to  come.”  (126)  I shall 
probably  trouble  you  soon  with  another 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


877 


packet,  about  the  gloomy  month  of  Novem- 
per,  when  the  people  of  England  hang  and 
drown  tnemselves — anything,  generally,  is 
better  than  one’s  own  thoughts. 

Fond  as  I may  be  of  my  own  productions, 
it  is  not  for  their  sake  that  I am  so  anxious  to 
send  you  them.  I am  ambitious,  covetously 
ambitious,  of  being  known  to  a gentleman 
whom  I am  proud  to  call  my  countryman 
(127);  a gentleman,  who  was  a foreign  ambas- 
sador as  soon  as  he  was  a man;  and  a 
leader  of  armies  as  soon  as  he  was  a soldier ; 
and  that  with  an  eclat  unknown  to  the  usual 
minions  of  a court — men  who,  with  all  the 
adventitious  advantages  of  princely  connec- 
tions, and  princely  fortunes,  must  yet,  like 
the  caterpillar,  labour  a whole  lifetime  before 
they  reach  the  wished-for  height,  there  to 
roost  a stupid  chrysalis,  and  doze  out  the 
remaining  glimmering  existence  of  old  age. 

If  the  gentleman  that  accompanied  you 
when  you  did  me  the  honour  of  calling  on 
me,  is  with  you,  I beg  to  be  respectfully 
remembered  to  him.  I have  the  honour  to 
be,  your  highly  obliged  and  most  devoted 
humble  servant.  It.  B. 


NO.  CCXXVIII. 

TO  MISS  DAVIES.  (128) 

It  is  impossible.  Madam,  that  the  generous 
warmth  and  angelic  purity  of  your  youthful 
mind  can  have  any  idea  of  that  moral  disease 
under  which  I unhappily  must  rank  as  the 
chief  of  sinners  ; I mean  a torpitude  of  the 
moral  powers,  that  may  be  called  a lethargy 
of  conscience.  In  vain,  Remorse  rears  her 
horrent  crest,  and  rouses  all  her  snakes : 
beneath  the  deadly  fixed  eye  and  leaden  hand 
of  Indolence,  their  wildest  ire  is  charmed 
into  the  torpor  of  the  bat,  slumbering  out 
the  rigours  of  winter  in  the  chink  of  a ruined 
wall.  Nothing  less.  Madam,  could  have 
made  me  so  long  neglect  your  obliging  com- 
mands. Indeed,  I had  one  apology — the 
bagatelle  was  not  worth  presenting.  Besides, 
so  strongly  am  I interested  in  Miss  Davies’s 
fate  and  welfare  in  the  serious  business  of 
life,  amid  its  chances  and  changes,  that  to 
make  her  the  subject  of  a silly  ballad  is 
downright  mockery  of  these  ardent  feelings  ; 
’tis  like  an  impertinent  jest  to  a dying  friend. 

Gracious  Heaven ! why  this  disparity 
between  our  wishes  and  our  powers  ? Why 
is  the  most  generous  wish  to  make  others 
blest,  impotent  and  ineffectual,  as  the  idle 
breeze  that  crosses  the  pathless  desert  ? In 


my  walks  of  life  I have  met  with  a few  peo* 
pie  to  whom  how  gladly  would  I have  said, 
“ Go  ! be  happy ! I know  that  your  hearts 
have  been  wounded  by  the  scorn  of  the 
proud,  whom  accident  has  placed  above  you 
—or,  worse  still,  in  whose  hands  are  perhaps 
placed  many  of  the  comforts  of  your  life 
But  there  ! ascend  that  rock,  Independence, 
and  look  justly  down  on  their  littleness  of 
soul.  Make  the  worthless  tremble  under 
your  indignation,  and  the  foolish  sink  before 
your  contempt;  and  largely  impart  that 
happiness  to  others,  which,  I am  certain, 
will  give  yourselves  so  much  pleasure  to 
bestow.” 

Winy,  dear  Madam,  must  I wake  from  this 
delightful  reverie,  and  find  it  all  a dream? 
Why,  amid  my  generous  enthusiasm,  must 
I find  myself  poor  and  powerless,  incapable 
of  wiping  one  tear  from  the  eye  of  Pity,  or 
of  adding  one  comfort  to  the  friend  I love0 
Out  upon  the  world ! say  I,  that  its  affairs# 
are  administered  so  ill!  They  talk  of 
reform;  good  Heaven!  what  a reform  would 
I make  among  the  sons,  and  even  the  daugh- 
ters of  men ! Down,  immediately  should 
go  fools  from  the  high  places  where  mis- 
begotten chance  has  perked  them  up,  and 
through  life  should  they  skulk,  ever  haunted 
by  their  native  insignificance,  as  the  body 
marches  accompanied  by  its  shadow.  As 
for  a much  more  formidable  class,  the 
knaves,  I am  at  a loss  what  to  do  with 
them  : had  I a world,  there  should  not  be  a 
knave  in  it. 

But  the  hand  that  could  give,  I would 
liberally  fill : and  I would  pour  delight  ou 
the  heart  that  could  kindly  forgive,  and  gene- 
rously love. 

Still,  the  inequalities  of  life  are,  among 
men,  comparatively  tolerable ; but  there  is 
a delicacy,  a tenderness,  accompanying 
every  view  in  which  we  can  place  lovely 
woman,  that  are  grated  and  shocked  at  the 
rude,  capricious  distinctions  of  Fortune. 
Woman  is  the  blood-royal  of  life:  let  there 
be  slight  degrees  of  precedency  among  them 
— but  let  them  be  all  sacred.  Whether 
this  last  sentiment  be  right  or  wrong,  I am 
not  accountable ; it  is  an  original  compo- 
nent feature  of  my  mind.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCXXIX, 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  December  17  th,  1791 
Many  thanks  to  you,  Madam,  for  youf 
good  news  respecting  the  little  fioweret  and 


S78 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


the  mother  plant.  I hope  my  poetic  prayeis 
have  been  heard,  and  will  be  answered  up  to 
the  warmest  sincerity  of  their  fullest  extent; 
and  then  Mrs.  Henri  will  find  her  little 
darling  the  representative  of  his  late  parent, 
in  every  thing  but  his  abridged  existence. 

1 have  just  finished  the  following  song, 
which,  to  a lady,  the  descendant  of  YVallace, 
and  many  heroes  of  his  truly  illustrious 
line — and  herself  the  mother  of  several 
soldiers — needs  neither  preface  nor  apo- 
logy- 

[Here  follows  the  “ Song  of  Death.”] 

The  circumstance  that  gave  rise  to  the 
foregoing  verses,  was — looking  over  with  a 
musical  friend,  M’Donald’s  collection  of 
Highland  airs,  I was  struck  with  one,  an 
Isle  of  Skye  tune,  entitled  “ Oran  an  Aoig,” 
or  the  “ Song  of  Death,”  to  the  measure  of 
which  I have  adapted  my  stanzas.  I have, 
of  late,  composed  two  or  three  other  little 
pieces,  which,  ere  yon  full-orbed  moon, 
whose  broad  impudent  face  now  stares  at 
old  mother  earth  all  night,  shall  have 
shrunk  into  a modest  crescent,  just  peeping 
forth  at  dewy  dawn,  I shall  find  an  hour  to 
transcribe  to  you.  A Dieu  je  vous  com - 
mende . R.  B. 


NO.  CCXXX. 

TO  MR.  AIN SHE. 

Ellisland,  1791; 

My  dear  Ainslie — Can  you  minister 
to  a mind  diseased? — can  you,  amid  the 
horrors  of  penitence,  regret,  remorse,  head- 
ache, nausea,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  d 

hounds  of  hell,  that  beset  a poor  wretch  who 
has  been  guilty  of  the  sin  of  drunkenness — 
can  you  speak  peace  to  a troubled  soul  ? 

Miserable  perdu  that  I am,  I have  tried 
every  thing  that  used  to  amuse  me,  but  in 
vain : here  must  I sit,  a monument  of  the 
vengeance  laid  up  in  store  for  the  wicked, 
slowly  counting  every  tick  of  the  clock,  as  it 
slowly,  slowly,  numbers  over  these  lazy 
scoundrels  of  hours,  who,  * * * *.  are 

ranked  up  before  me,  every  one  following 
his  neighbour,  and  every  one  with  a burden 
of  anguish  on  his  back,  to  pour  on  my 
devoted  head — and  there  is  none  to  pity 
me.  My  wife  scolds  me,  my  business  tor- 
ments me,  and  my  sins  come  staring  me  in 
tne  face,  every  one  telling  a more  bitter 
tale  than  his  fellow.  When  I tell  you  even 
• • * has  hst  its  power  to  pleatfe,  you 


will  guess  something  of  my  hell  within  and 
all  around  me.  I began  Elibanks  and 
Elibraes,  but  the  stanzas  fell  untn- 
joyed  and  unfinished  from  my  listless 
tongue  : at  last  I luckily  thought  of  reading 
over  an  old  letter  of  yours,  that  lay  by  me, 
in  my  book-case,  and  I felt  something,  for 
for  the  first  time  since  I opened  my  eyes,  of 

pleasurable  existence. Well — I begin  to 

breathe  a little  since  I began  to  write  to 
you?  How  are  you,  and  what  are  you 
doing.  How  goes  law?  A-propos,  for 
connexion’s  sake,  do  not  address  to  me 
supervisor,  for  that  is  an  honour  I cannot 
pretend  to ; I am  on  the  list,  as  we  call  it, 
for  a supervisor,  and  will  be  called  out,  by 
and  bye,  to  act  as  one ; but  at,  present,  I am 
a simple  guager,  tho’  t’other  day  I got  an 
appointment  to  an  Excise  division  of  £25  per 
annum  better  than  the  rest.  My  present 
income,  down  money,  is  £70  per  annum. 

I have  one  oi  two  good  fellows  here, 
wrhom  you  would  be  glad  to  know. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCXXXt. 

TO  . 

Ellisland , 1791. 

Thou  eunuch  of  language;  thou  English- 
man, who  never  was  south  the  Tweed ; thou 
servile  echo  of  fashionable  barbarisms  ; thou 
quack,  vending  the  nostrums  of  empirical 
elocution ; thou  marriage-maker  between 
vowels  and  consonants,  on  the  Gretna  Green 
of  caprice;  thou  cobbler,  botching  the  flimsy 
socks  of  bombast  oratory ; thou  blacksmith, 
hammering  the  rivets  of  absurdity;  thou 
butcher,  embruing  thy  hands  in  the  bowels 
of  orthography;  thou  arch-heritic  in  pro- 
nunciation ; thou  pitch  pipe  of  affected 
emphasis;  thou  carpenter,  mortising  the 
awkward  joints  of  jarring  sentences;  thou 
squeaking  dissonance  of  cadence;  thou  pimp 
of  gender ; thou  Lion  Herald  to  silly  ety- 
mology ; thou  antipode  of  grammar ; thou 
executioner  of  construction ; thou  brood  of 
the  speech-distracting  builders  of  the  Tower 
of  Babel ; thou  lingual  confusion  worse  con- 
founded ; thou  scape-gallows  from  the  land 
of  syntax ; thou  scavenger  of  mood  and 
tense ; thou  murderous  accoucheur  of  infant 
learning ; thou  ignis  fatuus,  misleading  the 
steps  of  benighted  ignorance ; thou  pickle- 
herring  in  the  puppet-show  of  nonsense; 
thou  faithful  recorder  of  barbarous  idiom; 
thou  persecutor  of  syllabication;  thou  baleful 


TO  MR.  W'M.  NICOL. 


379 


ttreteor,  foretelling  and  facilitating  the  rapid 
approach  of  Nox  and  Erebus.  R.  B. 


no.  ccxxxii. 

TO  FRANCIS  GROSE,  Esq.  F.S.A.  (129) 
Dumfries,  1792. 

Sir — I believe  among  all  our  Scots  literati 
you  have  not  met  with  Professor  Dugald 
Stewart,  who  fills  the  moral  philosophy  chair 
in  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  To  say 
that  he  is  a man  of  the  first  parts,  and,  what 
is  more,  a man  of  the  first  worth,  to  a gen- 
tleman of  your  general  acquaintance,  and 
who  so  much  enjoys  the  luxury  of  unencum- 
bered freedom  and  undisturbed  privacy,  is 
not,  perhaps,  recommendation  enough ; but 
when  I inform  you  that  Mr.  Stewart’s  prin- 
cipal characteristic  is  your  favourite  feature 
— that  sterling  independence  of  mind,  which, 
though  every  man’s  right,  so  few  men  have 
the  courage  to  claim,  and  fewer  still  the 
magnanimity  to  support : when  I tell  you, 
that  unseduced  by  splendour,  and  undis- 
gusted by  wretchedness,  he  appreciates  the 
merits  of  the  various  actors  in  the  great 
drama  of  life,  merely  as  they  perform  their 
parts — in  short,  he  is  a man  after  your  own 
heart,  and  I comply  with  his  earnest  request 
in  letting  you  know  that  he  wishes  above  all 
things  to  meet  with  you.  His  house,  Catrine, 
is  within  less  than  a mile  of  Sorn  Castle, 
which  you  proposed  visiting;  or  if  you  could 
transmit  him  the  enclosed,  he  would,  with 
the  greatest  pleasure,  meet  you  any  where 
in  the  neighbourhood.  I write  to  Ayrshire 
to  inform  Mr.  Stewart  that  I have  acquitted 
myself  of  my  promise.  Should  your  time 
and  spirits  permit  your  meeting  with  Mr. 
Stewart,  ’tis  well ; if  not,  I hope  you  will 
forgive  this  liberty,  and  I have,  at  least,  an 
opportunity  of  assuring  you  with  what  truth 
and  respect  I am.  Sir,  your  great  admirer, 
fluid  very  humble  servant,  R.  B. 


NO.  CCXXXIII. 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  SMELIJE, 

PRINTER. 

Dumfries , January  22nd,  1792. 

I sit  down,  my  dear  Sir,  to  introduce  a 
young  lady  to  you,  and  a lady  in  the  first 
ranks  of  fashion,  too.  What  a task!  to 
you — who  care  no  more  for  the  herd  of 
animals  called  young  ladies,  than  you  do  for 


the  herd  of  animals  called  young  gentlemen* 
To  you — who  despise  and  detest  the  group- 
ings and  combinations  of  fashion,  as  an  idiot 
painter  that  seems  industrious  to  place 
staring  fools  and  unprincipled  knaves  in  the 
foreground  of  his  picture,  while  men  of 
sense  aud  honesty  are  too  often  thrown  m 
the  dimmest  shades.  Mrs.  Ridde7  (130), 
who  will  take  this  letter  to  town  w th  her, 
and  send  it  to  you,  is  a character  that,  even 
in  your  own  way,  as  a naturalist  and  a phi- 
losopher, would  be  an  acquisition  to  your 
acquaintance.  The  lady,  too,  is  a votary  of 
the  muses ; and  as  I think  myself  somewhat 
of  a judge  in  my  own  trade,  I assure  you 
that  her  verses,  always  correct,  and  often 
elegant,  are  much  beyond  the  common  run 
of  the  lady-poetesses  of  the  day.  She  is  a 
great  admirer  of  your  book  (131) ; and 
hearing  me  say  that  I was  acquainted  with 
you,  slie  begged  to  be  known  to  you,  as  she 
is  just  going  to  pay  her  first  visit  to  our 
Caledonian  capital.  I told  her  that  her  best 
way  was,  to  desire  her  near  relation,  aud 
your  intimate  friend,  Craigdarroch,  to  hav« 
you  at  his  house  while  she  was  there ; and 
lest  you  might  think  of  a lively  West  Indian 
girl  of  eighteen,  as  girls  of  eighteen  too  often 
deserve  to  be  thought  of,  I should  take  care 
to  remove  that  prejudice.  To  be  impartial, 
however*  in  appreciating  the  lady’s  merits, 
she  has  one  unlucky  failing — a failing  which 
you  will  easily  discover,  as  she  seems  rather 
pleased  with  indulging  in  it — and  a failing 
that  you  will  easily  pardon,  as  it  is  a sin 
which  very  much  besets  yourself — where  she 
dislikes,  or  despises,  she  is  apt  to  make  no 
more  a secret  of  it  than  where  she  esteems 
and  respects. 

I will  not  present  you  with  the  unmeaning 
compliments  of  the  season,  but  I will  send 
you  my  warmest  wishes  and  most  ardent 
prayers,  that  Fortune  may  never  throw 
your  subsistence  to  the  mercy  of  a 
knave,  or  set  your  character  on  the 
judgment  of  a fool  ; but  that,  upright  and 
erect,  you  may  walk  to  an  honest  grave, 
where  men  of  letters  shall  say,  " Here  lies  a 
man  who  did  honour  to  science,”  and  men  of 
worth  shall  say,  “ Here  lies  a man  who  did 
honour  to  human  nature.”  R.  B. 


no.  ccxxxiv. 

TO  MR.  WM.  NICOL. 

February  20 th,  1792. 
On,  thou  wisest  among  the  wise,  meridian 
blaze  of  prudence,  full  moon  oA'  discretion* 


3S0 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


and  chiet  01  many  counsellors ! (132)  How 
infinitely  is  thy  puddle-headed,  rattle-headed, 
wrong-headed,  round-headed  slave  indebted 
to  thy  super-eminent  goodness,  that,  from 
the  luminous  path  of  thy  own  right-lined 
rectitude,  thou  lookest  benignly  down  on  an 
erring  wretch,  of  whom  the  zig-zag  wander- 
ings defy  all  the  powers  of  calculation,  from 
e£e  simple  copulation  of  units,  up  to  the 
hid  len  mysteries  of  fluxions ! May  one 
feeble  ray  of  that  light  of  wisdom  which 
darts  from  thy  sensorium,  straight  as  the 
arrow  of  Heaven,  and  bright  as  the  meteor 
of  inspiration,  may  it  be  my  portion,  so  that 
I may  be  less  unworthy  of  the  face  and 
favour  of  that  father  of  proverbs,  and  master 
of  maxims,  that  antipode  of  folly,  and  mag- 
net among  the  sages,  the  wise  and  witty 
Willie  Nicol!  Amen!  Amen!  Yea,  so  be  it! 

For  me ! I am  a beast,  a reptile,  and  know 
nothing ! From  the  cave  of  my  ignorance, 
amid  the  fogs  of  my  dulness,  and  pestilen- 
tial fumes  of  my  political  heresies,  I look  up 
to  thee,  as  doth  a toad  through  the  iron- 
barred  lucerne  of  a pestiferous  dungeon,  to 
the  cloudless  glory  of  a summer  sun ! 
Sorely  sighing  in  bitterness  of  soul,  I say, 
when  shall  my  name  be  the  quotation  of  the 
wise,  and  my  countenance  be  the  delight  of 
the  godly,  like  the  illustrious  lord  of  Laggan’s 
many  hills?  (133)  As  for  him,  his  works 
are  perfect — never  did  the  pen  of  calumny 
blur  the  fair  page  of  his  reputation,  nor  the 
bolt  of  hatred  fly  at  his  dwelling. 

Thou  mirror  of  purity,  when  shall  the 
elfine  lamp  of  my  glimmerous  understanding, 
purged  from  sensual  appetites  and  gross 
desires,  shine  like  the  constellation  of  thy 
intellectual  powers ! As  for  thee,  thy 
thoughts  are  pure,  and  thy  lips  are  holy. 
Never  did  the  unhallowed  breath  of  the 
powers  of  darkness,  and  the  pleasures  of 
darkness,  pollute  the  sacred  flame  of  thy 
sky-descended  and  heaven-bound  desires; 
never  did  the  vapours  of  impurity  stain  the 
unclouded  serene  of  thy  cerulean  imagination. 
Oh,  that  like  thine  were  the  tenor  of  my  life, 
like  thine  the  tenor  of  my  conversation ! — 
then  should  no  friend  fear  for  my  strength, 
no  enemy  rejoice  in  my  weakness ! Then, 
should  I lie  down  and  rise  up,  and  none  to 
make  me  afraid.  May  thy  pity  and  thy 
prayer  be  exercised  for,  oh  thou  lamp  of 
wisdom  and  mirror  of  morality  1 thy  devoted 
slave,  R.  B. 


NO.  CCXXXV. 

TO  FRANCIS  GROSE,  Esa,  T.8JL 
Dumfries,  1792. 

Among  the  many  witch  stories  I hava 
heard,  relating  to  Alloway  kirk,  I distinctly 
remember  only  two  or  three. 

Upon  a stormy  night,  amid  whistling 
squalls  of  wind,  and  bitter  blasts  of  hail — * 
in  short,  on  such  a night  as  the  devil  would 
choose  to  take  the  air  in — a farmer,  or 
farmer’s  servant,  was  plodding  and  plashing 
homeward  with  his  plough-irons  on  his 
shoulder,  having  been  getting  some  repairs 
on  them  at  a neighbouring  smithy.  His 
way  lay  by  the  kirk  of  Alloway ; and  being 
rather  on  the  anxious  look-out  in  approach- 
ing a place  so  well  known  to  be  a favourite 
haunt  of  the  devil,  and  the  devil’s  friends 
and  emissaries,  he  had  been  struck  aghast, 
by  discovering  through  the  horrors  of  the 
storm  and  stormy  night,  a light,  which  on 
his  nearer  approach  plainly  showed  itself  to 
proceed  from  the  haunted  edifice.  Whether 
he  had  been  fortified  from  above,  on  his 
devout  supplication,  as  is  customary  with 
people  when  they  suspect  the  immediate 
presence  of  Satan,  or  whether,  according  to 
another  custom,  he  had  got  courageously 
drunk  at  the  smithy,  I will  not  pretend  to 
determine ; but,  so  it  was,  that  he  ventured 
to  go  up  to,  nay,  into  the  very  kirk.  As 
luck  would  have  it,  his  temerity  came  off 
unpunished. 

The  members  of  the  infernal  junto  were 
all  out  on  some  midnight  business  or  other, 
and  he  saw  nothing  but  a kind  of  kettle  or 
caldron,  depending  from  the  roof,  over  the 
fire,  simmering  some  heads  of  unchristened 
children,  limbs  of  executed  malefactors,  &c., 
for  the  business  of  the  night.  It  was,  in 
for  a penny,  in  for  a pound,  with  the  honest 
ploughman : so  without  ceremony  he  un- 
hooked the  caldron  from  off  the  fire,  and, 
pouring  out  the  damnable  ingredients, 
inverted  it  on  his  head,  and  carried  it  fairly 
home,  where  it  remained  long  in  the  family, 
a living  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  stcry. 

Another  story,  which  I can  prove  to  1* 
equally  authentic,  was  as  follows : — 

On  a market  day  in  the  town  of  Ayr,  a 
farmer  from  Carrick,  and  consequently 
whose  way  lay  by  the  very  gate  of  Alloway 
kirk-yard,  in  order  to  cross  the  river  Doon 
at  the  old  bridge,  which  is  about  two  or 
three  hundred  yards  further  on  than  the  said 
gate,  had  been  detained  by  his  business,  till 
by  the  time  he  reached  Alloway  it  was  tit  a 
wizard  hour,  between  night  and  moniifg. 


TO  MR.  J.  CLARKE. 


m 


Thotgh  he  was  terrified  with  a blaze 
streaming  from  the  kirk,  yet,  as  it  is  a well- 
known  fact,  that  to  turn  back  on  these 
occasions  is  running  by  far  the  greatest  risk 
of  mischief,  he  prudently  advanced  on  his 
road.  When  he  had  reached  the  gate  of 
the  kirk-yard,  he  was  surprised  and  enter- 
tained. through  the  ribs  and  arches  of  an 
old  Gothic  window,  which  still  faces  the 
highway,  to  see  a dance  of  witches  merrily 
footing  it  round  their  old  sooty  blackguard 
master,  who  was  keeping  them  all  alive  with 
the  power  of  his  bagpipe.  The  farmer, 
stopping  his  horse  to  observe  thern  a little, 
could  plainly  descry  the  faces  of  many  old 
women  of  his  acquaintance  and  neighbour- 
hood. How  the  gentleman  was  dressed, 
tradition  does  not  say,  but  that  the  ladies 
were  all  in  their  smocks  : and  one,  of  them 
happening  unluckily  to  have  a smock  which 
was  considerably  too  short  to  answer  all  the 
purpose  of  that  piece  of  dress,  our  farmer 
was  so  tickled,  that  he  involuntarily  burst 
out,  with  a loud  laugh,  “ Weel  luppen, 
Maggy  wi’  the  short  sark ! ” and  recollecting, 
himself,  instantly  spurred  his  horse  to  the 
top  of  his  speed.  I need  not  mention  the 
universally  known  fact,  that  no  diabolical 
power  can  pursue  you  beyond  the  middle  of 
a running  stream.  Lucky  it  was  for  the 
poor  farmer  that  the  river  Doon  was  so 
near,  for,  notwithstanding  the  speed  of  his 
horse,  which  was  a good  one,  against  he 
reached  the  middle  of  the  arch  of  the 
bridge,  and,  consequently,  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  the  pursuing,  vengeful  hags,  were 
so  close  at  his  heels,  that  one  of  them 
actually  sprang  to  seize  him : but  it  was  too 
late ; nothing  was  on  her  side  of  the  stream 
but  the  horse’s  tail,  which  immediately  gave 
way  at  her  infernal  grip,  as  if  blasted  by  a 
stroke  of  lightning ; but  the  farmer  was 
beyond  her  reach.  However,  the  unsightly, 
tail-less  condition  of  the  vigorous  steed, 
was,  to  the  last  hour  of  the  noble  creature’s 
life,  an  awful  warning  to  the  Car  rick  farmers 
not  to  stay  too  late  in  Ayr  markets. 

The  last  relation  I shall  give,  though 
equally  true , is  not  so  well  identified  as  the 
two  former,  with  regard  to  the  scene ; but 
as  the  best  authorities  give  it  for  Alloway, 

I shall  relate  it. 

On  a summer’s  evening,  about  the  time 
nature  puts  on  her  sables  to  mourn  the 
expiry  of  the  cheerful  day,  a shepherd  boy, 
belonging  to  a farmer  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  Alloway  kirk,  had  just 
folded  his  charge,  and  was  returning  home. 
As  he  passed  the  kirk,  in  the  adjoining 
field,  he  fell  in  with  a crew  of  men  and  j 


women,  who  were  busy  pulling  stems  of  the 
plant  Ragwort.  Hp  observed  that  as  each 
person  pulled  a RAgwort,  he  or  she  gol 
astride  of  it,  and  called  out,  “Up  horsie  ! n 
on  which  the  Ragwort  flew  off,  like  Pegasus, 
through  the  air  with  its  rider.  The  foolish 
boy  likewise  pulled  his  Ragwort,  and  cried 
with  the  rest,  “Up  horsie ! ” and,  strange* 
to  tell,  away  he  flew  with  the  company. 
The  first  stage  at  which  the  cavalcade  stopt, 
was  a merchant’s  wine  cellar,  in  Bourdeaux, 
where,  without  3aying,  by  your  leave,  they 
quaffed  away  at  the  best  the  cellar  could 
afford,  until  the  morning,  foe  to  the  imps 
and  works  of  darkness,  threatened  to  throw 
light  on  the  matter,  and  frightened  them 
from  their  carousals. 

The  poor  shepherd  lad,  being  equally  a 
stranger  to  the  scene  and  the  liquor,  heed- 
lessly got  himself  drunk;  and  when  the 
rest  took  horse,  he  fell  asleep,  and  was 
found  so  next  day  by  some  of  the  people 
belonging  to  the  merchant.  Somebody  thafc 
understood  Scotch,  asked  him  what  he  was, 
he  said,  such-a-one’s  herd  in  Alloway,  and, 
by  some  means  or  other,  getting  home 
again,  he  lived  long  to  tell  the  world  the 
wondrous  tale.  R.  B.  (134) 


NO.  CCXXXVI. 

TO  MR.  J.  CLARKE, 

EDINBURGH. 

July  1 6th,  1792. 

Mr.  Burns  begs  leave  to  present  hi* 
most  respectful  compliments  to  Mr.  Clarke. 
Mr.  B.  some  time  ago  did  himself  the 
honour  of  writing  Mr.  C.  respecting  coming 
out  to  the  country,  to  give  a little  musicad 
instruction  in  a highly  respectable  family, 
where  Mr.  C.  may  have  his  own  terms,  and 
may  be  as  happy  as  indolence,  the  devil,  and 
the  gout,  will  permit  him.  Mr.  B.  knows 
well  how  Mr.  C.  is  engaged  with  another 
family ; but,  cannot  Mr.  C.  find  two  or  three 
weeks  to  spare  to  each  of  them?  Mr.  B.  is 
deeply  impressed  with,  and  awfully  con- 
scious of,  the  high  importance  of  Mr.  C.’s 
time;  whether  in  the  winged  moments  cf 
symphonious  exhibition,  at  the  keys  of 
harmony,  while  listening  seraphs  cease  their 
own  less  delightful  strains ; or,  in  th# 
drowsy  arms  of  slumb’rous  repose,  in  the 
arms  of  his  dearly  beloved  elbow  chair, 
where  the  frowsy,  but  potent  power  e( 


882 


CORRESPONDENCE"  OF  BURNS. 


indolence,  circumfiises  her  vapours  round, 
and  sheds  her  dews  on  the  head  of  her 
darling  son.  But  half  a line,  conveying  half 
a meaning  from  Mr.  C.,  would  make  Mr. 
B.  the  happiest  of  mortals.  R.  B. 


NO.  ccxxxvii. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Annan  Water-foot,  August  22nd,  1792, 

Do  not  blame  me  for  it.  Madam — my 
own  conscience,  hackneyed  and  weather- 
beaten as  it  is,  in  watching  and  reproving 
my  vagaries,  follies,  indolence,  &c.,  has  con- 
tinued to  punish  me  sufficiently. 

Do  you  think  it  possible,  my  dear  and 
honoured  friend,  that  I could  be  so  lost  to 
gratitude  for  many  favours,  to  esteem  for 
much  worth,  and  to  the  honest,  kind, 
pleasurable  tie  of,  now  old  acquaintance, — 
and  I hope,  and  am  sure,  of  progressive, 
increasing  friendship — as  for  a single  day, 
not  to  think  of  you — to  ask  the  Fates 
what  they  are  doing,  and  about  to  do,  with 
my  much-loved  friend  and  her  wide  scattered 
connexion,  and  to  beg  of  them  to  be  as 
kind  to  you  and  yours  as  they  possibly 
can  ? 

A-propos ! (though  how  it  is  a-propos,  I 
have  not  leisure  to  explain),  do  you  know 
that  I am  almost  in  love  with  an  acquaint- 
ance of  yours  ? Almost ! said  I — I am  in 
love,  souce,  over  head  and  ears,  deep  as  the 
most  unfathomable  abyss  of  the  boundless 
ocean ! — but  the  word  love,  owing  to  the 
intermingledoms  of  the  good  and  the  bad,  the 
pure  and  the  impure,  in  this  world,  being 
rather  an  equivocal  term  for  expressing  one’s 
sentiments  and  sensations,  I must  do  justice 
to  the  sacred  purity  of  my  attachment. 
Know,  then,  that  the  heart-struck  awe ; the 
distant  humble  approach;  the  delight  we 
should  have  in  gazing  upon  and  listening  to 
a messenger  of  Heaven,  appearing  in  all  the 
unspotted  purity  of  his  celestial  home, 
among  the  coarse,  polluted,  far  inferior  sons 
of  men,  to  deliver  to  them  tidings  that  make 
their  hearts  swim  in  joy,  and  their  imagina- 
tions soar  in  transport — such,  so  delighting 
*nd  so  pure,  were  the  emotions  of  my  soul, 
on  meeting  the  other  day  with  Miss  Lesley 

Baillie,  your  neighbour,  at  M ’s.  Mr.  B., 

with  his  two  daughters,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
H.  of  G.,  passing  through  Dumfries  a few 
daj  s ago,  on  their  way  to  England,  did  me 
the  honour  of  calling  on  me;  on  which  I 


took  my  horse  (though,  God  kn  )ws,  I could 
ill  spare  the  time),  and  accompanied  them 
fourteen  or  fifteen  miles,-  and  dined  and 
spent  the  day  with  them.  Twas  about  nine, 
I think,  when  I left  them,  and,  riding  home, 
I composed  the  following  ballad,  of  which 
you  will  probably  think  you  have  a dear 
bargain,  as  it  will  cost  you  another  groat  of 
postage.  You  must  know  that  there  is  an 
old  ballad  beginning  with : — * 

My  bonnie  Lizzie  Baillie, 

I’ll  rowe  thee  in  my  plaidie,  &c. 

So  I parodied  it  as  follows,  which  is  literally 
the  first  copy,  “unanointed,  unannealed,'* 
as  Hamlet  says : — 

Oh  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley,  & c. 

So  much  for  ballads.  I regret  that  yon 
are  gone  to  the  east  country,  as  I am  to  be 
in  Ayrshire  in  about  a fortnight.  This 
world  of  ours,  notwithstanding  it  has  many 
good  things  in  it,  yet  it  has  ever  had  this 
curse,  that  two  or  three  people,  who  would 
be  the  happier  the  ofcener  they  met  together, 
are,  almost  without  exception,  always  so 
placed  as  never  to  meet  but  once  or  twice 
a-year,  which,  considering  the  few  years  of  ft 
man’s  life,  is  a very  great  “evil  under  the 
sun,”  which  I do  not  recollect  that  Solomon 
has  mentioned  in  his  catalogue  of  the  miseries 
of  man.  I hope,  and  believe,  that  there  is  a 
state  of  existence  beyond  the  grave,  where 
the  worthy  of  this  life  will  renew  their 
former  intimacies,  with  this  endearing 
addition,  that  “ we  meet  to  part  no  more ! ” 

Tell  us,  ye  dead. 
Will  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret 
What  ’tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be  ? 

A thousand  times  have  I made  this  apos- 
trophe to  the  departed  sons  of  men,  but  not 
one  of  them  has  ever  thought  fit  to  answer 
the  question.  “Oh  that  some  courteous 
ghost  would  blab  it  out!”  But  it  cannot 
be ; you  and  I,  my  friend,  must  make  ths 
experiment  by  ourselves,  and  for  ourselves. 
However,  I am  so  convinced  that  an  un- 
shaken faith  in  the  doctrines  of  religion  is 
not  only  necessary,  by  making  us  better 
men,  but  also  by  making  us  happier  men, 
that  I should  take  every  care  that  your  little 
godson,  and  every  little  creature  that  slial/ 
call  me  father,  shall  be  taught  them. 

So  ends  this  heterogeneous  letter,  written 
at  this  wild  place  of  the  world,  in  ths 
intervals  of  my  labour  of  discharging  a vessel 
of  rum  from  Antigua.  R.  B. 


f" 


TO  MIL  CUNNINGHAM, 


$83 


ko.  cd  ixxvm. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries,  Sept.  10th,  1792. 

No!  I will  not  attempt  an  apology. 
Amid  all  my  hurry  of  business,  grinding 
the  faces  of  the  publican  and  the  sinner  on 
the  merciless  wheels  of  the  Excise ; making 
ballads,  and  then  drinking,  and  singing 
them;  and,  over  and  above  all,  the  cor- 
recting the  press-work  of  two  different  pub- 
lications ; still,  still  I might  have  stolen  five 
minutes  to  dedicate  to  one  of  the  first  of  my 
friends  and  fellow-creatures.  I might  have 
done,  as  I do  at  present,  snatched  an  hour 
near  “witching  time  of  night,”  and  scrawled 
a page  or  two.  I might  have  congratulated 
my  friend  on  his  marriage ; or  I might  have 
thanked  the  Caledonian  archers  for  the 
honour  they  have  done  me  (though,  to  do 
myself  justice,  I intended  to  have  done  both 
in  rhyme,  else  I had  done  both  long  ere 
now.)  Well,  then,  here  is  to  your  good 
health ! — for  you  must  know,  I have  set  a 
nipperkin  of  toddy  by  me,  just  by  way  of 
spell,  to  keep  away  the  meikle  horned  deil, 
or  any  of  his  subaltern  imps,  who  may  be 
on  their  nightly  rounds. 

But  what  shall  I write  to  you?  "The 
voice  said.  Cry,”  and  I said,  "What  shall  I 
cry?”  Oh,  thou  spirit!  whatever  thou  art, 
or  wherever  thou  makest  thyself  visible! 
Be  thou  a bogle  by  the  eerie  side  of  an  auld 
thorn,  in  the  dreary  glen  through  which  the 
herd-callan  maun  bicker  in  his  gloamin  route 
frae  the  fauld  ! Be  thou  a brownie,  set,  at 
dead  of  night,  to  thy  task  by  the  blazing 
ingle,  or  in  the  solitary  barn,  where  the 
repercussions  of  thy  iron  flail  half  affright 
thyself,  as  thou  performest  the  work  of 
twenty  of  the  sons  of  men,  ere  the  cock- 
eroving  summon  thee  to  thy  ample  cog  of 
substantial  brose.  Be  thou  a kelpie,  haunt- 
ing the  ford  or  ferry,  in  the  starless  night, 
mixing  thy  laughing  yell  with  the  howling 
of  the  storm  and  the  roaring  of  the  flood,  as 
tnou  vie  west  the  perils  and  miseries  of  man 
on  the  foundering  horse,  or  in  the  tumbling 
boat ! Or,  lastly,  be  thou  a ghost,  paying 
thy  nocturnal  visits  to  the  hoary  ruins  of 
decayed  grandeur ; or  performing  thy  mystic 
rites  in  the  shadow  of  the  time-worn  church, 
while  the  moon  looks,  without  a cloud,  on 
the  silent,  ghastly  dwellings  of  the  dead 
around  thee , or,  taking  thy  stand  by  the 
bedside  of  the  villain,  or  the  murderer,  por- 
traying on  his  dreaming  fancy,  pictures, 
dreadful  as  the  horrors  of  unveiled  hell,  and 
gamble  as  the  wrath  of  incensed  Deity! 


Come,  thou  spirit,  but  not  in  the3e  horrid 
forms;  come  with  the  milder,  gentle,  easy 
inspirations,  which  thou  breathest  round  the 
wig  of  a prating  advocate,  or  the  tete  of  a 
tea-sipping  gossip,  while  their  tongues  run 
at  the  light-horse  gallop  of  clishmaclaver  for 
ever  and  ever — come,  and  assist  a poor  devil 
who  is  quite  jaded  in  the  attempt  to  share 
half  an  idea  among  half  a hundred  words ; 
to  fill  up.  four  quarto  pages,  while  he  has  not 
got  one  single  sentence  of  recollection,  in- 
formation, or  remark,  worth  putting  pen  to 
paper  for. 

A-propos,  how  do  you  like — I mean  really 
like — the  married  life  ? Ah,  my  friend  ! 
matrimony  is  quite  a different  thing  from 
what  your  love-sick  youths  and  sighing  girls 
take  it  to  be ! But  marriage,  we  are  told,  is 
appointed  by  God,  and  I shall  never  quarrel 
with  any  of  his  institutions.  I am  a husband 
of  older  standing  than  you,  and  shall  give 
you  my  ideas  of  the  conjugal  state  ( en 
passant ; you  know  I am  no  Latinist,  is  not 
conjugal  derived  from  jugum , a yoke !)  Well, 
then,  the  scale  of  good  wifeship  I divide  into 
ten  parts.  Good-nature,  four ; Good  Sense, 
two ; Wit,  one ; Personal  Charms,  viz.  a 
sweet  face,  eloquent  eyes,  fine  limbs,  graceful 
carriage  (I  would  add  a fine  waist  too,  but 
that  is  soon  spoilt  you  know),  all  these,  one ; 
as  for  the  other  qualities  belonging  to,  or 
attending  on,  a wife,  such  as  Fortune,  Con- 
nections, Education  (I  mean  education  ex- 
traordinary), Family  blood,  &c.,  divide  the 
two  remaining  degrees  among  them  as  you 
please ; only,  remember,  that  all  these  minor 
properties  must  be  expressed  by  fractions , 
for  there  is  not  any  one  of  them,  in  the 
aforesaid  scale,  entitled  to  the  dignity  of  an 
integer. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  fancies  and  reveries 
— how  I lately  met  with  Miss  Lesley  Baillin, 
the  most  beautiful,  elegant  woman  in  the 
world — how  I accompanied  her  and  her 
father’s  family  fifteen  miles  on  their  journey, 
out  of  pure  devotion,  to  admire  the  loveli- 
ness of  the  works  of  God,  in  such  an 
unequalled  display  of  them — how,  in  gallop- 
ing home  at  night,  I made  a ballad  on  her,  of 
which  these  two  stanzas  make  a part-  — 

Thou,  bonnie  Lesley,  art  a queen. 

Thy  subjects  we  before  thee ; 

Thou,  bonnie  Lesley,  art  divine. 

The  hearts  o’  men  adore  thee. 

The  very  deil  he  could  na  scathe 
Whatever  wad  belang  thee  I 

He’d  look  into  thy  bonnie  face 
And  say,  ‘ I cairn  a wrang  thee*~* 


384 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


Behold  all  these  things  are  written  in  the 
chronicles  of  my  imagination,  and  shall  be 
read  by  thee,  my  dear  friend,  and  by  thy 
beloved  spouse,  my  other  dear  friend,  at  a 
moi  e convenient  season. 

Now,  to  thee,  and  to  thy  before-designed 
5osom-companion,  be  given  the  precious 
things  brought  forth  by  the  sun,  and  the 
precious  things  brought  forth  by  the  moon, 
and  the  benignest  influences  of  the  stars, 
and  the  living  streams  which  flow  from  the 
fountains  of  life,  and  by  the  tree  of  life,  for 
ever  and  ever ! Amen ! R.  B. 


NO.  CCXXXIX. 

MR.  THOMSON  (135)  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  September  1792. 

Sir — For  some  years  past  I have,  with  a 
friend  or  two,  employed  many  leisure  hours 
in  selecting  and  collating  the  most  favourite 
of  our  national  melodies  for  publication. 
We  have  engaged  Pleyel,  the  most  agreeable 
composer  living,  to  put  accompaniments  to 
these,  and  also  to  compose  an  instrumental 
prelude  and  conclusion  to  each  air,  the 
better  to  fit  them  for  concerts,  both  public 
and  private.  To  render  this  wrork  perfect, 
we  are  desirous  to  have  the  poetry  improved, 
wherever  it  seems  unworthy  of  the  music ; 
and  that  it  is  so  in  many  instances,  is 
allowed  by  every  one  conversant  with  our 
musical  collections.  The  editors  of  these 
seem,  in  general,  to  have  depended  on  the 
music  proving  an  excuse  for  the  verses  ; and 
hence,  some  charming  melodies  are  united  to 
mere  nonsense  and  doggrel,  while  others  are 
accommodated  with  rhymes  so  loose  and 
indelicate,  as  cannot  be  sung  in  decent 
company.  To.  remove  this  reproach  would 
be  an  easy  task  to  the  author  of  the 
‘'Cotter’s  Saturday  Night;4’  and,  for  the 
honour  of  Caledonia,  I would  fain  hope  he 
may  be  induced  to  take  up  the  pen.  If  so, 
we  shall  be  enabled  to  present  the  public 
with  a collection,  infinitely  more  interesting 
than  any  that  has  yet  appeared,  and  accept- 
able to  all  persons  of  taste,  whether  they 
wish  for  correct  melodies,  delicate  accom- 
paniments, or  characteristic  verses.  We  will 
esteem  your  poetical  assistance  a particular 
favour,  besides,  paying  any  reasonable  price 
you  shall  please  to  demand  for  it.  Profit  is 
quite  a secondary  consideration  with  us,  and 
we  are  resolved  to  spare  neither  pains  nor 
expense  on  the  publication.  Tell  me,  frankly, 


then,  whether  you  will  derote  your  leisure  to 
writing  twenty  or  twenty-five  songs,  suited 
to  the  particular  melodies  which  I am  pre- 
pared to  send  you.  A few  songs,  exception- 
able only  in  some  of  their  verses,  I will  like- 
wise submit  to  your  consideration ; leaving 
it  to  you,  either  to  mend  these,  or  make  new 
songs  in  their  stead.  It  is  superfluous  to 
assure  you  that  I have  no  intention  to  dis- 
place any  of  the  sterling  old  songs ; those 
only  will  be  removed  which  appear  quite 
silly  or  absolutely  indecent.  Even  these 
shall  be  all  examined  by  Mr.  Burns,  and  if 
he  is  of  opinion  that  any  of  them  are 
deserving  of  the  music,  in  such  cases  no 
divorce  shall  take  place.  G.  Thomson. 


no.  CCXL. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Dumfries,  Sept.  1 6th,  1792. 

Sir — I have  just  this  moment  got  your 
letter.  As  the  request  you  make  to  me  will 
positively  add  to  my  enjoyments  in  comply- 
ing with  it,  I shall  enter  into  your  under- 
taking with  all  the  small  portion  of  abilities 
I have,  strained  to  their  utmost  exertion  by 
the  impulse  of  enthusiasm.  Only,  don’t 
hurry  me: — "Deil  tak  the  hindmost”  is  by 
no  means  the  cri  de  guerre  of  my  muse. 
Will  you,  as  I am  inferior  to  none  of  you  in 
enthusiastic  attachment  to  the  poetry  and 
music  of  old  Caledonia,  and,  since  you 
request  it,  have  cheerfully  promised  ray  mite 
of  assistance — will  you  let  me  have  a list  of 
your  airs  with  the  first  line  of  the  printed 
verses  you  intend  for  them,  that  I may  have 
an  opportunity  of  suggesting  any  alteration 
that  may  occur  to  me?  You  know  ’tis  in 
the  way  of  my  trade;  still  leaving  you, 
gentlemen,  the  undoubted  right  of  publishers 
to  approve  or  reject,  at  your  pleasure,  for 
your  own  publication.  A-propos,  if  you  are 
for  English  verses,  there  is,  on  my  part,  an 
end  of  the  matter.  Whether  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  ballad,  or  the  pathos  of  the 
song,  I can  only  hope  to  please  myself  in 
being  allowed  at  least  a sprinkling  of  our 
native  tongue.  English  verses,  particularly 
the  works  of  Scotsmen,  that  have  merit,  are 
certainly  very  eligible.  " Tweedside ! ” " Ah ! 
the  poor  shepherd’s  mournful  fate  ! ” "Ah ! 
Chloris,  could  I now  but  sit,”  &c.,  you  can* 
not  mend;  but  such  insipid  stuff  as  "To 
Fanny  fair  could  I impart,”  &c.,  usually  set 
to  " The  Mill,  Mill,  O !”  is  a disgrace  to  the 
collections  in  which  it  has  already  appeared* 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 


3S5 


and  would  cLubly  disgrace  a collection  that 
will  have  the  very  superior  merit  of  yours. 
But  more  of  this  in  the  further  prosecution 
of  the  business,  if  I am  called  on  for  my 
strictures  and  amendments — I say  amend- 
ments, for  I will  not  alter  except  where  I 
myself,  at  least,  think  that  I amend. 

As  to  any  remuneration,  you  may  think 
my  songs  either  above  or  below  price ; for 
they  shall  absolutely  be  the  one  or  the  other. 
In  the  honest  enthusiasm  with  which  I 
embark  in  your  undertaking,  to  talk  of 
money,  wages,  fee,  hire,  &c.,  would  be  down- 
right prostitution  (136)  of  soul ! A proof  of 
each  of  the  songs  that  I compose  or  amend, 
I shall  receive  as  a favour.  In  the  rustic 
phrase  of  the  season,  “ Gude  speed  the 
wark ! ” I am.  Sir,  your  very  humble 
servant*  R.  Burns. 


NO.  CCXLI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Dumfries,  Sept  24fA,  1792. 

I have  this  moment,  my  dear  Madam, 
yours  of  the  23rd.  All  your  other  kind 
reproaches,  your  news,  &c.,  are  out  of  my 
head,  when  I read  and  think  on  Mrs.  Henri’s 
situation.  Good  God ! a heart-wounded 
helpless  young  woman — in  a strange,  foreign 
land,  and  that  land  convulsed  with  every 
horror  that  can  harrow  the  human  feelings 
— sick — looking;  longing  for  a comforter, 
but  finding  none — a mother’s  feelings,  too — 
but  it  is  too  much:  he  who  wounded  (he 
only  can)  may  He  heal ! 

I wish  the  farmer,  great  joy  of  his  new 
acquisition  to  his  family.  ******  I can- 
not say  that  I give  him  joy  of  his  life  as  a 
farmer.  ’Tis,  as  a farmer,  paying  a dear, 
unconscionable  rent,  a cursed  life ! As  to  a 
laird  farming  his  own  property ; sowing  his 
own  corn  in  hope ; and  reaping  it,  in  spite 
of  brittle  weather,  in  gladness;  knowing 
that  none  can  say  unto  him,  “ What  dost 
thou?” — fattening  his  herds;  shearing  his 
flocks ; rejoicing  at  Christmas ; and  beget- 
ting sons  and  daughters,  until  he  be  the 
venerated,  grey-haired  leader  of  a little  tribe 
. — ’tis  a heavenly  life ! but  devil  take  the  life 
of  reaping  the  fruits  that  another  must  eat. 

Well,  your  kind  wishes  will  be  gratified, 
as  to  seeing  me  when  I make  my  Ayrshire 
visit.  I can:;iot  leave  Mrs.  B.  until  her  nine 
months’  race  is  run,  which  may,  perhaps,  be 
in  three  or  four  weeks.  She,  too,  seems 
determined  to  make  me  the  patriarchal 


leader  of  a band.  However,  if  Heaven  will 
be  so  obliging  as  to  let  me  have  them  in  tlia 
proportion  of  three  boys  to  one  girl  I shall 
be  so  much  the  more  pleased.  I hope,  if  I 
am  spared  with  them,  to  show  a set  of  boys 
that  will  do  honour  to  my  cares  and  name  ; 
but  I am  not  equal  to  the  task  of  rearing 
girls.  Besides,  I am  too  poor— a girl  should 
always  have  a fortune.  A-propos,  your  little 
godson  is  thriving  charmingly,  but  is  a very 
devil.  He,  though  two  years  younger,  has 
completely  mastered  his  brother.  Robert  is 
indeed  the  mildest,  gentlest,  creature  I eve* 
saw.  He  has  a most  surprising  memory, 
and  is  quite  the  pride  of  his  schoolmaster. 

You  know  how  readily  we  get  into  prattle 
upon  a subject  dear  to  our  heart — you  can 
excuse  it.  Gbd  bless  you  and  yours  ! 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCXLI I. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I had  been  from  home,  and  did  not 
receive  your  letter  until  my  return  the  other 
day.  What  shall  I say  to  comfort  you,  my 
much-valued,  much-afflicted  friend ! I can 
but  grieve  with  you ; consolation  I have 
none  to  offer,  except  that  which  religion 
holds  out  to  the  children  of  affliction — ■ 
{children  of  affliction! — how  just  the  ex- 
pression !) — and  like  every  other  family, 
they  have  matters  among  them  which  they 
hear,  see,  and  feel  in  a serious,  all-important 
manner,  of  which  the  world  has  not,  nor 
cares  to  have,  any  idea.  The  world  looks 
indifferently  on,  makes  the  passing  remark, 
and  proceeds  to  the  next  novel  occurrence. 

Alas,  Madam  ! who  would  wish  for  many 
years  ? What  is  it  but  to  drag  existence 
until  our  joys  gradually  expire,  and  leave  us 
in  a night  of  misery — like  the  gloom  which 
blots  out  the  stars,  one  by  one,  from  the  face 
of  night,  and  leaves  us,  without  a ray  of 
comfort,  in  the  howling  waste  ! 

I am  interrupted,  and  must  leave  ofL 
You  shall  soon  hear  from  me  again. 

R,  B, 


NO.  CCXLIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Oct.  13 th,  1792, 

Dear  Sir — I received  with  much  saxis* 
faction  your  pleasant  and  obliging  letter  a uc^ 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


I ret  am  my  warmest  acknowledgments  for 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  you  have  entered 
into  our  undertaking.  We  have  now  no 
doubt  of  being  able  to  produce  a collection 
highly  deserving  of  public  attention  in  all 
respects. 

I agree  with  you  in  thinking  English 
verses,  that  have  merit,  very  eligible,  where- 
ever  new  verses  are  necessary,  because  the 
English  becomes  every  year,  more  and  more, 
the  language  of  Scotland ; but,  if  you  mean 
that  no  English  verses,  except  those  by 
Scottish  authors,  ought  to  be  admitted,  I am 
half  inclined  to  differ  from  you.  I should 
consider  it  unpardonable  to  sacrifice  one 
good  song  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  to  make 
room  for  English  verses;  but  if  we  can 
select  a few  excellent  ones  suited  to  the  un- 
provided or  ill-provided  airs,  would  it  not  be 
the  very  bigotry  of  literary  patriotism  to 
reject  such,  merely  because  the  authors 
were  born  south  of  the  Tweed  ? Our  sweet 
air,  “My  Nannie,  O ! ” which  in  the  collec- 
tions is  joined  to  the  poorest  stuff  that 
Allan  Ramsay  ever  wrote,  beginning — 
“ While  some  for  pleasure  pawn  their  health,” 
answers  so  finely  to  Dr.  Percy’s  beautiful 
song,  “Oh  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me?” 
that  one  would  think  he  wrote  it  on  purpose 
for  the  air.  However,  it  is  not  at  all  our 
wish  to  confine  you  to  English  verses  : you 
shall  freely  be  allowed  a sprinkling  of  your 
native  tongue,  as  you  elegantly  express  it ; 
and,  moreover,  we  will  patiently  wait  your 
own  time.  One  thing  only  I beg,  which  is, 
that  however  gay  and  sportive  the  muse  may 
be,  she  may  always  be  decent.  Let  her  not 
write  what  beauty  would  blush  to  speak,  nor 
wound  that  charming  delicacy  which  forms 
the  most  precious  dowry  of  our  daughters. 
I do  not  conceive  the  song  to  be  the  most 
proper  vehicle  for  witty  and  brilliant  con- 
ceits; simplicity,  I believe,  should  be  its 
prominent  feature : but,  in  some  of  our 
songs,  the  writers  have  confounded  simplicity 
with  coarseness  and  vulgarity;  although, 
between  the  one  and  the  other,  as  Dr.  Beattie 
well  observes,  there  is  as  great  a difference 
as  between  a plain  suit  of  clothes  and  a 
bundle  of  rags.  The  humorous  ballad,  or 
pathetic  complaint,  is  best  suited  to  our  art- 
less melodies  ; and  more  interesting,  indeed, 
in  all  songs,  than  the  most  pointed  wit, 
dazzling  descriptions,  and  flowery  fancies. 

With  these  trite  observations,  I send  you 
eleven  of  the  songs,  for  which  it  is  my  wish 
to  substitute  others  of  your  writing.  I shall 
soon  transmit  the  rest,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  a prospectus  of  the  whole  collection ; 
and,  you  may  believe,  we  will  receive  any 


hints  that  you  are  so  kind  as  to  give  fbr  im« 
proving  the  work,  with  the  greatest  pleasure 
and  thankfulness.  I remain,  dear  Sir,  &e, 


MO.  CCXLIV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON, 

My  Dear  Sir — Let  me  tell  you,  that 
you  are  too  fastidious  in  your  ideas  of 
songs  and  ballads,  I owm  that  your  criti- 
cisms are  just ; the  songs  you  specify  in 
your  list  have,  all  but  one,  the  faults  you 
remark  in  them;  but  who  shall  mend  the 
matter  ? Who  shall  rise  up  and  say,  “ Gc 
to ! I will  make  a better  ? ” For  instance, 
on  reading  over  “The  Lea-rig,”  I imme- 
diately set  about  trying  my  hand  on  it,  and, 
after  all,  I could  make  nothing  more  of  it 
than  the  following,  which  Heaven  knows,  is 
poor  enough. 

[Here  follow  the  two  first  stanzas  of  “My 
mn  kind  dearie  O ! ”] 

Your  observation  as  to  the  aptitude  of 
Dr.  Percy’s  ballad  to  the  air,  “ Nannie,  O ! ” 
is  just.  It  is  besides,  perhaps,  the  most 
beautiful  ballad  in  the  English  language. 
But  let  me  remark  to  you,  that  in  the  senti- 
ment and  style  of  our  Scottish  airs,  there  is 
a pastoral  simplicity,  a something  that  one 
may  call  the  Doric  style  and  dialect  of  vocal 
music,  to  which  a dash  of  our  native  tongue 
and  manners  is  particularly,  nay,  peculiarly 
apposite.  For  this  reason,  and,  upon  my 
honour,  for  this  reason  alone,  I am  of 
opinion  (but,  as  I told  you  before,  my 
opinion  is  yours,  freely  yours,  to  approve  or 
reject,  as  you  please)  that  my  ballad  of 
“ Nannie,  O ! ” might  perhaps  do  for  one  set 
of  verses  to  the  tune.  Now  don’t  let  it 
enter  into  your  head,  that  you  are  under  any 
necessity  of  taking  my  verses.  I have  long 
ago  made  up  my  mind  as  to  my  own  repu- 
tation in  the  business  of  authorship,  and 
have  nothing  to  be  pleased  or  offended  at,  in 
your  adoption  or  rejection  of  my  verses. 
Though  you  should  reject  one  half  of  what 
I give  you,  I shall  be  pleased  with  your 
adopting  the  other  half,  and  shall  continue 
to  serve  you  with  the  same  assiduity. 

In  the  printed  copy  of  my  “ Nannie,  O ! * 
the  name  of  the  river  is  horridly  prosaic.  1 
will  alter  it : * 

“ Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows.* 

Girvan  is  the  name  of  the  river  that  suits 


BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 


3S7 


the  idea  of  the  stanza  best  , but  Lugar  is 
the  most  agreeable  modulation  of  syllables. 

I will  soon  give  you  a great  many  more 
teinarks  on  this  business ; but  I have  just 
now  an  opportunity  of  conveying  you  this 
scrawl,  free  of  postage,  an  expense  that  it  is 
ill  able  to  pay ; so,  with  my  best  compliments 
to  honest  Allan,  Gude  be  wi’  ye,  &c. 

Friday  Night . 

Saturday  Morning . 

As  I find  I have  still  an  hour  to  spare  this 
morning  before  my  conveyance  goes  away,  I 
will  give  you  “ Nannie,  O ! ” at  length. 

Your  remarks  on  “ Ewe-bughts,  Marion,” 
are  just ; still  it  has  obtained  a place  among 
our  more  classical  Scottish  songs  ; and  what 
with  many  beauties  in  its  composition,  and 
more  prejudices  in  its  favour,  y a . will  not 
find  it  easy  to  supplant  it. 

In  my  very  early  years,  when  I was  think- 
ing of  going  to  the  West  Indies,  1 took  the 
following  farewell  of  a dear  girl,  it  is  quite 
trifling,  and  has  nothing  of  the  merits  of 
“ Ewe-bughts  ; ” but  it  will  fill  up  this  page. 
You  must  know  that  all  my  earlier  love- 
songs  were  the  breathings  of  arder  t passion, 
and  though  it  might  have  been  easy  in  after- 
times to  have  given  them  a polish,  yet  that 
polish,  to  me,  whose  they  were,  and  who 
perhaps  alone  cared  for  them,  would  have 
defaced  the  legend  of  my  heart,  which  was 
so  faithfully  inscribed  on  them.  Their  un- 
couth simplicity  was,  as  they  say  of  wines, 
their  race. 

[Here  follows  the  song  “ Will  ye  go  to  the 
Indies , my  Mary  ? ” Mr.  Thomson  did  not 
adopt  the  song  in  his  collection.'] 

“ Gala  Water,”  and  " Auld  Rob  Morris,” 
I think,  will  most  probably  be  the  next 
subject  of  my  musings.  However,  even  on 
my  verses,  speak  out  your  criticisms  with 
equal  frankness.  My  wish  is,  not  to  stand 
aloof,  the  uncomplying  bigot  of  opiniatrete, 
but  cordially  to  join  issue  with  you  in  the 
furtherance  of  the  work. 


NO.  CCXLV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

November  8th,  1792. 

* Ip  you  mean,  my  dear  Sir,  that  all  the 
songs  in  your  collection  shall  be  poetry  of 
the  first  merit,  I am  afraid  you  will  find 
more  difficulty  in  the  undertaking  than  you 
ire  aware  of.  There  is  a peculiar  rhythmus 


in  many  of  our  air3,  and  a necessity  of 
adapting  syllables  to  the  emphasis,  or  what 
I would  call  the  feature-notes  of  the  tune, 
that  cramp  the  poet,  and  lay  him  under 
almost  insuperable  difficulties.  For  instance, 
in  the  air,  “ My  wife’s  a wanton  wee  thing,” 
if  a few  lines  smooth  and  pretty  can  be 
adapted  to  it,  it  is  all  you  can  expect.  The 
following  were  made  extempore  to  it ; and 
though,  on  further  study,  I might  give  you 
something  more  profound,  yet  it  might  not 
suit  the  light-horse  gallop  of  the  air  so  well 
as  this  random  clink : — 

[Here  follows  uMy  Wife*s  a winsome  wee 
thing:1] 

I have  just  been  looking  over  the  "Collier’s 
bonnie  docbter and  if  the  following  rhap- 
sody, which  I composed  the  other  day,  on  a 
charming  Ayrshire  girl.  Miss  Lesley  Baillie, 
as  she  passed  through  this  place  to  England, 
will  suit  your  taste  better  than  the  “ Collier 
Lassie,”  fall  on  and  welcome : — 

[Here  follows  “ Bonnie  Lesley .”] 

I have  hitherto  deferred  the  sublimes 
more  pathetic  airs,  until  more  leisure,  as  they 
will  take,  and  deserve,  a greater  effort.  How- 
ever, they  are  all  put  into  youK  hands,  as 
clay  into  the  hands  of  the  potter,  to  make 
one  vessel  to  honour,  and  another  to  dis- 
honour. Farewell,  & c. 


NO.  CCXLVI. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

November  14tA,  1792. 

My  Dear  Sir — I agree  with  you  that 
the  song,  “Katharine  Ogie,”  is  very  poor 
stuff,  and  unworthy,  altogether  unworthy,  of 
so  beautiful  an  air.  I tried  to  mend  it;  but 
the  awkward  sound,  Ogie,  recurring  so  often 
in  the  rhyme,  spoils  every  attempt  at  intro- 
ducing sentiment  into  the  piece.  The  fore- 
going song  pleases  myself ; I think  it  is  in 
my  happiest  manner : you  will  see  at  first 
glance  that  it  suits  the  air.  The  subject  of 
the  song  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  pas- 
sages of  my  youthful  days,  and  I own  that 
I should  be  much  flattered  to  see  the  verses 
set  to  an  air  which  would  ensure  celerity. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  ’tis  the  still  glowing  pre- 
judice of  my  heart  that  throws  a borrowed 
lustre  over  the  merits  of  the  composition. 

I have  partly  taken  your  idea  of  “Auld 
Rob  Morris.”  I have  adopted  the  two  first 


34* 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


verses,  and  am  going  on  with  the  song  on  a 
new  plan,  which  promises  pretty  well.  I 
take  up  one  or  another,  just  as  the.  bee  of 
the  moment  buzzes  in  my  bonnet-lug ; and 
do  you,  sans  ceremonie,  make  what  use  you 
choose  of  the  productions.  Adieu,  &c. 

R.  B. 

[Here  follows  a copy  of  the  “Highland 
Mary.”] 


NO.  CCXLVIL 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Nov.  1792. 

Dear  Sir — I was  just  going  to  write  to 
you,  that  on  meeting  with  your  Nannie,  I 
had  fallen  violently  in  love  with  her.  I thank 
you,  therefore,  for  sending  the  charming 
rustic  to  me,  in  the  dress  you  wish  her  to 
appear  before  the  public.  She  does  you 
great  credit,  and  will  soon  be  admitted  into 
the  best  company. 

I regret  that  your  song  for  the  “ Lea-rig  ” 
is  so  short ; the  air  is  easy,  soon  sung,  and 
very  pleasing : so  that,  if  the  singer  stops  at 
the  end  of  two  stanzas,  it  is  a pleasure  lost 
ere  it  is  well  possessed. 

Although  a dash  of  our  native  tongue  and 
manners  is,  doubtless,  peculiarly  congenial 
and  appropriate  to  our  melodies,  yet  I shall 
be  able  to  present  a considerable  number  of 
the  very  Flowers  of  English  song,  well 
adapted  to  those  melodies,  which,  in  England, 
at  least,  will  be  the  means  of  recommending 
them  to  still  greater  attention  than  they 
have  procured  there.  But,  you  will  observe, 
my  plan  is,  that  every  air  shall,  in  the  first 
place,  have  verses  wholly  by  Scottish  poets  ; 
and  that  those  of  Eisglish  writers  shall  follow 
as  additional  songs  for  the  choice  of  the 
singer. 

What  you  say  of  the  “Ewe-bughts”  is 
just ; I admire  it,  and  never  meant  to  sup- 
plant it.  All  I requested  was,  that  you 
would  try  your  hand  on  some  of  the  inferior 
stanzas,  which  are  apparently  no  part  of  the 
original  song;  but  this  I do  not  urge,  because 
the  song  is  of  sufficient  length,  though  those 
inferior  stanzas  be  omitted,  as  they  will  be 
by  the  singer  of  taste.  You  must  not  think 
I expect  all  tl  e songs  to  be  of  superlative 
merit;  that  were  an  unreasonable  expecta- 
tion. I am  sensible  that  no  poet  can  sit 
down  doggedly  to  pen  verse r,  and  succeed 
well  at  all  tiir.es. 


I am  highly  pleased  w.'.th  your  humoroua 
and  amorous  rhapsody  on  “Bonnie  Lesley 
it  is  a thousand  times  better  than  the 
“ Collier’s  Lassie.”  “ The  Deil  he  con’d  na 
scaith  thee,”  &c.,  is  an  eccentric  and  happy 
thought.  Do  you  not  think,  however,  that 
the  names  of  such  old  heroes  as  Alexander 
sound  rather  queer,  unless  in  pompous  or 
mere  burlesque  verse  ? Instead  of  the  line, 
“And  never  made  anither,”  I would  humbly 
suggest,  “And  ne’er  made  sic  anither;”  and 
I would  fain  have  you  substitute  some  other 
line  for  “ Return  to  Caledonie,”  in  the  last 
verse,  because  I think  this  alteration  of  the 
orthography,  and  of  the  sound  of  Caledonia, 
disfigures  the  word,  and  renders  it  Hudi- 
brastic. 

Of  the  other  song,  “ My  wife’s  a winsome 
wee  thing,”  I think  the  first  eight  lines  very 
good  ; but  I do  not  admire  the  other  eight, 
because  four  of  them  are  a bare  repetition  of 
the  first  verses.  I have  been  trying  to  spin 
a stanza,  but  could  make  nothing  better  than 
the  following:  do  you  mend  it,  or,  as  Yorick 
did  with  the  love  letter,  whip  it  up  in  your 
own  way : — 

Oh  leeze  me  on  my  wee  thing, 

My  bonnie  blythesome,  wee  thing; 

Sae  lang’s  I hae  my  wee  thing. 

I’ll  think  my  lot  divine. 

Tho’  warld’s  care  we  share  o’t. 

And  may  see  meikle  mair  o’t, 

Wi’  her  I’ll  blythely  bear  it. 

And  ne’er  a word  repine. 

You  perceive,  my  dear  Sir,  I avail  myself 
of  the  liberty,  which  you  condescend  to  allow 
me,  by  speaking  freely  what  I think.  Be 
assured,  it  is  not  my  disposition  to  pick  out 
the  faults  of  any  poem  or  picture  I see : my 
first  and  chief  object  is  to  discover  and  be 
delighted  with  the  beauties  of  the  piece.  If 
I sit  down  to  examine  critically,  and  at  leisure, 
what,  perhaps,  you  have  written  in  haste,  I 
may  happen  to  observe  careless  lines,  the 
reperusal  of  which  might  lead  you  to  improve 
them.  The  wren  will  often  see  what  has 
been  overlooked  by  the  eagle.  I remain 
yours  faithfully,  &c. 

P.  S.  Your  verses  upon  “ Highland  Mary" 
are  just  come  to  hand:  they  breathe  the 
genuine  spirit  of  poetry,  and,  like  the  music, 
will  last  for  ever.  Such  verses,  united  to 
such  an  air,  with  the  delicate  harmony  of 
Tleyel  superadded,  might  form  a treat  worthy 
of  being  presented  to  Apollo  himself.  I have 
heard  the  sad  story  of  your  Mary;  you 
always  seem  inspired  when  you  write  of 
her.  * 


TO  HRS.  DUNLOP. 


NO.  CCXLVIZl 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Dumfries,  Dec.  1st,  1792. 

Tour  alterations  of  my  “ Nannie,  O !” 
are  perfectly  right.  So  are  those  of  “ My 
Wife’s  a winsome  wee  thing.”  Your  alter- 
ation of  the  second  stanza  is  a positive 
improvement.  Now,  my  dear  Sir,  with  the 
freedom  which  characterises  our  correspond- 
ence, I must  not,  cannot  alter  “ Bonnie 
Lesley.”  You  are  right ; the  word  “Alex- 
ander” makes  the  line  a little  uncouth,  but  I 
think  the  thought  is  pretty.  Of  Alexander, 
beyond  all  other  heroes,  it  may  be  said,  in 
the  sublime  language  of  Scripture,  that  " he 
went  forth  conquering  and  to  conquer.” 

For  nature  made  her  what  she  is. 

And  never  made  anither.  ('Such  a person  aa 
she  is.) 

This  is,  in  my  opinion,  more  poetical  than 
"Ne’er  made  sic  anither.”  However,  it  is 
immaterial : make  it  either  way.  “Caledonie,” 
I agree  with  you,  is  not  so  good  a word  as 
could  be  wished,  though  it  is  sanctioned  in 
three  or  four  instances  by  Allan  Ramsay ; 
but  I cannot  help  it.  In  short,  that  species 
of  stanza  is  the  most  difficult  that  1 have 
ever  tried. 

The  “ Lea-rig”  is  as  follows : — 

[Here  the  poet  repeats  the  first  two  stanzas , 
adding  a thirds 

I am  interrupted.  Yours,  &c. 


NO.  CCXLIX. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

December  4 th,  1792. 

The  foregoing  [“Auld  Rob  Morris ’’and 
* Duncan  Gray,”]  I submit,  my  dear  Sir,  to 
your  better  judgment.  Acquit  them,  or  con- 
demn them,  as  seemeth  good  in  your  sight. 
" Duncan  Gray  ” is  that  kind  of  light-horse 
gallop  of  an  air,  which  precludes  sentiment. 
The  ludicrous  is  its  ruling  feature. 


NO.  CCL. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Dumfries , Dec.  6th,  1792. 

I shall  be  in  Ayrshire,  I think,  next 
week ; and,  if  at  all  possible,  I shall  certainly. 


5S? 

my  much-esteemed  friend,  have  tlhj  pleasure 
of  visiting  at  Dunlop-house. 

Alas,  Madam ! how  seldom  do  we  meet  in 
this  world,  that  we  have  reason  to  congratu- 
late ourselves. on  accessions  of  happiness  ! I 
have  not  passed  half  the  ordinary  term  of 
an  old  man’s  life,  and  yet  I scarcely  look 
over  the  obituary  of  a newspaper,  that  I do 
not  see  some  names  that  I have  known,  and 
which  I,  and  other  acquaintances,  little 
thought  to  meet  with  there  so  soon.  Every 
other  instance  of  the  mortality  of  our  kind, 
makes  us  cast  an  anxious  look  into  the 
dreadful  abyss  of  uncertainty,  and  shudder 
with  apprehension  for  our  own  fate.  But  of 
how  different  an  importance  are  the  lives  of 
different  individuals  ! Nay,  of  what  im- 
portance is  one  period  of  the  same  life  more 
than  another?  A few  years  ago  I could 
have  lain  down  in  the  dust,  “ careless  of  the 
voice  of  the  morning ; ” and  now  not  a few, 
and  these  most  helpless  individuals,  would, 
on  losing  me  and  my  exertions,  lose  both 
their  “ staff  and  shield.”  By  the  way,  these 
helpless  ones  have  lately  got  an  addition ; 
Mrs.  B.  having  given  me  a fine  girl  since  I 
wrote  you.  There  is  a charming  passage  in 
Thomson’s  “ Edward  and  Eleanora : ” — 

“ The  valiant,  in  himself  what  can  he  suffer? 
Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes  ? ” & c. 

As  I am  got  in  the  way  of  quotations,  I 
shall  give  you  another  from  the  same  piece, 
peculiarly — alas  1 too  peculiarly — apposite, 
my  dear  Madam,  to  your  present  frame  of 
mind : — ■ 

“ Who  so  unworthy  but  may  proudly  deck 
him 

With  his  fair-weather  virtue,  that  exults 
Glad  o’er  the  summer  main  ? The  tempest 
comes,  [the  helm 

The  rough  winds  rage  aloud;  when  from 
This  virtue  shrinks,  and  in  a corner  lies 
Lamenting.  Heavens!  if  privileged  from 
trial, 

How  cheap  a thing  were  virtue  ! ” 

I do  not  remember  to  have  heard  you 
mention  Thomson’s  dramas.  I pick  up 
favourite  quotations,  and  store  them  in  my 
mind  as  ready  armour,  offensive  or  defensive, 
amid  the  struggle  of  this  turbulent  exist* 
ence.  Of  these  is  one,  a very  favourite  on% 
from  his  “ Alfred — 

u Attach  thee  firmly  to  the  virtuous  deed* 
And  offices  of  life ; to  life  itself, 

With  all  its  vain  and  transient  joys,  sit  loose 

Probably  I have  quoted  some  of  these  t* 
you  formei  ly,  as  indeed,  when  I write 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


the  heart,  I am  apt  to  be  guilty  of  such  re- 
petitions. The  compas  s of  the  heart,  in  the 
musical  style  of  expression,  is  much  more 
bounded  than  that  of  the  imagination,  so 
the  notes  of  the  former  are  extremely  apt 
to  run  into  one  another ; but  in  return  for 
the  paucity  of  its  compass,  its  few  notes  are 
much  more  sweet.  I must  still  give  you 
another  quotation,  which  I am  almost  sure 
I have  given  you  before,  but  I cannot  resist 
the  temptation.  The  subject  is  religion — 
speaking  of  its  importance  to  mankind,  the 
author  says : — 

"Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning 
bright. 

I see  you  are  in  for  double  postage,  so  I 
shall  e’en  scribble  out  t’other  sheet.  We  in 
this  country  here,  have  many  alarms  of  the 
reforming,  or  rather  the  republican  spirit,  of 
your  part  of  the  kingdom.  Indeed,  we  are  a 
good  deal  in  commotion  ourselves.  For  me, 
I am  a placeman,  you  know  ; a very  humble 
one,  indeed.  Heaven  knows,  but  still  so 
much  as  to  gag  me.  What  my  private  sen- 
timents are,  you  will  find  out  without  an 
interpreter. 

I have  taken  up  the  subject,  and  the  other 
day,  for  a pretty  actress’s  benefit  night,  I 
wrote  an  address,  which  I will  give  on  the 
other  page,  called  “ The  Rights  of  Woman.” 

I shall  have  the  honour  of  receiving  your 
criticisms  in  person  at  Dunlop.  R.  B. 


NO  OCLI. 

TO  R.  GRAHAM,  ESQ.,  FINTRY. 

December,  1792. 

Sir — I have  been  surprised,  confounded, 
and  distracted,  by  Mr.  Mitchell,  the  col- 
lector, telling  me  that  he  has  received  an 
order  from  your  Board  (137)  to  inquire  into 
my  political  conduct,  and  blaming  me  as  a 
person  disaffected  to  government. 

Sir,  ycu  are  a husband,  and  a father.  You 
know  what  you  would  feel,  to  see  the  much- 
loved wife  of  your  bosom,  and  your  helpless, 
prattling  little  ones,  turned  adrift  into  the 
world,  degraded  and  disgraced  from  a situa- 
tion in  which  they  had  been  respectable  and 
respected,  and  left  almost  without  the  neces- 
sary support  of  a miserable  existence.  Alas, 
Sir  ! must  I think  that  such  soon  will  be  my 

lot ! and  from  the  d , dark  insinuations 

of  hellish  groundless  envy  too ! 1 believe. 

Sir,  I may  aver  it,  and  in  the  sight  of  Omni- 
science, that  I would  not  tell  a deliberate 


falsehood,  no,  not  though  even  worse  hor« 
rors,  if  worse  can  be,  than  those  I have 
mentioned,  hung  over  my  head  ; and  I say, 
that  the  allegation,  whatever  villain  has 
made  it,  is  a lie  ! To  the  British  Constitu- 
tion, on  revolution  principles,  next  after  ray 
God,  I am  most  devoutly  attached.  You, 
Sir,  have  been  much  and  generously  my 
friend ; Heaven  knows  how  warmly  I have 
felt  the  obligation,  and  how  gratefully  I 
have  thanked  you.  Fortune,  Sir,  has  made 
you  powerful,  and  me  impotent — has  given 
you  patronage,  and  me  dependence.  I would 
not,  for  my  single  self,  call  on  your  hu- 
manity ; were  such  my  insular,  unconnected 
situation,  I would  despise  the  tear  that  now 
swells  in  my  eye — I could  brave  misfortune, 
I could  face  ruin,  for,  at  the  worst,  * Death’s 
thousand  doors  stand  open ; ” but,  good 
God  ! the  tender  concerns  that  I have  men- 
tioned, the  claims  and  ties  that  I see  at  this 
moment,  and  feel  around  me,  how  they  un- 
nerve courage  and  wither  resolution  ! To 
your  patrqnage,  as  a man  of  some  genius, 
you  have  allowed  me  a claim;  and  your 
esteem,  as  an  honest  man,  I know  is  my  due. 
To  these.  Sir,  permit  me  to  appeal ; by  these 
may  I adjure  you  to  save  me  from  that 
misery  which  threatens  to  overwhelm  me, 
and  which,  with  my  latest  breath  I will  say 
it,  I have  not  deserved.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCLII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Dumfries,  December  31st,  1792. 

Dear  Madam — A hurry  of  business, 
thrown  in  heaps  by  my  absence,  has  until 
now,  prevented  my  returning  my  grateful 
acknowledgments  to  the  good  family  of 
Dunlop,  and  you,  in  particular,  for  that  hos- 
pitable kindness  which  rendered  the  four 
days  I spent  under  that  genial  roof,  four  of 
the  pleasantest  I ever  enjoyed.  Alas,  my 
dearest  friend!  how  few  and  fleeting  are 
those  things  we  call  pleasures ! — on  my  road 
to  Ayrshire,  I spent  a night  with  a friend 
whom  I much  valued,  a man  whose  days 
promised  to  be  many  ; and  on  Saturday  las* 
we  laid  him  in  the  dust ! 

January  2nd,  1792. 

I have  just  received  yours  of  the  30th, 
and  feel  much  for  your  situation.  However, 
I heartily  rejoice  in  your  prospect  of  reco- 
very from  that  vile  jaundice.  As  to  myself 
I am  better,  though  not  quite  free  of  my 


TO  MR.  THOMSON. 


m 


iomp  taint.  Yoi  imi9t  not  think,  as  you 
«eem  to  insinuate,  that  in  my  way  of  life  I 
want  exercise.  Of  that  I have  enough  ; but 
occasional  hard  drinking  is  the  devil  to  me. 
Against  this  I have  again  and  again  bent  my 
resolution,  and  have  greatly  succeeded. 
Taverns  I have  totally  abandoned  : it  is  the 
private  parties,  in  the  family  way,  among  the 
hard-drinking  gentlemen  of  this  country, 
that  do  me  the  mischief — but  even  this,  I 
have  more  than  half  given  over.  (138) 

Mr.  Corbet  can  be  of  little  service  to  me 
ftt  present ; at  least  I should  be  shy  of  ap- 
plying. I cannot  possibly  be  settled  as  a 
supervisor  for  several  years.  I must  wait 
the  rotation  of  the  list,  and  there  are  twenty 
names  before  mine.  I might,  indeed,  get  a 
Job  of  officiating,  where  a settled  supervisor 
*ras  ill,  or  aged ; but  that  hauls  me  from  my 
&mily,  as  I could  not  remove  them  on  such 
ro  uncertainty.  Besides,  some  envious,  ma- 
licious devil,  has  raised  a little  demur  on  my 
political  principles,  and  I wish  to  let  that 
matter  settle  before  I offer  myself  too  much 
in  the  eye  of  my  supervisors.  I have  set, 
henceforth,  a seal  on  my  lips,  as  to  these 
unlucky  politics ; but  to  you,  I must  breathe 
my  sentiments.  In  this,  as  in  everything 
else,  I shall  show  the  undisguised  emotions 
of  my  tcul.  War  I deprecate  : misery  and 
ruin  to  thousands  are  in  the  blast  that 
announces  the  destructive  demon.  * * 

R.B. 


NO.  CCLIII. 

TO  THE  SAME.  (139) 

January  5tk,  1793. 

You  see  ray  hurried  life,  Madam;  I can 
only  command  starts  of  time:  however,  I 
am  glad  off  one  thing ; since  I finished  the 
other  shtfet,  the  political  blast  that  threat- 
ened my  welfare  is  overblown.  I have  cor- 
responded with  Commissioner  Graham,  for 
the  board  had  made  me  the  subject  of  their 
animadversions;  and  now  I have  the  plea- 
sure of  informing  you,  that  all  is  set  to 
rights  in  that  quarter.  Now,  as*  to  these 

informers,  may  tbe  devil  be  let  loose  to 

But,  hold  ! I was  praying  most  fervently  in 
my  last  sheet,  and  I must  not  so  soon  fall 
6-swearing  in  this. 

Alas ! how  little  do  the  wantonly  or  idly 
officious  think  what  mischief  they  do  by 
their  malicious  insinuations,  indirect  imper- 
tinence, or  thoughtless  blabbing*.  What  a 


difference  there  Ls  in  Intrinsic  worth,  can- 
dour, benevolence,  generosity,  kindness — in 
all  the  chanties  and  all  the  virtues — between 
one  class  of  human  beings  and  another.  For 
instance,  the  amiable  circle  I so  lately  mixed 
with  in  the  hospitable  hall  of  Dunlop,  their 
generous  hearts,  their  uncontaminated  dig- 
nified minds,  their  informed  and  polshed 
understandings — what  a contrast,  when 
compared — if  such  comparing  were  not 
downright  sacrilege — with  the  soul  of  the 
miscreant  who  can  deliberately  plot  the 
destruction  of  an  honest  man  that  never 
offended  him,  and  with  a grin  of  satisfaction 
see  the  unfortunate  being,  his  faithful  wife, 
and  prattling  innocents,  turned  over  to 
beggary  and  ruin ! 

Your  cup,  my  dear  Madam,  arrived  safe. 
I had  two  worthy  fellows  dining  with  me  the 
other  day,  when  I,  with  great  formality,  pro- 
duced my  whigmaleerie  cup,  and  told  them 
that  it  had  been  a family-piece  among  the 
descendants  of  William  Wallace.  This 
roused  such  an  enthusiasm,  that  they  in- 
sisted on  bumpering  the  punch  round  in  it ; 
and  by  and  bye,  never  did  your  great 
ancestor  lay  a suthron  more  completely  to 
rest,  than  for  a time  did  your  cup  my  two 
friends.  A-propos,  this  is  the  season  of 
wishing.  May  God  bless  you,  my  dear 
friend,  and  bless  me,  the  humblest  and 
sincerest  of  your  friends,  by  granting  you 
yet  many  returns  of  the  season ! May  all 
good  things  attend  you  and  yours,  wherever 
they  are  scattered  over  the  earth  1 R.  B. 


NO.  CCLIV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON.  (140) 
January , 1793. 

Many  returns  of  the  season  to  you,  my 
dear  Sir.  How  comes  on  your  publication  ? 
— will  these  two  foregoing  be  of  any  service 
to  you  ? I should  like  to  know  what  songs 
you  print  to  each  tune,  besides  the  verses  to 
which  it  is  set.  In  short,  I would  wish  to 
give  you  my  opinion  on  all  the  poetry  yoi; 
publish.  You  know  it  is  my  trade,  and  a 
man  in  the  way  of  his  trade  may  suggest 
useful  hints  that  escape  men  of  much  supe- 
rior parts  and  endowments  in  other  things. 

If  you  meet  with  my  dear  and  much- 
valued Cunningham,  greet  him,  in  my  name^ 
with  the  compliments  of  the  season.  Your% 
&c. 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


NO.  CCLV. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  January  20 th,  1793. 

You  make  me  happy,  my  dear  Sir,  and 
thousands  will  be  happy,  to  see  the  charming 
songs  you  have  sent  me.  Many  merry 
returns  of  the  season  to  you,  and  may  you 
long  continue  among  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  Caledonia,  to  delight  them  and  to  honour 
yourself. 

The  four  last  songs  with  which  you 
favoured  me,  “Auld  Rob  Morris,”  “Dun- 
can Gray/’  “Gala  Water,”  and  “Cauld 
Kail,”  are  admirable.  Duncan  is  indeed  a 
lad  of  grace,  and  his  humour  will  endear 
him  to  every  body. 

The  distracted  lover  in  “Auld  Rob,”  and 
the  happy  shepherdess  in  “ Gala  Water,” 
exhibit  an  excellent  contrast : they  speak 
from  genuine  feeling,  and  powerfully  touch 
the  heart. 

The  number  of  songs  which  I had  origi- 
nally in  view  was  limited,  but  I now  resolve 
to  include  every  Scotch  air  and  song  worth 
singing;  leaving  none  behind  but  mere 
gleanings,  to  which  the  publishers  of  omnium - 
gatherum  are  welcome.  I would  rather  be 
the  editor  of  a collection  from  which  nothing 
could  be  taken  away,  than  of  one  to  which 
nothing  could  be  added.  We  intend  pre- 
senting the  subscribers  with  two  beautiful 
stroke  engravings,  the  one  characteristic  of 
the  plaintive,  and  the  other  of  the  lively 
songs ; and  I have  Dr.  Beattie’s  promise  of 
an  essay  upon  the  subject  of  our  national 
music,  if  his  health  will  permit  him  to  write 
it.  As  a number  of  our  songs  have  doubt- 
less been  called  forth  by  particular  events, 
or  by  the  charms  of  peerless  damsels,  there 
must  be  many  curious  anecdotes  relating  to 
them. 

The  late  Mr.  Tytler  of  Woodhouselee,  I 
believe,  knew  more  of  this  than  any  body ; 
for  he  joined  to  the  pursuits  of  an  antiquary 
a taste  for  poetry,  besides  being  a man  of 
the  wrorld,  and  possessing  an  enthusiasm  for 
music  beyond  most  of  his  contemporaries. 
He  was  quite  pleased  with  this  plan  of  mine, 
for  I may  say  it  has  been  solely  managed  by 
me,  and  we  had  several  long  conversations 
about  it  when  it  was  in  embryo.  If  I could 
simply  mention  the  name  of  the  heroine  of 
each  song,  and  the  incident  which  occasioned 
the  verses,  it  would  be  gratifying.  Pray, 
will  you  serd  me  any  information  of  this 
sort,  as  well  with  regard  to  your  own  songs 
as  the  old  ones  ? 

To  all  the  favourite  songs  of  the  plaintive  I 


or  pastoral  kind,  will  be  joined  the  delicate 
accompaniments,  &c.,  of  Pleyel.  To  those 
of  the  comic  and  humorous  class,  I think 
accompaniments  scarcely  necessary ; they 
are  chiefly  fitted  for  the  conviviality  of  the 
festive  board,  and  a tuneful  voice,  with  a 
proper  delivery  of  the  words,  renders  them 
perfect.  Nevertheless,  to  these  I propose 
adding  bass  accompaniments,  because  then 
they  are  fitted  either  for  singing,  or  for 
instrumental  performance,  when  there  hap- 
pens to  be  no  singer.  I mean  to  employ 
our  right  trusty  friend  Mr.  Clarke,  to  set  the 
bass  to  these,  which  he  assures  me  he  will 
do  con  amore,  and  with  much  greater  atten- 
tion than  he  ever  bestowed  on  any  thing  of 
the  kind.  But  for  this  last  class  of  airs  I 
will  not  attempt  to  find  more  than  one  set 
of  verses. 

That  eccentric  bard,  Peter  Pindar,  has 
started  I know  not  how  many  difficulties 
about  writing  for  the  airs  I sent  to  him, 
because  of  the  peculiarity  of  their  measure, 
and  the  trammels  they  oppose  on  his  flying 
Pegasus.  I subjoin,  for  your  perusal,  the 
only  one  I have  yet  got  from  him,  being  for 
the  fine  air,  “ Lord  Gregory.”  The  Scots 
verses  printed  with  that  air  are  taken  from 
the  middle  of  an  old  ballad,  called  “The 
Lass  of  Lochroyan,”  which  I do  not  admire. 
I have  set  down  the  air,  therefore,  as  a 
creditor  of  yours.  Many  of  the  Jacobite 
songs  are  replete  with  wit  and  humour — ■ 
might  not  the  best  of  these  be  included  in 
our  volume  of  comic  songs  ? 

POSTSCRIPT. 

PROM  THE  HON.  ANDREW  ERSKINE.  (141) 

Mr.  Thomson  has  been  so  obliging  as  to 
give  me  a perusal  of  your  songs.  “ High- 
land Mary”  is  most  enchantingly  pathetic, 
and  “ Duncan  Gray”  possesses  native  genuine 
humour — “ Spak  o’  lowpin’  o’er  a linn,”  is  a 
line  of  itself  that  should  make  you  immortal. 
I sometimes  hear  of  you  from  our  mutual 
friend  Cunningham,  who  is  a most  excellent 
fellow,  and  possesses,  above  all  men  I know, 
the  charm  of  a most  obliging  disposition. 
You  kindly  promised  me,  about  a year  agoy 
a collection  of  your  unpublished  production^ 
religious  and  amorous.  I know,  from  expe- 
rience, how  irksome  it  is  to  copy.  If  you 
will  get  any  trusty  person  in  Dumfries  to 
write  them  over  fair,  I will  give  Peter  Hill 
whatever  money  he  asks  for  his  trouble,  and 
I certainly  shall  not  betray  your  confidences 
I am  your  hearty  admirer, 

I Andrew  Erskinb. 


TO  CLARINDA. 


333 


NO.  JCLVI. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

January  26th,  1793. 

I approve  greatly,  my  dear  Sir,  of  your 
plan, 5.  Dr.  Beattie’s  essay  will,  of  itself,  be 
a treasure.  On  my  part  I mean  to  draw  up 
an  appendix  to  the  Doctor’s  essay,  con- 
taining my  stock  of  anecdotes,  &c.,  of  our 
Scots  songs.  All  the  late  Mr.  Tytler’s 
anecdotes  I have  by  me,  taken  down  in  the 
course  of  my  acquaintance  with  him,  from 
his  own  mouth.  I am  such  an  enthusiast, 
that  in  the  course  of  my  several  peregrina- 
tions through  Scotland,  I made  a pilgrimage 
to  the  individual  spot  from  wrhich  every  song 
took  its  rise,  “Lochaber,”  and  the  “ Braes  of 
Ballenden,”  excepted.  So  far  as  the  locality, 
either  from  the  title  of  the  air,  or  the  tenor 
of  the  song,  could  be  ascertained,  I have 
paid  my  devotions  at  the  particular  shrine 
of  every  Scots  muse. 

I do  not  doubt  but  you  might  make  a 
very  valuable  collection  of  Jacobite  songs; 
but  would  it  give  no  offence  ? In  the  mean- 
time, do  not  you  think  that  some  of  them, 
particularly  “ The  sow’s  tail  to  Geordie,”  as 
an  air,  with  other  words,  might  be  well  worth 
a place  in  your  collection  of  lively  songs  ? 

If  it  were  possible  to  procure  songs  of 
merit,  it  would  be  proper  to  have  one  set  of 
Scots  words  to  every  air,  and  that  the  set  of 
words  to  which  the  notes  ought  to  be  set. 
There  is  a naivete,  a pastoral  simplicity,  in  a 
slight  intermixture  of  Scots  words  and 
phraseology,  which  is  more  in  unison  (at 
least  to  my  taste,  and,  I will  add,  to  every 
genuine  Caledonian  taste)  with  the  simple 
pathos,  or  rustic  sprightliness  of  our  native 
music,  than  any  English  verses  whatever. 

The  very  name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  an 
acquisition  to  your  work.  (142)  His  w Gre- 
gory” is  beautiful.  I have  tried  to  give  you 
a set  of  stanzas  in  Scotch,  on  the  same 
subject,  which  are  at  your  service.  Not 
that  I intend  to  enter  the  lists  with  Peter — 
that  would  be  presumption  indeed.  My 
song,  though  much  inferior  in  poetic  merit, 
has,  I think,  more  of  the  ballad  simplicity 
in  it.  (143) 

[ Here  follows  “ Lord  Gregory”'} 


NO.  CCLVII. 

TO  CLARINDA.  (144) 

1793 

Before  you  ask  me  why  I have  not 
fintten  you,  first  let  me  be  informed  of  you 


how  I shall  write  you?  “ In  ft  .end  ship,** 

you  say ; and  I have  many  a time  taken  up 
my  pen  to  try  an  epistle  of  friendship  to 
vou:  but  it  will  not  do:  * tis  like  Jove 
grasping  a pop-gun,  after  having  wielded 
his  thunder.  When  I take  up  the  pen, 
recollection  ruins  me.  Ah  ! my  ever 
dearest  Clarinda!  Clarinda! — what  a host 
of  memory’s  tenderest  offspring,  crowd  on 
my  fancy  at  that  sound ! But  I must 
indulge  that  subject— you  have  forbid  it. 

I am  extremely  happy  to  learn  that  your 
precious  health  is  re-established,  and  that 
you  are  once  more  fit  to  enjoy  that  satisfac- 
tion in  existence,  which  health  alone  can 
give  us.  My  old  friend  has  indeed  been 
kind  to  you.  Tell  him,  that  I envy  him  the 
power  of  serving  you.  I had  a letter  from 
him  a while  ago,  but  it  was  so  dry,  so 
distant,  so  like  a card  to  one  of  his  clients, 
that  I could  scarcely  bear  to  read  it,  and 
have  not  yet  answered  it.  He  is  a good 
honest  fellow ; and  can  write  a friendly 
letter,  which  would  do  equal  honour  to  his 
head,  and  his  heart ; as  a whole  sheaf  of 
his  letters  I have  by  me  will  witness  : and 
though  Fame  does  not  blow  her  trumpet  at 
my  approach  now , as  she  did  then,  when  he 
first  honoured  me  with  his  friendship,  yet  I 
am  ‘as  proud  as  ever ; and  when  I am  laid 
in  my  grave,  I wish  to  be  stretched  at  my 
full  length,  that  I may  occupy  every  inch  of 
ground  which  I have  a right  to. 

You  would  laugh  were  you  to  see  me 
where  I am  just  now ! — would  to  heaven 
you  were  here  to  laugh  with  me ! though 
I am  afraid  that  crying  would  be  our  first 
employment.  Here  am  1 set,  a solitary 
hermit,  in  the  solitary  room  of  a solitary 
inn,  with  a solitary  bottle  of  wine  by  me^ 
as  grave  and  as  stupid  as  an  owl,  but,  like 
that  owl,  still  faithful  to  my  old  song.  In 
confirmation  of  which,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mack, 
here  is  your  good  health ! may  the  hand- 
waled  benisone  o’  Heaven  bless  your  bonnie 
face ; and  tho  wretch  wha  skelhes  at  your 
welfare,  may  the  auld  tinkler  deil  get  him  to 
clout  his  rotten  heart ! Amen. 

You  must;  know,  my  dearest  Madam,  that 
these  now  many  years,  wherever  I am,  in 
whatever  company,  when  a married  lady  is 
called  on  as  a toast,  I constantly  give  you ; 
but  as  your  name  has  never  passed  my  lips, 
even  to  my  most  intimate  friend,  I give  you 
by  the  name  of  Mrs.  Mack.  This  is  so  well 
known  among  my  acquaintances,  that  .when 
my  married  lady  is  called  for,  the  toast- 
master will  say — - “ O,  we  need  not  ask  him 
who  it  is—  here’s  Mrs.  Mack ! ” I have 
also,  among  my  convivial  friends,  set  on 


894 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


foot  a round  of  toasts,  which  I call  a 
round  of  Arcadian  Shepherdesses ; that  is, 
a round  of  favourite  ladies,  under  female 
names  celebrated  in  ancient  songs ; and 
then,  you  are  my  Clarinda.  So,  my  lovelj 
Clarinda,  I devote  this  glass  of  wine  to  a 
most  ardent  wish  for  your  happiness  l 

In  vain  would  Prudence,  with  decorous  sneer, 
Point  out  a cens’ring  world,  and  bid  me  fear; 
Above  that  world  on  wings  of  love  I rise., 

I know  its  worst,  and  can  that  worst  despise. 
u Wrong’d,  injur’d,  shunn’d,  unpitied,  un- 
redrest. 

The  mock’d  quotation  of  the  scorner’s  jest,” 
Let  Prudence’  direst  bodements  on  me  fall, 
Clarinda,  rich  reward!  o’erpays  them  all ! (145) 

I have  been  rhyming  a little  of  late,  but 
I do  not  know  if  they  are  worth  postage. — 
Tell  me.  * * * • 

• • * Sylvan  der. 


NO.  CCLVIII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

March  3rd,  1793. 

Since  I wrote  to  you  the  last  lugubrious 
sheet,  I have  not  had  time  to  write  you 
farther.  When  I say  that  I had  not  time, 
that,  as  usual,  means,  that  the  three  demons, 
indolence,  business  and  ennui,  have  so 
completely  shared  my  hours  among  them,  as 
not  to  leave  me  a five  minutes’  fragment  to 
take  up  a pen  in. 

Thank  Heaven,  I feel  my  spirits  buoying 
upwards  with  the  renovating  year.  Now, 

I shall  in  good  earnest  take  up  Thomson’s 
songs.  I dare  say  he  thinks  I have  used 
him  unkindly ; and,  I must  own,  with  too 
much  appearance  of  truth.  A-propos,  do 
you  know  the  much-admired  old  Highland 
air  called  “ The  Sutor’s  Dochter  ? ” It  is  a 
first-rate  favourite  of  mine,  and  I have 
written  what  I reckon  one  of  my  best 
songs  to  it.  I will  send  it  to  you  as  it  was 
sung,  with  great  applause,  in  some  fashion- 
able circles,  by  Major  Robertson,  of  Lude, 
who  was  here  with  his  corps. 

There  was  one  commission  that  I must 
trouble  you  with.  I lately  lost  a valuable 
seal,  a present  from  a departed  friend,  which 
vexes  me  much.  I have  gotten  one  of  your 
Highland  pebbles,  which  I fancy  would 
make  a very  decent  one,  and  I want  to  cut 
my  armorial  bearing  on  it : will  you  be  so 
obliging  as  in  pi  ire  what  will  be  the  expense 
of  such  a business?  I do  not  know  that  I 


my  name  is  matriculated,  as  the  heralds  caH 
it,  at  all,  but  I have  invented  arms  for  my. 
self ; so,  you  know,  I shall  be  chief  of  the 
name ; and,  by  courtesy  of  Scotland,  will 
likewise  be  entitled  to  supporters.  These, 
however,  I do  not  intend  having  on  my  seal. 
I am  a bit  of  a herald,  and  shall  give  you, 
secundum  artem,  my  arms.  On  a field, 
azure,  a holy  bush,  seeded,  proper,  in  base ; 
a shepherd’s  pipe  and  crook,  saltier-wise, 
also  proper,  in  chief.  On  a wreath  of 
the  colours,  a wood-lark  perching  on  a sprig 
of  bay-tree,  proper,  for  crest.  Two  mottoes; 
round  the  top  of  the  crest.  Wood  notes 
wild;  at  the  bottom  of  the  shield,  in  the 
usual  place.  Better  a wee  bush  than  nae  bield. 
(146)  By  the  shepherd’s  pipe  and  crook,  I 
do  not  mean  the  nonsense  of  painters  of 
Arcadia,  but  a stock  and  horn,  and  a club , 
such  as  you  see  at  the  head  of  Allan 
Ramsay,  in  Allan’s  quarto  edition  of  the 
“ Gentle  Shepherd.”  By  the  bye,  do  you 
know  Allan  ? (147)  He  must  be  a man  of 
very  great  genius.  Why  is  he  not  the  more 
known  ? Has  he  no  patrons  ? — or  do 
“ Poverty’s  cold  wind  and  crushing  rain 
beat  keen  and  heavy  ” on  him  ? I once, 
and  but  once,  got  a glance  of  that  noble 
edition  of  the  noblest  pastoral  in  the  world  ; 
and  dear  as  it  was,  I mean  dear  as  to  my 
pocket,  I would  have  bought  it  but  I was 
told  that  it  was  printed  and  engraved  for 
subscribers  only.  He  is  the  only  artist 
who  has  hit  genuine  pastoral  costume. 
What,  my  dear  Cunningham,  is  there  in 
riches,  that  they  narrow  and  harden  the 
heart  so  ? I think,  that  were  I as  rich  as 
the  sun,  I should  be  as  generous  as  the 
day ; but  as  I have  no  reason  to  imagine 
my  soul  a nobler  one  than  any  other  man’s, 
I must  conclude  that  wealth  imparts  a bird- 
lime quality  to  the  possessor,  at  which  the 
man,  in  his  native  poverty,  would  have 
revolted.  What  has  led  me  to  this  is  the 
idea  of  such  merit  as  Mr.  Allan  possesses, 
and  such  riches  as  a nabob  or  government 
contractor  possesses,  and  why  they  do  not 
form  a mutual  league.  Let  wealth  shelter 
and  cherish  unprotected  merit,  and  the 
gratitude  and  celebrity  of  that  merit  will 
richly  repay  it.  . R.  B. 


NO.  CCL1X. 

BURNS  TO  MR  THOMSON 

March  20th,  1793. 

My  dear  Sir — T1  e song  prefixed  [“  Mar* 
Morisou  ”J  is  one  of  my  juvenile  works  1 


TO  MRS.  BURNS. 


893 


leave  it  in  your  hands.  I do  not  think  it 
very  remaikable,  either  for  its  merits  or 
demerits.  It  is  impossible  (at  least,  I feel  it 
so  in  my  stinted  powers)  to  be  always 
original,  entertaining,  and  witty. 

What  is  become  of  the  list,  &c.,  of  your 
songs  ? I shall  be  out  of  all  temper  with 
you  by  and  bye.  I have  always  looked  on 
myself  as  the  prince  of  indolent  corres- 
pondents, and  valued  myself  accordingly  ; 
and  I will  not,  can  not,  bear  rivalship  from 
you,  nor  any  body  else.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCLX. 

TO  MISS  BENSON, 

SINCE  MRS.  BASIL  MONTAGU. 

Dumfries,  March  21st,  1793. 

Mabam — Among  many  things  for  which 
I envy  those  hale,  long-lived  old  fellows 
before  the  flood,  is  this,  in  particular — that 
when  they  met  with  anybody  after  their  own 
heart,  they  had  a charming  long  prospect  of 
many,  many  happy  meetings  with  them  in 
after-life. 

Now,  in  this  short,  stormy,  winter-day  of 
our  fleeting  existence,  when  you,  now  and 
then,  in  the  chapter  of  accidents,  meet  an 
individual  whose  acquaintance  is  a real  ac- 
quisition, there  are  all  the  probabilities 
against  you,  that  you  shall  never  meet  with 
that  valued  character  more.  On  the  other 
hand,  brief  as  this  miserable  being  is,  it  is 
none  of  the  least  of  the  miseries  belonging 
to  it,  that  if  there  is  any  miscreant  whom 
you  hate,  or  creature  whom  you  despise,  the 
ill-run  of  the  chances  shall  be  so  against 
you,  that  in  the  overtakings,  turnings,  and 
jostlings  of  life,  pop,  at  some  unlucky  corner, 
eternally  comes  the  wretch  upon  you,  and 
will  not  allow  your  indignation  or  contempt 
a moment’s  repose.  As  I am  a sturdy  be- 
liever in  the  powers  of  darkness,  I take  these 
to  be  the  doings  of  that  old  author  of  mis- 
chief, the  devil.  It  is  well  known  that  he 
has  some  kind  of  short-hand  way  of  taking 
down  our  thoughts ; and  I make  no  doubt, 
that  he  is  perfectly  acquainted  with  my  sen- 
timents respecting  Miss  Benson  : how  much 
I admired  her  abilities  and  valued  her  worth, 
and  how  very  fortunate  I thought  myself  in 
her  acquaintance.  For  this  last  reason,  my 
dear  Madam,  I must  entertain  no  hopes  of 
the  very  great  pleasure  of  meeting  with  you 
fcgain. 

Miss  Hamilton  tells  me  that  she  is  send- 

35 


ing  a packet  to  you,  and  I beg  leave  to  send 
you  the  enclosed  sonnet : though  to  tell  you 
the  real  truth,  the  sonnet  is  a mere  pre- 
tence, that  I may  have  the  opportunity  of 
declaring  with  how  much  respectful  esteem 
I have  the  honour  to  be,  &c.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCLXI. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

March,  1793. 

WANDERING  WILLIE. 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Now  tired  with  wandering,  haud  awi 
hame; 

Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ane  only  dearie, 

And  tell  me  thou  brings’t  me  my  Willie 
the  same. 

Loud  blew  the  cauld  winter  winds  at  our 
parting ; [my  ee : 

It  was  na  the  blast  brought  the  tear  in 

Now  welcome  the  simmer,  and  Welcome  my 
Willie, 

The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

Ye  hurricanes,  rest,  in  the  cave  o’  yout 
slumbers ! 

Oh  how  your  wild  horrors  a lover  alarms  ! 

Awaken,  ye  breezes ! rool  gently,  ye  billows  * 
And  w aft  my  dear  laddie,  ance  mair  to  my 
arms. 

But  if  he’s  forgotten  his  faithfullest  Nannie^ 
Oh  still  flow  between  us,  thou  wide-roar- 
ing main ; 

May  I never  see  it,  may  I never  trow  it. 
But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie’s  my 
ain ! 

I leave  it  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,  to  deter 

mine  whether  the  above,  or  the  old  ThroP 

the  lang  muir”  (148),  be  the  best. 


NO.  CCLXII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS.  (149) 
Edinburgh,  April  2d,  1793. 

I will  not  recognise  the  title  you  giv% 
yourself,  “ the  prince  of  uidolent  correspon- 
dents ; ” but  if  the  adjective  were  taken 
awray,  I think  the  title  would  then  fit  you 
exactly.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to  find  you 
can  furnish  anecdotes  wifi  respfccA  to  most 


396 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


©f  the  songs  vj  these  ^ 111  be  a literary  curi- 
osity. 

I now  send  you  my  list  of  the  songs, 
which,  I belie  re,  will  be  found  nearly  com- 
plete. I have  put  down  the  first  Lines  of  all 
the  English  songs  which  I propose  giving, 
in  addition  to  the  Scotch  verses.  If  any 
others  occur  to  you,  better  adapted  to  the 
character  of  the  airs,  pray  mention  them, 
when  you  favour  me  with  your  strictures 
upon  everything  else  relating  to  the  work. 

Pleyel  has  lately  sent  me  a number  of  the 
songs,  with  his  symphonies  and  accompani- 
ments added  to  them.  I wish  you  were 
here,  that  I might  serve  up  some  of  them  to 
you  with  your  own  verses,  by  way  of  dessert 
after  dinner.  There  is  so  much  delightful 
fancy  in  the  symphonies,  and  such  a delicate 
simplicity  in  the  accompaniments — they  are 
indeed  beyond  all  praise. 

I am  very  much  pleased  with  the  several 
last  productions  of  your  muse : your  “ Lord 
Gregory,”  in  my  estimation,  is  more  inte- 
resting than  Peter’s,  beautiful  as  his  is. 
Your  “ Here  awa,  Willie,”  must  undergo 
some  alterations  to  suit  the  air.  Mr. 
Erskine  and  I have  been  conning  it  over : 
he  will  suggest  what  is  necessary  to  make 
them  a fit  match.  (150) 

The  gentleman  I have  mentioned,  whose 
fine  taste  you  are  no  stranger  to,  is  so  well 
pleased,  both  with  the  musical  and  poetical 
part  of  our  work,  that  he  has  volunteered 
hi3  assistance,  and  has  already  written  four 
songs  for  it,  which,  by  his  own  desire,  I send 
for  your  perusal.  (151) 


NO.  CCLXIH. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

April  7th , 1793. 

Thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your  packet, 
fou  cannot  imagine  how  much  this  business 
of  composing  for  your  publication  has  added 
to  my  enjoyments.  What  with  my  early 
attachment  to  ballads,  your  book,  &c.,  ballad- 
making is  now  as  completely  my  hobby- 
horse as  ever  fortification  was  Uncle  Toby’s ; 
so  I’ll  e’en  canter  it  away  till  I come  to  the 
limit  of  my  race — God  grant  that  I may 
take  the  right  side  of  the  winning  post ! — 
and  then  cheerfully  looking  back  on  the 
honest  folks  with  whom  I have  been  happy, 
I shall  say  or  sing,  “ Sae  merry  as  we  a’  hae 
been ! ” and,  raising  my  last  looks  to  the 
whole  human  race,  the  last  words  of  the 
voice  of  “ Coila”  (152)  shall  be,  “Good  night, 
fcnd  joy  be  wi’  you  a* ! ’’  So  much  for  my 


last  words  : now  for  a few  present  remarks 
as  they  have  occurred  at  random,  on  looking 
over  your  list. 

The  first  lines  of  “ The  last  time  I cams 
o’er  the  moor,”  and  several  other  lines  in  it, 
are  beautiful ; but,  in  my  opinion — pardon 
me,  revered  shade  of  Ramsay  ! — the  song  is 
unworthy  of  the  divine  air.  I shall  try  to 
make  or  mend.  “For  ever,  fortune,  wilt 
thou  prove,”  is  a charming  song ; but 
“Logan  burn  and  Logan  braes  ” is  sweetly 
susceptible  of  rural  imagery  : I’ll  try  that 
likewise,  and,  if  I succeed,  the  other  song 
may  class  among  the  English  ones.  I re- 
member the  two  last  lines  of  a verse  in  some 
of  the  old  songs  of  “ Logan  Water  ” (for  I 
know  a good  many  different  ones)  which  I 
think  pretty : — 

* Now  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes. 

Ear,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes.” 

" My  Patie  is  a lover  gay,”  is  unequal. 
“ His  mind  is  never  muddy,”  is  a muddy  ex- 
pression indeed. 

“ Then  I’ll  resign  and  marry  Pate 
And  syne  my  cockernony — ” 

This  is  surely  far  unworthy  of  Ramsay,  o* 
your  book. 

“Winter  winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our 
parting,  [ee ; 

Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my 
Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my 
Willie, 

The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  cave  of  your 
slumbers 

How  your  dread  howling  a lover  alarms  ! 
Wauken,  ye  breezes ! roll  gently,  ye  billows ! 

And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my 
arms. 

But  oh,  if  he’s  faithless,  and  minds  nae  his 
Nannie,  [mam ! 

Flow  still  between  us,  thou  wide -roaring 
May  I never  see  it,  may  I never  trow  it. 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie’s  my 
ain.”  (153) 

My  song,  “ Rigs  of  Barley,”  to  the  same 
tune,  does  not  altogether  please  me ; but  if 
I can  mend  it,  and  thrash  a few  loose  senti- 
ments out  of  it,  I will  submit  it  to  your 
consideration.  u The  lass  o’  Paties  mill  ” is 
one  of  Ramsay’s  best  songs;  but  .here  is 
one  loose  sentiment  in  it,  which  my  much- 
valued friend  Mr.  Erskine  will  tal  e into  his 
critical  consideration.  In  Sir  John  Sinclair’s 
statistical  volumes,  are  two  claiins — one,  I 
think,  from  Aberdemshire.  and  the 


897 


TO  JOHN  FRANCIS  ERSKINE,  ESQ. 


from  Ayrshire — for  the  honour  of  this  song. 
The  following  anecdote,  which  I Jiad  from 
the  present  Sir  William  Cunningham  of 
Robertland,  who  had  it  of  the  late  John 
Earl  of  Loudon,  I can,  on  such  authorities, 
believe : — 

Allan  Ramsay  was  residing  at  Loudon- 
castle  with  the  then  Earl,  father  to  Earl 
John ; and  one  forenoon,  riding,  or  walking, 
out  together,  his  lordship  and  Allan  passed  a 
sweet  romantic  spot  on  Irvine  water,  still 
called  “Patie’s  mill,”  where  a bonnie  lass 
was  " tedding  hay,  bareheaded  on  the  green.” 
My  lord  observed  to  Allan,  that  it  would  be 
a fine  theme  for  a song.  Ramsay  took  the 
hint,  and,  lingering  behind,  he  composed 
the  first  sketch  of  it,  which  he  produced  at 
dinner. 

“ One  day  I heard  Mary  say,”  is  a fine 
song ; but,  for  consistency’s  sake,  alter  the 
name  “ Adonis.”  Were  there  ever  such 
banns  published,  as  a purpose  of  marriage 
between  Adonis  and  Mary!  I agree  with 
you  that  my  song,  “ There’s  nought  but  care 
on  every  hand,”  is  much  superior  to  “ Puir- 
tith  cauld.”  The  original  song,  “The  mill, 
mill,  O ! ” though  excellent,  is,  on  account 
of  delicacy,  inadmissible;  still,  I like  the 
title,  and  think  a Scottish  song  would  suit 
the  notes  best ; and  let  your  chosen  song, 
which  is  very  pretty,  follow  a3  an  English 
set.  “ The  banks  of  the  Dee,”  is,  you  know, 
literally  “Langolee,”  to  slow  time.  The 
song  is  well  enough,  but  has  some  false 
imagery  in  it ; for  instance : 

And  sweetly  the  nightingale  sang  from  the 
tree. 

In  the  first  place,  the  nightingale  sings  in 
a low  bush,  but  never  from  a tree ; and  in 
the  second  place,  there  never  was  a nightin- 
gale seen  or  heard  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee, 
or  on  the  banks  of  any  other  river  in  Scot- 
land. Exotic  rural  imagery  is  always  com- 
paratively flat.  If  I could  hit  on  another 
stanza,  equal  to  “ The  small  birds  rejoice,” 
&c.,  I do  myself  honestly  avow,  that  I think 
it  a superior  song.  (154)  “John  Anderson, 
my  jo — the  song  to  this  tune  in  Johnson’s 
Museum,  is  my  composition,  and  I think  it 
not  my  worst:  if  it  suit  you,  take  it  and 
welcome.  Your  collection  of  sentimental 
and  pathetic  song,  is,  in  my  opinion,  very 
complete;  but  not  so  your  comic  ones. 
Where  are  “ Tullochgorum,”  “Lumps  o’ 
puddin,”  “ Tibbie  Fowler,”  and  several 
others,  which,  in  my  humble  judgment,  are 
well  worthy  of  preservation  ? There  is  also 
one  sentimental  song  of  mine  in  the  Mu- 
seum. which  never  was  known  out  of  the 


immediate  neighbourhood,  until  I got  it 
taken  down  from  a country  girl’s  singing. 
It  is  called  “ Cragieburn  wood,”  and,  in  the 
opinion  of  Mr.  Clarke,  is  one  of  the  sweetest 
Scottish  Songs.  He  is  quite  an  enthusiast 
about  it;  and  I would  take  his  taste  in 
Scottish  music  against  the  taste  of  most 
connoisseurs. 

You  are  quite  right  in  inserting  the  last 
five  in  your  list,  though  they  are  certainly 
Irish.  “ Shepherds,  I have  lost  my  love ! n 
is  to  me  a heavenly  air-  -what  would  you 
think  of  a set  of  Scottish  verses  to  it  ? I 
have  made  one  to  it,  a good  while  ago, 
which  I think  * * *,  but  in  its  original 

state,  it  is  not  quite  a lady’s  song.  I enclose 
an  altered,  not  amended  copy  for  you,  if  you 
choose  to  set  the  tune  to  it,  and  let  the 
Irish  verses  follow.  (155) 

Mr.  Erskine’s  songs  are  all  pretty,  but  his 
“ Lone  vale  ” is  divine.  Yours,  &c. 

Let  me  know  just  how  you  like  these  ran- 
dom hints. 


NO.  CCLXIV. 

TO  PATRICK  MILLER,  Es^ 

O?  DALSWINTON. 

Dumfries , April , 1793. 

Sir — My  poems  having  just  come  out  in 
another  edition,  will  you  do  me  the  honour 
to  accept  of  a copy  ? A mark  of  my  grati- 
tude to  you,  as  a gentleman  to  whose  good- 
ness I have  been  much  indebted;  of  my 
respect  for  you,  as  a patriot  who,  in  a venal, 
sliding  age,  stands  forth  the  champion  of  the 
liberties  of  my  country;  and  of  my  veneration 
for  you  as  a man,  whose  benevolence  of  heart 
does  honour  to  human  nature. 

There  was  a time,  Sir,  when  I was  your 
dependent:  this  language  then  would  have 
been  like  the  vile  incense  of  flattery — I could 
not  have  used  it.  Now  that  that  connexion 
(156)  is  at  an  end,  do  me  the  honour  to 
accept  of  this  honest  tribute  of  respect  from. 
Sir,  your  much  indebted  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCLXV. 

TO  JOHN  FRANCIS  ERSKINE  Escu, 
OF  MAK.  (157) 

Dumfries , April  13tli,  1793. 

Sir — Degenerate  as  human  nature  is  said 
to  be — and,  in  many  instances,  worthless  and 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


unprincipled  it  is— still  there  are  bright 
examples  to  the  contrary ; examples  that, 
even  in  the  eyes  of  superior  beings,  must 
shed  a lustre  on  the  name  of  man. 

Such  an  example  have  I now  before  me, 
when  you,  Sir,  came  forward  to  patronise 
and  befriend  a distant  obscure  stranger, 
merely  because  poverty  had  made  him  help- 
less, and  his  British  hardihood  of  mind  had 
provoked  the  arbitrary  wantonness  of  power. 
My  much  esteemed  friend,  Mr.  Riddel  of 
Glenriddel,  has  just  read  me  a paragraph  of  a 
letter  he  had  from  you.  Accept,  Sir,  of  the 
silent  throb  of  gratitude ; for  words  would 
but  mock  the  emotions  of  my  soul. 

You  have  been  misinformed  as  to  my  final 
dismission  from  the  Excise;  I am  still  in  the 
service.  Indeed,  but  for  the  exertions  of  a 
gentleman,  who  must  be  known  to  you,  Mr. 
Graham  of  Fintry — a gentleman  who  has 
ever  been  my  warm  and  generous  friend — I 
had,  without  so  much  as  a hearing,  or  the 
slightest  previous  intimation,  been  turned 
adrift,  with  my  helpless  family,  to  all  the 
horrors  of  want.  Had  I had  any  other  re- 
source, probably  I might  have  saved  them 
the  trouble  of  a dismission ; but  the  little 
money  I gained  by  publication,  is  my  almost 
every  guinea,  embarked  to  save  from  ruin 
an  only  brother,  who,  though  one  of  the 
worthiest,  is  by  no  means  one  of  the  most 
fortunate  of  men. 

In  my  defence  to  their  accusations,  I said, 
that  whatever  might  be  my  sentiments  of 
republics,  ancient  or  modern,  as  to  Britain  I 
abjured  the  idea,  that  a constitution, 
which,  in  its  original  principles,  experience 
had  proved  to  be  every  way  fitted  for  our 
happiness  in  society,  it  would  be  insanity  to 
sacrifice  to  an  untried  visionary  theory — 
that,  in  consideration  of  my  being  situated 
in  a department,  however  humble,  immedi- 
ately in  the  hands  of  people  in  power,  I had 
forborne  taking  any  active  part,  either  per- 
sonally or  as  an  author,  in  the  present 
business  of  reform.  But  that,  where  I 
must  declare  my  sentiments,  I would  say, 
there  existed  a system  of  corruption  be- 
tween the  executive  power  and  the  represen- 
tative part  of  the  legislature,  which  boded 
no  good  to  our  glorious  constitution, 
and  which  every  patriotic  Briton  must  wish 
to  see  amended.  Some  such  sentiments  as 
these,  I stated  in  a letter  to  my  generous 
patron,  Mr.  Graham,  which  he  laid  before 
the  Board  at  large,  where,  it  seems,  my  last 
remark  gave  great  offence ; and  one  of  our 
supervisors  general,  a Mr.  Corbet,  was  in- 
structed to  inquire  on  the  spot,  and  to  docu- 
ment iue, " that  my  business  was  to  net,  not  I 


to  think ; and  that,  whatever  might  be  men 
or  measures,  it  was  for  me  to  be  silent  and 
obedient .” 

Mr.  Corbet  was  likewise  my  steady  friend  > 
so  between  Mr.  Graham  and  him,  l havt 
been  partly  forgiven  : only  I understand  that 
all  hopes  of  my  getting  officially  forward 
are  blasted. 

Now,  Sir,  to  the  business  in  which  I 
would  more  immediately  interest  you.  The 
partiality  of  my  countrymen  lias  brought 
me  forward  as  a man  of  genius,  and  has 
given  me  a character  to  support.  In  the 
poet  I have  avowed  manly  and  independent 
sentiments,  which  I trpst  will  be  found  in 
the  man.  Reasons  of  no  less  weight  than 
the  support  of  a wife  and  family,  have 
pointed  out  as  the  eligible,  and,  situated  as  I 
was,  the  only  eligible,  line  of  life  for  me,  my 
present  occupation.  Still,  my  honest  fame  is 
my  dearest  concern  ; and  a thousand  times 
have  I trembled  at  the  idea  of  those  de~ 

I grading  epithets  that  malice  or  misrepresenta- 
tion may  affix  to  my  name.  I have  often,  in 
blasting  anticipation,  listened  to  some  future 
hackney  scribbler,  with  the  heavy  malice  of 
savage  stupidity,  exulting  in  his  hireling 
paragraphs — “Burns,  notwithstanding  the 
fanfaronade  of  independence  to  be  found  in 
his  works,  and  after  having  been  held  forth 
to  public  view,  and  to  public  estimation,  as  a 
man  of  some  genius,  yet,  quite  destitute  of 
resources  within  himself  to  support  his  bor- 
rowed dignity,  he  dwindled  into  a paltry  ex- 
ciseman, and  slunk  out  the  rest  of  his 
insignificant  existence  in  the  meanest  of  pur- 
suits, and  among  the  vilest  of  mankind.” 

In  your  illustrious  hands.  Sir,  permit  me 
to  lodge  my  disavowal  and  defiance  of  these 
slanderous  falsehoods.  Burns  was  a poor 
man  from  birth,  and  an  exciseman  by  neces- 
sity ; but — / will  say  it ! — the  sterling  of  his 
honest  worth  no  poverty  could  debase  ; a.id 
his  independent  British  mind,  oppression 
might  bend,  but  could  not  subdue.  Hava 
not  I,  to  me,  a more  precious  stake  in  my 
country’s  welfare,  than  the  richest  dukedom 
in  it?  I have  a large  family  of  children, 
and  the  prospect  of  many  more.  I have 
three  sons,  who,  I see  already,  have  brought 
into  the  world  souls  ill  qualified  to  inhabit 
the  bodies  of  slaves.  Can  I look  tamely 
on,  and  see  any  machination  to  wrest  from 
them  the  birthright  of  my  boys — the  little 
independent  Britons,  in  whose  veins  runs 
my  own  blood  ? No  ! I vill  not,  should  my 
heart’s  blood  stream  around  my  attempt  to 
defend  it ! 

Does  any  man  tell  me,  that  my  full  effort# 
can  be  of  no  service,  and  that  it  does 


TO  MB,  THOMSON.  399 


falong  to  my  humble  station  to  medcLTe 
with  the  concern  of  a nation? 

I can  tell  him,  that  it  is  on  such  indivi- 
duals as  I that  a nation  has  to  rest,  both 
for  the  hand  of  support  and  the  eye  of  in- 
telligence. The  uninformed  mob  may  swell 
a nation’s  bulk;  and  the  titled,  tinsel, 
courtly  throng  may  be  its  feathered  orna- 
ment; but  the  number  of  those  who  are 
elevated  enough  in  life  to  reason  and  to 
reflect,  yet  low  enough  to  keep  clear  of  the 
venal  contagion  of  a court — these  are  a 
nation’s  strength ! 

I know  not  how  to  apologise  for  the  im- 
pertinent length  of  this  epistle  ; but  one 
small  request  I must  ask  of  you  farther  : — 
when  you  have  honoured  this  letter  with 
a perusal,  please  to  commit  it  to  the  flames. 
Burns,  in  whose  behalf  you  have  so  gene- 
rously interested  yourself,  I have  here,  in  his 
native  colours,  drawn  as  he  is;  but  should 
any  of  the  people  in  whose  hands  is  the 
very  bread  he  eats,  get  the  least  knowledge 
of  the  picture,  it  would  ruin  the  poor  bard 
for  ever  ! 

My  poems  having  just  come  out  in  another 
edition,  I beg  leave  to  present  you  with  a 
copy,  as  a small  mark  of  that  high  esteem 
and  ardent  gratitude  with  which  l have  the 
honour  to  be.  Sir,  your  deeply  indebted 
and  ever  devoted  humble  servant,  R.  B. 


» 

NO.  CCLXVI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh , April , 1793. 

I rejoice  to  find,  my  dear  Sir,  that 
ballad-making  continues  to  be  your  hobby- 
horse. Great  pity  ’twould  be  were  it  other- 
wise. I hope  you  will  amble  it  away  for 
many  a year,  and  “ witch  the  world  with 
your  horsemanship.” 

I know  there  are  a good  many  lively 
■ongs  of  merit  that  I have  not  put  down  in 
the  list  sent  you ; but  I have  them  all  in  my 
eye.  “ My  Patie  is  a lover  gay,”  though  a 
little  unequal,  is  a natural  and  very  pleasiug 
song,  and  I humbly  think  we  ought  not 
to  displace  or  alter  it,  except  the  last 
ftt&nza.  (158) 


NO.  CCLXVII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

April,  1793. 

I have  yours,  my  dear  Sir,  this  moment. 
I shall  answer  it  and  vour  former  letter,  in 


my  desultory  way,  of  saying  whatever  cornea 
uppermost.  . 

The  business  of  many  of  our  tunes  want- 
ing, at  the  beginning,  what  fiddlers  call  a 
starting-note,  is  often  a rub  to  us  poor 
rhymers. 

“ There’s  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes. 
That  wander  through  the  blooming 
heather,” 

you  may  alter  to 

" Braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  brae^ 

Ye  wander,”  &c. 

My  song,  “Here  awa,  there  awa,”  u 
amended  by  Mr.  Erskine,  I entirely  approve 
of,  and  return  you.  (159) 

Give  me  leave  to  criticise  your  taste  in  the 
only  thing  in  which  it  is,  in  my  opinion, 
reprehensible.  You  know  I ought  to  know 
something  of  my  own  trade.  Of  pathos, 
sentiment  and  point,  you  are  a complete 
judge ; but  there  is  a quality  more  necessary 
than  either  in  a song,  and  which  is  the  very 
essence  of  a ballad — I mean  simplicity : 
now,  if  I mistake  not,  this  last  feature  you 
are  a little  apt  to  sacrifice  to  the  foregoing. 

Ramsay,  as  every  other  poet,  has  not  been 
always  equally  happy  in  his  pieces ; still,  I 
cannot  approve  of  taking  such  liberties  with 
an  author  as  Mr.  W.  proposes  doing  with 
“The  last  time  I came  o’er  the  moor.”  Let 
a poet,  if  he  chooses,  take  up  the  idea  of 
another,  and  work  it  into  a piece  of  his 
own ; but  to  mangle  the  works  of  the  poor 
bard,  whose  tuneful  tongue  is  now  mute  for 
ever,  in  the  dark  and  narrow  house — by 
Heaven,  Twould  be  sacrilege ! I grant  that 
Mr.  W.’s  version  is  an  improvement ; but  I 
know  Mr.  W.  well,  and  esteem  him  much ; 
let  him  mend  the  song,  as  the  Highlander 
mended  his  gun — he  gave  it  a new  stock,  a 
new  lock,  and  a new  barrel. 

I do  not,  by  this,  object  to  leaving  out 
improper  stanzas,  where  that  can  be  done 
without  spoiling  the  whole.  One  stanza  in 
“The  lass  o’  Patie’s  mill”  must  be  left  out: 
the  song  will  be  nothing  worse  for  it.  I am 
not  sure  if  we  can  take  the  same  liberty 
with  “Corn  rigs  are  bonnie.”  Perhaps  it 
might  want  the  last  stanza,  and  be  the 
better  for  it.  “Cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen,” 
you  must  leave  with  me  yet  a while.  I have 
vowed  to  have  a song  to  that  air,  on  the 
lady  whom  I attempted  to  celebrate  in  the 
verses,  “Puirtith  cauld  and  restless  love.” 
At  any  rate,  my  other  song,  “ Green  grow 
the  rashes,”  will  never  suit.  That  song  is 
curreut  in  Scotland  under  the  obi  title,  and 
to  tbs  merry  Old  tune  of  that  name,  whid^ 


35* 


400 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


of  course,  would  mar  the  progress  of  your 
song  to  celebrity.  Your  book  will  be  the 
standard  of  Scots  songs  for  the  future : let 
this  idea  ever  keep  your  judgment  on  the 
alarm. 

I send  a song  on  a celebrated  toast  in  this 
country,  to  suit  " Bonnie  Dundee  .”  I send 
you  also  a ballad  to  the  "Mill,  Mill, 
O !”  (160) 

" The  last  time  I came  o’er  the  moor,”  I 
would  fain  attempt  to  make  a Scots  song 
for,  and  let  Ramsay’s  be  the  English  set. 
You  shall  hear  from  me  soon.  When  you 
go  to  London  on  this  business,  can  you 
come  by  Dumfries  ? I have  still  several 
MS.  Scots  airs  by  me,  which  I have  picked 
up,  mostly  from  the  singing  of  country 
lasses.  They  please  me  vastly;  but  your 
learned  lugs  (161)  would  perhaps  be  dis- 
pleased with  the  very  feature  for  which  I 
like  them.  I call  them  simple ; you  would 
pronounce  them  silly.  Do  you  know  a fine 
air  called  "Jackie  Hume’s  Lament?”  I 
have  a song  of  considerable  merit  to  that 
air.  I’ll  enclose  you  both  the  song  and 
tune,  as  I had  them  ready  to  send  to 
Johnson’s  Museum.  (162)  I send  you  like- 
wise, to  me,  a beautiful  little  air,  which  I 
had  taken  down  from  viva  voce.  (163) 
Adieu. 


NO.  CCLXVIII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON.  (164) 

[Here  the  poet  inserts  the  song,  leginning 
" Farewell,  thou  Stream  that  winding 
flows 

April,  1793. 

My  dear  Sir — I had  scarcely  put  my 
last  letter  into  the  post  office,  when  I took 
up  the  subject  of  "The  last  time  I came  o’er 
the  moor,”  and,  ere  I slept,  drew  the  outlines 
of  the  foregoing.  How  far  I have  succeeded, 
I leave  on  this,  as  on  every  other  occasion, 
to  you  to  decide.  I own  my  vanity  is 
flattered,  when  you  give  my  songs  a place  in 
your  elegant  and  superb  work ; but  to  be  of 
service  to  the  work  is  my  first  wish.  As  I 
have  often  told  you,  I do  not  in  a single 
instance  wish  you,  out  of  compliment  to  me, 
to  insert  any  thing  of  mine.  One  hint  let 
me  give  you — whatever  Mr.  Pleyel  does,  let 
him  not  alter  one  iota  of  the  original  Scottish 
airs,  1 mean  in  the  song  department,  but  let 
our  national  music  preserve  its  native 
features.  They  arc,  I own,  frequently  wild 
and  irreducible  to  the  moi  e modern  rules ; 


but  on  that  very  eccentricity,  perhaps,  ifr 
pends  a great  part  of  their  effect. 


NO.  CCLX1X. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  April  26th,  1793. 

I heartily  thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  fof 
your  last  two  letters,  and  the  songs  which 
accompanied  them.  I am  always  both  in- 
structed and  entertained  by  your  observa- 
tions; and  the  frankness  with  which  yon 
speak  out  your  mind,  is  to  me  highly  agree- 
able. It  is  very  possible  I may  not  have  the 
true  idea  of  simplicity  in  composition.  I 
confess  there  are  several  songs,  of  Allan 
Ramsay’s  for  example,  that  I think  silly 
enough,  which  another  person,  more  con- 
versant than  l have  been  with  country 
people,  would  perhaps  call  simple  and 
natural.  But  the  lowest  scenes  of  simple 
nature  will  not  please  generally,  if  copied 
precisely  as  they  are.  The  poet,  like  the 
painter,  must  select  what  will  form  an  agree- 
able, as  well  as  a natural  picture.  Gn  this 
subject  it  were  easy  to  enlarge;  but,  at 
present,  suffice  it  to  say,  that  I consider 
simplicity,  rightly  understood,  as  a most 
essential  quality  in  composition,  and  the 
groundwork  of  beauty  in  all  the  arts.  I 
will  gladly  appropriate  your  most  interesting 
new  ballad,  " When  wild  war’s  deadly  blast/* 
&c.,  to  the  " Mill,  Mill,  O ! ” as  w'ell  as  the 
two  other  songs  to  their  respective  airs  ; but 
the  third  and  fourth  lines  of  the  first  verse 
must  undergo  some  little  alteration  in  order 
to  suit  the  music.  Pleyel  does  not  alter  a 
single  note  of  the  songs.  That  would  be 
absurd  indeed ! With  the  airs  which  he 
introduces  into  the  sonatas,  I allow  him  to 
take  such  liberties  as  he  pleases ; but  that 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  songs. 

P.S.  I wish  you  would  do  as  you  pro- 
posed with  your  " Rigs  of  Barley.”  If  the 
loose  sentiments  are  thrashed  out  of  it,  I 
will  find  an  air  for  it ; but  as  to  this  there  is 
no  hurry. 


NO.  CCLXX. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

April  2 6th,  1793. 

I AM out  of  humour,  my  dear  Aiuslie^ 

and  that  is  the  reason  why  I take  up  tb« 


TO  MISS  KENNEDY. 


401 


pen  to  you : ’tis  the  nearest  way  {jprobatum 
tst)  to  recover  ray  spirits  again. 

I received  your  last,  and  was  much  enter- 
tained with  it ; but  I will  not  at  this  time, 
nor  at  any  other  time,  answer  it.  Answer  a 
letter  ! — I never  could  answer  a letter  in  my 
life.  I have  written  many  a letter  in  return 
for  letters  I have  received » but  them — they 
were  original  matter  — spurt-away  ! — zig, 
here,  zag,  there — as  if  the  devil,  that  my 
grannie  (an  old  woman,  indeed)  often  told 
me,  rode  on  will-o’-wisp,  or,  in  her  more 
classic  phrase,  Spunk ie,  were  looking  over 
my  elbow.  Happy  thought  that  idea  has 
engendered  in  my  head!  Spunkie,  thou 
■halt  henceforth  be  my  symbol,  signature, 
and  tutelary  genius ! Like  thee,  hop-step- 
and-loup,  here-awa-there-awa,  higgledy-pig- 
gledy, pell-mell,  hither-and-yont,  ram-stam, 
happy-go-lucky,  up  tails-a’-by-the-light-o’- 
the-moon — has  been,  is,  and  shall  be,  my 
progress  through  the  mosses  and  moors  of 
this  vile,  bleak,  barren  wilderness  of  a life  of 
ours. 

Come,  then,  my  guardian  spirit ! like 
thee,  may  I skip  away,  amusing  myself  by 
and  at  my  own  light ; and  if  any  opaque- 
souled  lubber  of  mankind  complain  that  my 
elfin,  lambent,  glirnmerous  wanderings  have 
misled  his  stupid  steps  over  precipices  or 
into  bogs,  let  the  thick-headed  Blunder- 
buss recollect  that  he  is  not  Spunkie  : — 
that 

Spunkie’s  wanderings  could  not  copied 
be : 

Amid  these  perils  none  durst  walk  but  he. 

• • # • 

I have  no  dorbt  but  Scholarcraft  may  be 
caught,  as  a Scotsman  catches  the  itch,  by 
friction.  How  else  can  you  account  for  it, 
that  born  blockheads,  by  mere  dint  of  hand- 
ling books,  grow  so  wise  that  even  they 
themselves  are  equally  convinced  of,  and 
surprised  at  their  own  parts  ? I once  carried 
this  philosophy  to  that  degree,  that  in  a 
knot  of  country  folks  who  had  a library 
amongst  them,  and  who,  to  the  honour  of 
their  good  sei/se,  made  me  factotum  in  the 
business, — one  of  our  members,  a little,  wise- 
looking, squat,  upright,  jabbering  body  of  a 
tailor,  I advised  him,  instead  of  turning  over 
the  leaves,  to  bind  the  book  on  his  back. 
Johnnie  took  the  hint,  and  as  our  meetings 
were  every  fourth  Saturday,  and  Pricklouse 
having  a good  Scots  mile  to  walk  in  coming, 
and,  of  course,  another  in  returning.  Bodkin 
was  sure  to  lay  his  on  some  heavy 

quarto  jt  ponderous  folio,  with,  and  under 
D D 


which,  wrapt  in  his  grey  plaid,  he  grew  wise, 
as  he  grew  weary,  all  the  way  home.  He 
carried  this  so  far,  that  an  old  musty  Hebrew 
concordance,  which  we  had  in  a present  from 
a neighbouring  priest,  by  mere  dint  of  ap- 
plying it,  as  doctors  do  a blistering  plaster, 
between  bis  shoulders.  Stitch,  in  a dozen 
pilgrimages,  acquired  as  much  rational  theo- 
logy as  the  said  priest  had  done  by  forty 
years’  perusal  of  the  pages. 

Tell  me,  and  tell  me  truly,  what  you  think 
of  this  theory.  Yours,  Spunkib. 


NO.  CCLXXI. 

TO  MISS  KENNEDY. 

Madam — Permit  me  to  present  you  with 
the  enclosed  song,  as  a small  though  grateful 
tribute  for  the  honour  of  your  acquaintance. 
I have,  in  these  verses,  attempted  some  faint 
sketches  of  your  portrait  in  the  unembel- 
lished, simple  manner  of  descriptive  truth. 
Flattery  I leave  to  your  lovers,  whose 
exaggerating  fancies  may  make  them  imagine 
you  still  nearer  perfection  than  you  really 
are. 

Poets,  Madam,  of  all  mankind,  feel  most 
forcibly  the  powers  of  beauty  ; as,  if  they 
are  really  poets  of  nature’s  making,  their 
feelings  must  be  finer,  and  their  taste  more 
delicate,  than  most  of  the  world.  In  the 
cheerful  bloom  of  spring,  or  the  pensive 
mildness  of  autumn,  the  grandeur  of  sum- 
mer, or  the  hoary  majesty  of  winter,  the 
poet  feels  a charm  unknown  to  the  rest  of 
his  species.  Even  the  sight  of  a fine  flower, 
or  the  company  of  a fine  woman  (by  far  the 
finest  part  of  God’s  works  below),  have  sen- 
sations for  the  poetic  heart  that  the  herd 
of  men  are  strangers  to.  On  this  last  ac- 
count, Madam,  I am,  as  in  many  other 
things,  indebted  to  Mr.  Hamilton’s  kindness 
in  introducing  me  to  you.  Your  lovers  may 
view  you  with  a wish,  I look  on  you  with 
pleasure ; their  hearts,  in  your  presence 
may  glow  with  desire,  mine  rises  with  admi- 
ration. 

That  the  arrows  of  misfortune,  however 
they  should,  as  incident  to  humanity,  glance 
a slight  wound,  may  never  reach  your  heart 
— that  the  snares  of  villany  may  never  beset 
you  in  the  road  of  life — that  innocencb 
may  hand  you  by  the  path  of  honour  to 
the  dwelling  of  peace — is  the  sincere  wish 
of  him  who  has  the  honour  to  be,  &c. 

R.  B» 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


*02 


NO.  CCLXXII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

June , 1793. 

When  I toll  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  a 
friend  of  mine,  in  whom  I am  much  in- 
terested, has  fallen  a sacrifice  to  these 
accursed  times,  you  will  easily  allow  that  it 
might  unhinge  me  for  doing  any  good 
among  ballads.  My  own  loss,  as'  to  pecu- 
niary matters,  is  trifling ; but  the  total  ruin 
of  a much-loved  friend  is  a loss  indeed. 
Pardon  my  seeming  inattention  to  your  last 
commands. 

I cannot  alter  the  disputed  lines  in  the 
“ Mill,  Mill,  O!”  (165)  What  you  think  a 
defect,  I esteem  as  a positive  beauty;  so 
you  see  how  doctors  differ.  I shall  now, 
with  as  much  alacrity  as  I can  muster,  go 
on  with  your  commands. 

You  know  Frazer,  the  hautboy-player  in 
Edinburgh — he  is  here,  instructing  a band 
of  music  for  a fencible  corps  quartered  in 
this  county.  Among  many  of  his  airs  that 
please  me,  there  is  one,  well  known  as  a reel, 
by  the  name  of  “ The  Quaker’s  Wife;”  and 
which,  I remember,  a grand-aunt  of  mine 
used  to  sing,  by  the  name  of  “ Liggeram 
Cosh,  my  bonnie  wee  lass.”  Mr.  Frazer 
plays  it  slow,  and  with  an  expression  that 
quite  charms  me.  1 became  such  an  enthu- 
siast about  it,  that  I made  a song  for  it, 
which  I here  subjoin,  and  enclose  Frazer’s 
set  of  the  tune.  If  they  hit  your  fancy, 
they  are  at  your  service ; if  not,  return  me 
the  tune,  and  I will  put  it  in  Johnson’s 
Museum.  I think  the  song  is  not  in  my 
Worst  manner. 

[Here  Burns  inserts  the  song  “ Blythe  hae  I 

been  on  yon  Hill”] 

I should  wish  to  hear  how  this  pleases 
jrou. 


NO.  CCLXXIII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

June  25th,  1793. 

Have  you  ever,  my  dear  Sir,  felt  your 
bosom  ready  to  burst  with  indignation,  on 
reading  of  those  mighty  villains  who  divide 
kingdom  against  kingdom,  desolate  pro- 
vinces, and  lay  lations  waste,  out  of  the 
wantonness  of  ambition,  or  often  from  still 
more  ignoble  passions  ? In  a mood  of  this 
kind  to-day  I recollected  the  air  of  " Logan 
Water,”  and  it  occurrel  to  me  that  its 


querulous  melody  probably  had  its  origin 
from  the  plaintive  indignation  of  some 
swelling,  suffering  heart,  fired  at  the  tyrannic 
strides  of  some  public  destroyer,  and  over- 
whelmed with  private  distress,  the  conse- 
quence of  a country’s  ruin.  If  I have  done 
any  thing  at  all  like  justice  to  my  feelings, 
the  following  song,  composed  in  three-quar- 
ters of  an  hour’s  meditation  in  my  elbow- 
chair,  ought  to  have  some  merit : — 

[Here  is  inserted  the  song,  “ Logan  Braes .”] 

Do  you  know  the  following  beautiful 
little  fragment,  in  Witherspoon’s  collection 
of  Scots  songs  ? 

Air — uHughie  Graham .” 

“Oh  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose. 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa*; 

And  I mysel’  a drap  o’  dew. 

Into  her  bonnie  breast  to  fa* ! 

Oh  there,  beyond  expression  blest, 

I’d  feast  on  beauty  a’  the  night, 

Seal’d  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest. 

Till  fley’d  awa  by  Phoebus’  light ! n 

This  thought  is  inexpressibly  beautiful; 
and  quite,  so  far  as  I know,  original.  It  is 
too  short  for  a song,  else  I would  forswear 
you  altogether,  unless  you  gave  it  a place. 
I have  often  tried  to  eke  a stanza  to  it,  but 
in  vain.  After  balancing  myself  for  a musing 
five  minutes,  on  the  hind-legs  of  my  elbow- 
chair,  I produced  the  following. 

The  verses  are  far  inferior  to  the  fore- 
going, I frankly  confess ; but  if  worthy  of 
insertion  at  all,  they  might  be  first  in  place ; 
as  every  poet  who  knows  any  thing  of  his 
trade,  will  husband  his  best  thoughts  for  a 
concluding  stroke. 

Oh  were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 

Wi’  purpe  blossoms  to  the  spring ; 

And  I,  a bird  to  shelter  there, 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing ! 

How  I wad  mourn,  when  it  was  tom 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude ! 

But  I wrad  sing  on  wanton  wing, 

When  youthfu’  May  its  bloom  renewed. 


NO.  CCLXXIV. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Monday , July  ls£,  1793. 

I am  extremely  sorry,  my  good  Sir,  that 
any  thing  should  happen  to  unhinge  yoik 


BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 


40$ 


The  times  are  terribly  out  of  tune,  and  when 
harmony  will  be  restored,  Heaven  knows. 

The  first  book  of  songs,  just  published, 
- will  be  dispatched  to  you  along  with  this. 
Let  me  be  favoured  with  your  opinion  of  it, 
frankly  and  freely. 

I shall  certainly  give  a place  to  the  song 
you  have  written  for  the  “ Quaker’s  Wife  ; ” 
it  is  quite  enchanting.  Pray,  will  you  return 
the  list  of  songs,  with  such  airs  added  to  it 
as  you  think  ought  to  be  included?  The 
business  now  rests  entirely  on  myself,  the 
gentlemen  who  originally  agreed  to  join  the 
speculation  having  requested  to  be  off.  No 
matter,  a loser  I cannot  be.  The  superior 
excellence  of  the  work  will  create  a general 
demand  for  it,  as  soon  as  it  is  properly 
known ; and  were  the  sale  even  slower  than 
it  promises  to  be,  I should  be  somewhat 
compensated  for  my  labour,  by  the  pleasure 
I shall  receive  from  the  music.  I cannot 
express  how  much  I am  obliged  to  you  for 
the  exquisite  new  songs  you  are  sending 
me;  but  thanks,  my  friend,  are  a poor 
return  for  what  you  have  done — as  I shall 
be  benefited  by  the  publication,  you  must 
suffer  me  to  enclose  a small  mark  of  my 
gratitude  (166),  and  to  repeat  it  afterwards 
when  I find  it  convenient.  Do  not  return 
it,  for,  by  Heaven!  if  you  do,  our  corres- 
pondence is  at  an  end ; and  though  this 
would  be  no  loss  to  you,  it  would  mar  the 
publication,  which,  under  your  auspices,  can- 
not fail  to  be  respectable  and  interesting. 

Wednesday  Morning. 

I thank  you  for  your  delicate  additional 
verses  to  the  old  fragment,  and  for  your 
excellent  song  to  “Logan  Water:” — Thom- 
son’s truly  elegant  one  will  follow  for  the 
English  singer.  Your  apostrophe  to  states- 
men is  admirable,  but  I am  not  sure  if  it  is 
quite  suitable  to  the  supposed  gentle  cha- 
racter of  the  fair  mourner  who  speaks  it. 


MO.  CCLXXV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

July  2nd , 1793. 

My  dear  Sir — I have  just  finished  the 
following  ballad,  and,  as  I do  think  it  in  my 
best  style,  I send  it  you.  Mr.  Clarke,  who 
wrote  down  the  air  from  Mrs.  Burns’s 
wood-note  wild,  is  very  fond  of  it,  and  has 
given  it  a celebrity  by  teaching  it  to  some 
young  ladies  of  the  first  fashion  here.  If 
you  do  not  like  the  air  enough  to  give  it  a 


place  in  your  collection,  please  return  it. 
The  song  you  may  keep,  as  I remember  it. 

[ Here  follows  the  song  of  “ Bonnie  /can.”] 

I have  some  thoughts  of  inserting  in 
your  index,  or  in  my  notes,  the  names  of 
the  fair  ones,  the  themes  of  my  songs.  I 
do  not  mean  the  name  at  full ; but  dashes 
or  asterisks,  so  as  ingenuity  may  find  their 
out. 

The  heroine  of  the  foregoing  is  Miss  M, 
daughter  to  Mr.  M.,  of  D.,  one  of  your 
subscribers.  I have  not  painted  her  in  the 
rank  which  she  holds  in  life,  but  in  the  dress 
and  character  of  a cottager. 


HO.  CCLXXVT. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

July,  1793. 

I assure  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  you 
truly  hurt  me  with  your  pecuniary  parcel. 
It  degrades  me  in  my  own  eyes.  However, 
to  return  it  would  savour  of  affectation; 
but,  as  to  any  more  traffic  of  that  debtor 
and  creditor  kind,  I swear,  by  that  Honour 
which  crowns  the  upright  statue  of  Robert 
Burns’s  Integrity — on  the  least  motion 
of  it,  I will  indignantly  spurn  the  by  past 
transaction,  and  from  that  moment  com- 
mence entire  stranger  to  you  ! Burns’s 
character  for  generosity  of  sentiment  and 
independence  of  mind,  will,  I trust,  long 
outlive  any  of  his  wants  which  the  cold 
unfeeling  ore  can  supply : — at  least,  I will 
take  care  that  such  a character  he  shall 
deserve. 

Thank  you  for  my  copy  of  your  publica- 
tion. Never  did  my  eyes  behold  in  any 
musical  work  such  elegance  and  correctness. 
Your  preface,  too,  is  admirably  written,  only 
your  partiality  to  me  has  made  you  say  too 
much : hdwever,  it  will  bind  me  down  to 
double  every  effort  in  the  future  progress  of 
the  work.  The  following  are  a few  remarks 
on  the  songs  in  the  list  you  sent  me.  I 
never  copy  what  I write  to  you,  so  I may 
be  often  tautological,  or  perhaps  con- 
tradictory. 

“ The  Flowers  o*  the  Forest,”  is  charming 
as  a poem,  and  should  be,  and  must  be,  set 
to  the  notes ; but,  though  out  of  your  rule, 
the  three  stanzas  beginning, 

"I  have  seen  the  smiling  o'  fortune  be* 
guiling,” 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS, 


are  worthy  of  a place,  were  it  but  to  im- 
mortalise the  author  of  them,  who  is  an  old 
lady  of  my  acquaintance,  aud  at  this 
moment  living  in  Edinburgh.  She  is  a 
Mrs.  Cockburn,  I forget  of  what  place,  but 
from  Roxburghshire.  (167)  What  a charm- 
ing apostrophe  is 

“ Oh  fickle  fortune,  why  this  cruel  sporting. 
Why,  why  torment  us,  poor  sous  of  a day  1 ” 

The  old  ballad,  "I  wish  I were  where 
Helen  lies,”  is  silly,  to  contemptibility.  My 
alteration  of  it,  in  Johnson’s,  is  not  much 
better.  Mr.  Pinkerton,  in  his,  what  he  calls, 
ancient  ballads  (many  of  them  notorious, 
though  beautiful  enough,  forgeries),  has  the 
best  set.  It  is  full  of  his  own  interpolations 
- — but  no  matter. 

In  my  next,  I will  suggest  to  your  con- 
sideration a few  songs  which  may  have 
escaped  your  hurried  notice.  In  the  mean- 
time, allow  me  to  congratulate  you  now,  as  a 
brother  of  the  quill.  You  have  committed 
your  character  and  fame,  which  will  now  be 
tried,  for  ages  to  come,  by  the  illustrious 
jury  of  the  Sons  and  Daughters  op 
Taste — all  whom  poesy  can  please,  or 
music  charm. 

Being. a bard  of  nature,  I have  some  pre- 
tensions to  second  sight;  and  I am  war- 
ranted by  the  spirit  to  fortell  and  affirm, 
that  your  great-grand-child  will  hold  up 
your  volumes,  and  say,  with  honest  pride, 
“ This  so  much  admired  selection  was  the 
work  of  my  ancestor  l ** 


NO.  CCLXXVII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  August  1st,  1793. 

Dear  Sir — I had  the  pleasure  of  receiving 
your  last  two  letters,  and  am  happy  to  find 
you  are  quite  pleased  with  the  appearance  of 
the  first  book.  When  you  come  to  hear  die 
songs  sung  and  accompanied,  you  will  be 
charmed  with  them. 

“The  bonnie  brocket  lassie”  certainly  de- 
serves better  verses,  and  I hope  you  will 
match  her.  “Canid  kail  in  Aberdeen,”  “Let 
me  in  this  ane  night,”  and  several  of  the  live- 
lier airs,  wait  the  muse’s  leisure;  these  are 
peculiarly  worthy  of  her  choice  gifts;  besides, 
you’ll  notice,  that  in  airs  of  this  sort  the 
singer  can  always  do  greater  justice  to  the 
poet,  than  in  the  slower  airs  of  “The  bush 
iboon  Traquair,”  “ Lord  Gregory,”  and  the 


like;  for,  in  the  manner  the  latter  w«a 
frequently  sung,  you  must  be  contented 
with  the  sound,  without  the  sense.  Indeed, 
both  the  airs  and  words  are  disguised  by  the 
very  slow,  languid,  psalm-singing  style  in 
which  they  are  too  often  performed ; they 
lose  animation  and  expression  altogether, 
and,  instead  of  speaking  to  the  mind,  or 
touching  the  heart,  they  cloy  upon  the  ear, 
and  set  us  a-yawning ! 

Your  ballad,  “ There  was  a Lass,  and  she 
was  fair,”  is  simple  and  beautiful,  and  shalb 
undoubtedly  grace  my  collection. 


NO.  CCLXXVIII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

My  Dear  Thomson — I hold  the  pen 
for  our  friend  Clarke,  who  at  present  ia 
studying  the  music  of  the  spheres  at  my 
elbow.  The  Georgium  Sidus  he  thinks  ia 
rather  out  of  tune ; so,  until  he  rectify  that 
matter,  he  cannot  stoop  to  terrestrial 
affairs. 

He  sends  you  six  of  the  rondeau  subjects, 
and  if  more  are  wanted,  he  says  you  shall 
have  them.  R.  B. 

Confound  your  long  stairs  ! 

S.  Clarke. 


no.  CCLXXIX. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

Your  objection,  my  dear  Sir,  to  the  pas- 
sages in  my  song  of  “Logan  Water,”  ia 
right  in  one  instance  ; but  it  is  difficult  to 
mend  it : if  I can,  I will.  The  other  passage 
you  object  to  doe3  not  appear  in  the  same 
light  to  me. 

I have  tried  my  hand  on  “ Robin  Adair/* 
and,  you  will  probably  think,  with  little 
success  ; but  it  is  such  si  cursed,  cramp,  out- 
of-the-way  measure,  that  I despair  of  doing 
anything  better  to  it. 

[Here  follows  uPhllis  the  Fair.”'] 

So  much  for  namby-pamby.  I may,  after 
all,  try  my  hand  on  it  in  Scots  verse.  There 
I always  find  myself  most  at  home. 

I have  just  put  the  last  hand  to  the  song 
I meant  for  “ Cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen.” 


BURNS  TO  MIL  THOMSON, 


406 


It  suits  you  to  insert  /t,  I shall  be  pleased,  as 
the  heroine  is  a favourite  of  mine  ; if  not,  I 
shall  also  be  pleased ; because  I wish,  and 
will  be  glad  to  see  you  act  decidedly  in  the 
business.  ’Tis  a tribute  as  a man  of  taste, 
and  as  an  editor,  which  you  owe  yourself. 


NO.  CCLXXX. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

August , 1793. 

Mr  Good  Sir — I consider  it  one  of  the 
most  agreeable  circumstances  attending  this 
publication  of  mine,  that  it  has  procured  me 
so  many  of  your  much- valued  epistles.  Pray 
make  my  acknowledgements  to  St.  Stephen 
for  the  tunes ; tell  him  I admit  the  justness 
of  his  complaint  on  my  staircase,  conveyed 
in  his  laconic  postscript  to  your  jeu  desprit, 
which  I perused  more  than  once,  without 
discovering  exactly  whether  your  discussion 
was  music,  astronomy,  or  politics  ! though  a 
sagacious  friend,  acquainted  with  the  con- 
vivial habits  of  the  poet  and  the  musician, 
offered  me  a bet  of  two  to  one  you  were  just 
drowning  care  together ; that  an  empty 
bowl  was  the  only  thing  that  would  deeply 
affect  you,  and  the  only  matter  you  could 
then  study  how  to  remedy  ! 

I shall  be  glad  to  see  you  give  "Robin 
Adair”  a Scottish  dress.  Peter  is  furnishing 
him  with  an  English  suit  for  a change,  and 
you  are  well  matched  together.  Robin’s  air 
is  excellent,  though  he  certainly  has  an  out- 
of  the- way  measure  as  ever  poor  Parnassian 
wight  was  plagued  with.  I wish  you  would 
invoke  tire  muse  for  a single  elegant  stanza 
to  be  substituted  for  the  concluding  objec- 
tionable verses  of  “Down  the  Burn  Davie,” 
bo  that  this  most  exquisite  song  may  no 
longer  be  excluded  from  good  company. 

Mr.  Allan  has  made  an  inimitable  drawing 
from  your  “ John  Anderson,  my  jo,”  which 
I am  to  have  engraved  as  a frontispiece  to 
the  humorous  class  of  songs ; you  will  be 
quite  charmed  with  it,  I promise  you.  The 
old  couple  are  seated  by  the  fireside.  Mrs. 
Anderson,  in  great  good  humour,  is  clapping 
John’s  shoulders,  while  he  smiles  and  looks 
at  her  with  such  glee,  as  to  show  that  he 
fully  recdlects  the  pleasant  days  and  nignts 
when  they  were  “first  acquent/’  The 
drawing  would  do  honour  to  X gtncil  of 
Teniers, 


NO.  CCLXXXI. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

That  crinkum-crankum  tune,  “RoVin 
Adair,”  has  run  so  in  my  head,  and  I suc- 
ceeded so  ill  in  my  last  attempt,  that  I have 
ventured,  in  this  morning’s  walk,  one  essay 
more.  You,  my  dear  Sir,  will  remember  an 
unfortunate  part  of  our  worthy  frieud  Cun- 
ningham’s story,  which  happened  about 
three  years  ago.  That  struck  my  fancy,  and 
I endeavoured  to  do  the  idea  justice  &a 
follows 

[ Here  follows  “ Had  I a Caved"] 

By  the  way,  I have  met  with  a musical 
Highlander  in  Breadalbane’s  Fencibles,  which 
are  quartered  here,  who  assures  me  that  he 
well  remembers  his  mother  singing  Gaelic 
songs  to  both  “ Robin  Adair”  and  “ Grama- 
chree.”  They  certainly  have  more  of  tha 
Scotch  than  Irish  taste  in  them. 

This  man  comes  from  the  vicinity  ol 
Inverness : so  it  could  not  be  any  intercourse 
with  Ireland  that  could  bring  them ; except, 
what  I shrewdly  suspect  to  be  the  case,  the 
wandering  minstrels,  harpers  and  pipers, 
used  to  go  frequently  errant  through  the 
wilds  both  of  Scotland  and  Ireland,  and  so 
some  favourite  airs  might  be  common  to  both. 
A case  in  point — they  have  lately,  in  Irelaud, 
published  an  Irish  air,  as  they  say,  called 
“Caun  du  delis.”  The  fact  is,  in  a publication 
of  Gorri’s,  a great  while  ago,  you  will  find 
the  same  air,  called  a Highland  one,  with  a 
Gaelic  song  set  to  it.  Its  name  there,  I 
think,  i3  “Oran  Gaoil,”  and  a fine  air  it  is. 
Do  ask  honest  Allan,  or  the  Rev.  Gaelir 
parson,  about  these  matters. 


NO.  CCLXXXII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

My  Dear  Sir — “Let  me  in  this  ane 
night,”  I will  reconsider.  I am  glad  that  you 
are  pleased  with  my  song,  “ Had  I a Cave/* 
&c.,  as  I liked  it  myself. 

I walked  out  yesterday  evening  with  a 
volume  of  the  Museum  in  my  hand,  whe^, 
turning  up  “Allan  Water,”  “What  numbers 
shall  the  muse  repeat,”  &c.,  as  the  words 
appeared  to  me  rather  unworthy  of  so  fine 
»n  air,  and  recollecting  that  it  is  on  your 
list  I sat  and  raved  under  the  shade  ef  m 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


old  thorn,  till  I wrote  one  to  suit  the  measure. 
I may  be  wrong;  but  I think  it  is  not  in  my 
worst  style.  You  must  know,  that  in  Ram- 
fay’s  'lea-table,  where  the  modern  song  first 
appeared,  the  ancient  name  of  the  tune, 
Allan  says,  is  “ Allan  Water,”  or  “ My  love 
Annie’s  very  bonnie”.  This  last  has  cer- 
tainly been  a line  of  the  original  song ; so  I 
took  up  the  idea,  and,  as  you  will  see,  have 
introduced  the  line  in  its  place,  which  I 
presume  it  formerly  occupied;  though  I like- 
wise give  you  a choosing  line,  if  it  should 
not  hit  the  cut  of  your  fancy : 

[Here  follows  “By  Allan  stream  I chanc'd 
to  rove 

Bravo ! say  I ; it  is  a good  song.  Should 
you  think  so  too  (not  else),  you  can  set  the 
music  to  it,  and  let  the  other  follow  as 
English  verses. 

Autumn  is  ray  propitious  season.  I make 
more  verses  in  it  than  all  the  year  else. 
God  bless  you  1 


MO.  CCLXXXIII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

Is  “Whistle  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my 
lad,”  one  of  your  airs  ? I admire  it  much ; 
and  yesterday  I set  the  following  verses  to 
it.  Urbani,  whom  I have  met  with  here, 
begged  them  of  me,  as  he  admires  the  air 
much;  but  as  I understand  that  he  looks 
with  rather  an  evil  eye  on  your  work,  I did 
not  choose  to  comply.  However,  if  the  song 
does  not  suit  your  taste,  I may  possibly  send 
it  him.  The  set  of  the  air  which  I had  in 
my  eye  is  in  Johnson’s  Museum. 

[ Here  follows  “ Oh  whistle,  and  I’ll  come 
to  you”] 

Another  favourite  air  of  mine  is,  “The 
muckin’  o’  Geordie’s  byre.”  When  sung 
slow,  with  expression,  I have  wished  that  it 
fcad  had  better  poetry ; that  I have  endea- 
voured to  supply  as  follows 

[ Here  he  gives  the  song  “ Adown  winding 
Nith**] 

Mr.  Clarke  begs  you  to  give  Miss  Phillis 
a corner  in  your  book,  as  she  is  a particular 
flame  of  his.  She  is  a Miss  Phillis  M‘Murdo, 
•istpr  to  “Bonnie  Jean.”  They  are  both 
pupils  of  his.  You  shall  hear  from  me,  the 
very  firsj;  g‘  ist  I get  from  my  rhyming-mill. 


NO.  CCLXXXIV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

That  tune,  “Cauld  kail,”  is  such  a fa?o 
rite  of  yours,  that  I once  more  roved  out 
yesterday  for  gloamin-shotat  the  muses  (168); 
when  the  muse  that  presides  o’er  the  shore# 
of  Nith,  or  rather  my  old  inspiring  dearest 
nymph,  Coila,  whispered  me  the  following. 
I have  two  reasons  for  thinking  that  it  was 
my  early,  sweet,  simple  inspirer  that  was  by 
my  elbow,  “smooth  gliding  without  step/* 
and  pouring  the  song  on  my  glowdng  fancy;— 
In  the  first  place,  since  I left  Coila’s  native 
haunts,  not  a fragment  of  a poet  ha3  arisen 
to  cheer  her  solitary  musings,  by  catching 
inspiration  from  her,  so  I more  than  suspect 
that  she  has  followed  me  hither,  or,  at  least, 
makes  me  occasional  visits;  secondly,  the 
last  stanza  of  this  song  I send  you,  is  in  the 
very  words  that  Coila  taught  me  many  years 
ago,  and  which  I set  to  an  old  Scots  reel  in 
Johnson’s  Museum. 

[ Here  follows  “ Come,  let  me  take  thee**] 

If  you  think  the  above  will  suit  your  idea 
of  your  favourite  air,  I shall  be  highly 
pleased.  “The  last  time  I came  o’er  the 
moor  ” I cannot  meddle  with,  as  to  mending 
it ; and  the  musical  world  have  been  so  long 
accustomed  to  Ramsay’s  words,  that  a 
different  song,  though  positively  superior, 
would  not  be  so  well  received.  I am  not 
fond  of  choruses  to  songs,  so  1 have  not 
made  one  for  the  foregoing. 


MO.  CCLXXXV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON.  (169) 
August,  1793. 

So  much  for  Davie.  The  chorus,  you 
know,  is  to  the  low  part  of  the  tune.  See 
Clarke’s  set  of  it  in  the  Museum. 

N.B.  In  the  Museum  they  have  drawled 
out  the  tune  to  twelve  lines  of  poetry,  which 

is  nonsense.  Four  lines  of  song, 

and  four  of  chorus,  is  the  way. 


NO.  CCLXXXVL 
TO  MISS  CRAIK.  (170) 

Dumfries,  August,  1793. 
Madam — Some  rather  unlooked-for  acci- 
I dents  have  prevented  my  doing  myself  ihi 


TO  LADY  GLEN CAIRN. 


407 


honour  < ? a second  visit  to  Arbigland,  as  I 
was  so  hospitably  invited,  and  so  positively 
meant  to  have  done.  However,  I still  hope 
to  have  that  pleasure  before  the  busy 
morths  of  harvest  begin. 

I enclose  you  two  of  my  late  pieces,  as 
some  kind  of  return  for  the  pleasure  I have 
received  in  perusing  a certain  MS.  volume  of 
poems  in  the  possession  of  Captain  Riddel. 
To  repay  one  with  an  old  song,  is  a proverb, 
whose  force,  you,  Madam,  I know,  will  not 
allow.  What  is  said  of  illustrious  descent 
is,  I believe,  equally  true  of  a talent  for 
poetry — none  ever  despised  it  who  had  pre- 
tensions to  it.  The  fates  and  characters  of 
the  rhyming  tribe  often  employ  my  thoughts 
when  I am  disposed  to  be  melancholy.  There 
is  not,  among  all  the  martyrologies  that 
ever  were  penned,  so  rueful  a narrative  as 
the  lives  of  the  poets.  In  the  comparative 
view  of  wretches,  the  criterion  is  not  what 
they  are  doomed  to  suffer,  but  how  they 
are  formed  to  bear.  Take  a being  of  our 
kind,  give  him  a stronger  imagination  and 
a more  delicate  sensibility,  which  between 
them  will  ever  engender  a more  ungovern- 
able set  of  passions  than  are  the  usual  lot 
of  man ; implant  in  him  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse to  some  idle  vagary,  such  as  arranging 
wild  flowers  in  fantastical  nosegays,  tracing 
the  grasshopper  to  his  haunt  by  his  chirp- 
ing song,  watching  the  frisks  of  the  little 
minnows  in  the  sunny  pool,  or  hunting  after 
the  intrigues  of  butterflies — in  short,  send 
him  adrift  after  some  pursuit  which  shall 
eternally  mislead  him  from  the  paths  of 
lucre,  and  yet  curse  him  with  a keener 
relish  than  any  man  living  for  the  pleasures 
that  lucre  can  purchase ; lastly,  fill  up  the 
measure  of  his  woes  by  bestowing  on  him  a 
spurning  sense  of  his  own  dignity — and  you 
have  created  a wight  nearly  as  miserable  as 
a poet.  To  you.  Madam,  I need  not  recount 
the  fairy  pleasures  the  muse  bestows,  to 
counterbalance  this  catalogue  of  evils.  Be- 
witching poetry  is  like  bewitching  woman : 
she  has,  in  all  ages,  been  accused  of  mislead- 
ing mankind  from  the  councils  of  wisdom 
and  the  paths  of  prudence,  involving  them 
in  difficulties,  baiting  them  with  poverty, 
bran  ling  them  with  infamy,  and  plunging 
them  in  the  whirling  vortex  of  ruin ; yet, 
where  is  the  man  but  must  own  that  all  our 
happiness  on  earth  is  not  worthy  the  name — 
that  even  the  holy  hermit’s  solitary  prospect 
of  paradisiacal  bliss  is  but  the  glitter  of  a 
northern  sun  rising  over  a frozen  region, 
compared  with  the  many  pleasures,  the 
nameless  raptures,  that  we  owe  to  the  lovely 
^t&een  of  the  heart  of  man ! R.  B. 


NO.  CCLLXXVII. 

TO  LADY  GLENCAIRN  (171). 

My  Lady — The  honour  you  have  dene 
your  poor  poet,  in  writing  him  so  very 
obliging  a letter,  and  the  pleasure  the  en- 
closed beautiful  verses  have  given  him,  came 
very  seasonably  to  his  aid,  amid  the  cheerless 
gloom  and  sinking  despondency  of  diseased 
nerves  and  December  weather.  A3  to  for- 
getting the  family  of  Glencairn,  Heaven  ia 
my  witness  with  what  sincerity  I could  use 
those  old  verses,  which  please  me  more  in 
their  rude  simplicity  than  the  most  elegant 
lines  I ever  saw. 

“If  thee,  Jerusalem,  I forget. 

Skill  part  from  my  right  hand. 

My  tongue  to  my  mouth’s  roof  let  cleave^  f 
If  I do  thee  forget, 

Jerusalem,  and  thee  above 
My  chief  joy  do  not  set.* 

When  I am  tempted  to  do  anything  im- 
proper, I dare  not,  because  I look  on  myself 
as  accountable  to  your  ladyship  and  family. 
Now  and  then,  when  I have  the  honour  to 
be  called  to  the  tables  of  the  great,  if  I 
happen  to  meet  with  any  mortification  from 
the  stately  stupidity  of  self-sufficient  squires, 
or  the  luxurious  insolence  of  upstart  nabobs, 
1 get  above  the  creatures  by  calling  to  re- 
membrance that  I am  patronised  by  the  noble 
house  of  Glencairn  ; and  at  gala-times,  such 
as  New-year’s  day,  a christening,  or  the  kirn- 
night,  when  my  punch-bowl  is  brought  from 
its  dusty  corner,  and  filled  up  in  honour  of 
the  occasion,  I begin  with — The  Countess  of 
Glencairn  ! My  good  woman,  with  the  en- 
thusiasm of  a grateful  heart,  next  cries.  My 
Lord ! and  so  the  toast  goes  on  until  I end 
with  Lady  Harriet's  little  angel ! (172) 
whose  epithalamium  I have  pledged  myself 
to  write. 

When  I received  your  ladyship’s  letter,  I 
was  just  in  the  act  of  transcribing  for  you 
some  verses  I have  lately  composed ; and 
meant  to  have  sent  them  my  first  leisure 
hour,  and  acquainted  you  with  my  late 
change  of  life.  I mentioned  to  my  lord  my 
fears  concerning  my  farm.  Those  fears’  were 
indeed  too  true ; it  is  a bargain  would  have 
ruined  me,  but  for  the  lucky  circumstance 
of  my  having  an  Excise  commission. 

People  may  talk  as  they  please  of  the  ig- 
nominy of  the  Excise ; £50  a year  will  sup- 
port my  wife  and  children,  and  keep  me 
independent  of  the  world ; and  I would 
much  Tather  have  it  said  that  my  profession 
borrowed  credit  from  me,  than  that  I bor- 
rowed credit  from  my  profession.  Another 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


advantage  I have  in  this  business,  is  the 
knowledge  it  gives  me  of  the  various  shades 
of  human  character,  consequently  assisting 
me  vastly  in  my  poetic  pursuits.  I had  the 
most  ardent  enthusiasm  for  the  muses  when 
nobody  knew  me  but  myself,  and  that  ardour 
is  by  no  means  cooled,  now  that  my  Lord 
Glencairn’s  goodness  has  introduced  me  to 
all  the  world.  Not  that  I am  in  haste  for 
the  press.  I have  no  idea  of  publishing,  else 
I certainly  had  consulted  my  noble  generous 
patron ; but  after  acting  the  part  of  an 
honest  man,  and  supporting  my  family,  my 
whole  wishes  and  views  are  directed  to 
poetic  pursuits.  I am  aware  that,  though  I 
were  to  give  performances  to  the  world  supe- 
rior to  my  former  works , still,  if  they  were 
of  the  same  kind  with  those,  the  compara- 
tive reception  they  would  meet  with,  would 
nortify  me.  I have  turned  my  thoughts  on 
the  drama.  I do  not  mean  the  stately 
buskin  of  the  tragic  muse. 

Does  not  your  ladyship  think  that  an 
Edinburgh  theatre  would  be  more  amused 
with  affectation,  folly,  and  whim  of  true 
Scottish  growth,  than  manners,  which  by  far 
the  greatest  part  of  the  audience  can  only 
know  at  second  hand?  I have  the  honour 
to  be,  your  ladyship’s  ever  devoted  and  grate- 
ful humble  servant,  R.  JB. 


NO.  CCLXXXVIII. 

ME.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Sept.  1st,  1793. 

My  Dear  Sir — Since  writing  you  last,  I 
have  received  half  a dozen  songs,  with  which 
I am  delighted  beyond  expression.  The 
humour  and  fancy  of  “ Whistle,  and  I’ll 
come  to  you,  my  lad,”  will  render  it  nearly 
as  great  a favourite  as  “ Duncan  Gray.” 
•‘Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast,” 
“Adown  winding  Nith,”  and  “By  Allan 
stream,”  &c.,  are  full  of  imagination  and 
feeling,  and  sweetly  suit  the  airs  for  which 
they  are  intended.  “ Had  I a cave  on  some 
wild  distant  shore,”  is  a striking  and  affect- 
ing composition.  Our  friend,  to  whose  story 
it  refers,  reads  it  with  a swelling  heart,  I 
assure  you.  The  union  we  are  now  forming, 
1 think,  can  never  be  broken ; these  songs 
©f  yours  will  descend,  with  the  music,  to  the 
latest  posterity,  and  will  be  fondly  cherished 
60  long  as  geniu3,  taste,  aud  sensibility, 
«iist  in  our  island. 


| Whilst  the  muse  seems  so  propitious,  I 
I think  it  right  to  enclose  a list  of  all  the 
favours  I have  to  ask  of  her — no  fewer  than 
twenty  and  three!  I have  burdened  the 
p’easant  Peter  with  as  many  as  it  is  probable 
he  will  attend  to;  most  of  the  remaining 
airs  would  puzzle  the  English  poet  not  a 
little — they  are  of  that  peculiar  measure  and 
rhythm,  that  they  must  be  familiar  to  him 
who  writes  for  them. 


NO.  CCLXXXIX. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Sept,  1793. 

You  may  readily  trust,  my  dear  Sir,  that 
any  exertion  in  my  power  is  heartily  at  your 
service.  But  one  thing  I must  hint  to  you ; 
the  very  name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  of  great 
service  to  your  publication,  so  get  a versa 
from  him  now  and  then ; though  I have  no 
objection,  as  well  as  I can,  to  bear  the  burden 
of  the  business. 

You  know  that  my  pretensions  to  musical 
taste  are  merely  a few  of  nature’s  instincts, 
untaught  and  untutored  %y  art.  For  this 
reason,  many  musical  compositions,  particu. 
larly  where  much  of  the  merit  lies  in  coun- 
terpoint, however  they  may  transport  and 
ravish  the  ears  of  you  connoisseurs,  affect 
my  simple  lug  no  otherwise  than  merely  as 
melodious  din.  On  the  other  hand,  by  way 
of  amends,  I am  delighted  with  many  little 
melodies,  which  the  learned  musician  despises 
as  silly  and  insipid.  I do  not  know  whether 
the  old  air,  “ Hey  tuttie  taitie,”  may  rank 
among  this  number ; but  well  I know  that, 
with  Frazer’s  hautboy,  it  has  often  filled  my 
eyes  with  tears.  There  is  a tradition,  which 
I have  met  with  in  many  places  in  Scotland, 
that  it  was  Robert  Bruce’s  march  at  the 
battle  of  Bannockburn.  This  thought,  in 
my  solitary  wanderings,  warmed  me  to  a 
pitch  of  enthusiasm  on  the  theme  of  liberty 
and  independence,  which  I threw  into  a kind 
of  Scottish  ode,  fitted  to  the  air,  that  one 
might  suppose  to  be  the  gallant  Royal  Scot’s 
address  to  his  heroic  followers  oi  that 
eventful  morning. 

BRUCE  TO  HIS  MEN  AT  BANNOCK. 
BURN. 

Tune — Hey  tuttie  taitie. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 

Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  lei^ 

Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 

Dr  to  victory ! 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 


409 


Now’s  the  day,  and  now’s  the  hour: 

See  the  front  o’  battle  lour : 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power— 
Chains  and  slavery. 

Wha  will  be  a traitor-knave  ? 

Wha  can  fill  a coward’s  grave? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 

Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw. 

Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa’. 

Let  him  follow  me  l 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains. 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 

But  they  shall  be  free! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 

Liberty’s  in  every  blow  ! — 

Let  us  do  or  die ! 

So  may  God  ever  defend  the  cause  of 
truth  and  liberty,  as  he  did  that  day ! 
Amen. 

P.S.  I showed  the  air  to  Urbani,  who  was 
highly  pleased  with  it,  and  begged  me  to 
make  soft  verses  for  it ; but  I had  no  idea 
of  giving  myself  any  trouble  on  the  subject, 
till  the  accidental  recollection  of  that  glorious 
struggle  for  freedom,  associated  with  the 
glowing  ideas  of  some  other  struggles  of  the 
same  nature,  not  quite  so  ancient,  roused  my 
rhyming  mania.  Clarke’s  set  of  the  tune, 
with  his  bass,  you  will  find  in  the  Museum, 
though  I am  afraid  that  the  air  is  not  what 
wall  entitle  it  to  a place  in  your  elegant 
selection. 


NO.  CCXC. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Sept.  1793. 

I dare  say,  my  dear  Sir,  that  you  will 
begin  to  think  my  correspondence  is  perse- 
cution. No  matter,  I can’t  help  it;  a ballad 
is  my  hobby-horse,  which,  though  otherwise 
a simple  sort  of  harmless  idiotical  beast 
enough,  has  yet  this  blessed  headstrong 
property,  that  when  once  it  has  fairly  made 
off  with  a hapless  wight,  it  gets  so  enamoured 
with  the  tingle-gingle,  tingle-gingle  of  its  ; 
own  bells,  that  it  is  sure  to  run  poor  pilgar- 
iick,  the  bedlam  jockey,  quite  beyond  any 
useful  point  or  post  in  the  common  race  of 
men. 


The  following  song  I have  composed  for 
u Oran-gaoil,”  the  Highland  air,  that,  you 
tell  me  in  your  last,  you  have  resolved  to 
give  a place  to  in  your  book.  I have  this 
moment  finished  the  song,  so  you  have  it 
glowing  from  the  mint.  If  it  suit  you,  weUl 
— If  not,  ’tis  also  well ! 

[Here  follow » “ Behold  the  Hour”] 


NO.  CCXCI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURN8. 

Edinburgh , Sept.  5th,  1793. 

I believe  it  is  generally  allowed  that 
the  greatest  modesty  is  the  sure  attendant  of 
the  greatest  merit.  While  you  are  sending 
me  verses  that  even  Shakspeare  might  be 
proud  to  own,  you  speak  of  them  as  if  they 
were  ordinary  productions ! Your  heroic 
ode  is  to  me  the  noblest  composition  of  the 
kind  in  the  Scottish  language.  I happened 
to  dine  yesterday  with  a party  of  your 
friends,  to  whom  I read  it.  They  were  all 
charmed  with  it ; entreated  me  to  find  out  a 
suitable  air  for  it,  and  reprobated  the  idea  of 
giving  it  a tune  so  totally  devoid  of  interest 
or  grandeur  as  “Hey  tuttie  taitie.”  Assuredly 
your  partiality  for  this  tune  must  arise  from 
the  ideas  associated  in  your  mind  by  the 
tradition  concerning  it,  for  I never  heard  any 
person, — and  I have  conversed  again  and 
again  with  the  greatest  enthusiasts  for  Scottish 
airs — I say,  I never  heard  any  one  speak  of 
it  as  worthy  of  notice. 

I have  been  running  over  the  whole  hun- 
dred airs,  of  which  I lately  sent  you  the  list ; 
and  I think  “ Lewie  Gordon”  is  most  happily 
adapted  to  your  ode ; at  least,  with  a very 
slight  variation  of  the  fourth  line,  which  I 
shall  presently  submit  to  you.  There  is  in 
“ Lewie  Gordon”  more  of  the  grand  than  the 
plaintive,  particularly  when  it  is  sung  with  a 
degree  of  spirit,  which  your  words  would 
oblige  the  singer  to  give  it.  I would  have 
no  scruple  about  substituting  your  ode  in 
the  room  of  “Lewie  Gordon,”  which  ha9 
neither  the  interest,  the  grandeur,  nor  the 
poetry,  that  characterise  your  verses.  Now, 
the  variation  I have  to  suggest  upon  the  last 
line  of  each  verse,  the  only  line  too  short  foi 
the  air  is  as  follows ; — 

Verse  1st,  Or  to  glorious  victors 

2nd,  Chains — chains  and  slavery. 

3rd,  Let  him,  let  him  turn  and  deft 


410 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


4th,  Let  him  bravely  follow  me. 

5t‘n,  But  they  shall,  they  shall  be  free. 

6 th,  Let  us,  let  us  do  or  die ! 

If  you  connect  each  line  with  its  own 
Terse,  I do  not  think  you  will  find  that 
either  the  sentiment  or  the  expression  loses 
any  of  its  energy.  The  only  line  which  I 
dislike  in  the  whole  song  is,  “ Welcome  to 
your  gory  bed.”  Would  not  another  word 
he  preferable  to  “ welcome  ? ” In  your  next 
I will  expect  to  be  informed  whether  you 
agree  to  what  I have  proposed.  The  little 
alterations  J submit  with  the  greatest  defer- 
ence. 

The  beauty  oi  the  verses  you  have  made 
for  “ Oran-gaoil”  will  ensure  celebrity  to  the 

air. 


no.  ccxcu. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Sept.  1793. 

I have  received  your  list,  my  dear  Sir, 
and  here  go  my  observations  on  it.  (173) 

“ Down  the  Burn  Davie.”  I have  this 
moment  tried  an  alteration,  leaving  out  the 
last  half  of  the  third  stanza,  and  the  first 
half  of  the  last  stanza,  thus  : — 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way. 

And  thro’  the  flowery  dale ; 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay. 

And  love  was  aye  the  tale. 

With  “ Mary,  when  shall  we  return. 

Sic  pleasure  to  renew  ? ” 

Quoth  Mary,  “ Love  I like  the  burn. 

And  aye  shall  follow  you.”  (174) 

“ Thro’  the  wood  laddie” — I am  decidedly 
Of  opinion,  that,  both  in  this,  and  “ There’ll 
never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame,”  the 
second  or  high  part  of  the  tune  being  a 
repetition  of  the  first  part  an  octave  higher, 
is  only  for  instrumental  music,  and  would  be 
much  better  omitted  in  singing. 

“ Cowden-knowes.”  Remember  in  your 
index  that  the  song  in  pure  English  to  this 
tune,  beginning, 

When  lummer  comes,  the  swains  on  Tweed, 

is  the  production  of  Crawford.  Robert  was 
his  Christian  name. 

“ Laddie,  lie  near  me,”  must  lie  by  me  for 
some  time.  I do  not  know  the  air;  and 
until  I am  complete  master  of  a tune,  in  my 
own  singing  (such  a3  it  is),  I can  never  com- 
pose for  it.  My  way  is:  I consider  the 
poetic  sentiment  correspondent  to  my  idea 


of  the  musical  expression;  then  choose  my 
theme ; begin  one  stanza : when  that  is 
composed,  which  is  generally  the  most  diffi- 
cult part  of  the  business,  I walk  out,  sit 
down  now  and  then,  look  out  for  objects  in 
nature  around  me  that  are  in  unison  and 
harmony  with  the  cogitations  of  my  fancy, 
and  workings  of  my  bosom;  humming  every 
now  and  then  the  air  with  the  verses  I have 
framed.  When  I feel  my  muse  beginning  to 
jade,  I retire  to  the  solitary  fireside  of  my 
study,  and  there  commit  my  effusions  to 
paper;  swinging  at  intervals  on  the  hind- 
legs of  my  elbow  chair,  by  way  of  calling 
forth  my  own  critical  strictures  as  my  pea 
goes  on.  Seriously,  this,  at  home,  is  almost 
invariably  my  way. 

What  cursed  egotism ! 

“ Gill  Morice”  I am  for  leaving  out.  It  is 
a plaguy  length;  the  air  itself  is  never 
sung ; and  its  place  can  well  be  supplied  by 
one  or  two  songs  for  fine  airs  that  are  not 
in  your  list — for  instance,  “ Craigieburn 
wood”  and  " Roy’s  wife.”  The  first,  beside 
its  intrinsic  merit,  has  novelty ; and  the  last 
has  high  merit,  as  well  as.  great  celebrity.  I 
have  the  original  words  of  a song  for  the 
last  air,  in  the  handwriting  of  the  lady  who 
composed  it ; and  they  are  superior  to  any 
edition  of  the  song  which  the  public  has  yet 
seen. 

“ Highland-laddie.”  The  old  set  will 
please  a mere  Scotch  ear  best ; and  the  new 
an  Italianised  one.  There  is  a third,  and 
what  Oswald  calls  the  old  “ Highland- 
laddie,”  which  pleases  me  more  than  either 
of  them.  It  is  sometimes  called  “Ginglin 
Johnnie ;”  it  being  the  air  of  an  old  humo- 
rous tawdry  song  of  that  name.  You  will 
find  it  in  the  Museum,  “ I hae  been  at 
Crookieden,”  &c.  I would  advise  you,  in 
this  musical  quandary,  to  offer  up  your 
prayers  to  the  muses  for  inspiring  direction ; 
and,  in  the  meantime,  waiting  for  this  direc- 
tion, bestow  a libation  to  Bacchus ; and 
there  is  not  a doubt  but  you  will  hit  oa  a 
judicious  choice.  Probatum  est. 

“Auld  Sir  Simon”  I must  beg  you  to 
leave  out,  and  put  in  its  place  “ The 
Quaker’s  wife.” 

" Blythe  hae  I been  o’er  the  hill,”  is  one 
of  the  finest  songs  ever  I made  in  my  life, 
and,  besides,  is  composed  on  a young  lady, 
positively  the  most  beautiful,  lovely  woman 
in  the  world.  As  I purpose  giving  you  the 
names  and  designations  of  all  my  heroines, 
to  appear  in  some  future  edition  of  your 
work,  perhaps  half  a century  hence,  you 
must  certainly  include  “ The  bonniest  lass  i B 
a’  the  warld,”  in  your  collection. 


BURNS  TO  1 

**  Dainty  Davie”  I have  heard  sung  nine- 
teen thousand  rune  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
times,  and  always  with  the  chorus  to  the 
jfow  part  of  the  tune ; and  nothing  has 
surprised  me  so  much  as  your  opinion  on 
this  subject.  If  it  will  not  suit  as  I pro- 
posed, we  will  lay  two  of  the  stanzas 
together,  and  then  make  the  chorus  follow. 

u Fee  him,  father I enclose  you  Frazer’s 
set  of  thi3  tune  when  he  plays  it  slow : in 
fact,  he  makes  it  the  language  of  despair. 
I shall  here  give  you  two  stanzas,  in  that 
style,  merely  to  try  if  it  will  be  any  im- 
provement. (175)  Were  it  possible,  in  sing- 
ing, to  give  it  half  the  pathos  which  Frazer 
gives  it  in  playing,  it  would  make  an  ad- 
mirably pathetic  song.  I do  not  give  these 
verses  for  any  merit  they  have.  I composed 
them  at  the  time  in  which  “Pa*  e Allan’s 
mither  died — that  was,  about  the  back  o’ 
midnight;”  and  by  the  lee-side  of  a bowl 
of  punch,  which  had  overset  every  mortal  in 
company  except  the  hautbois  and  the  muse. 

[ Here  follows  “ Thou  hast  left  me  ever.”] 

* Jockie  and  Jenny”  I would  discard,  and 
in  its  place  would  put  “There’s  nae  luck 
about  the  house,”  which  has  a very  pleasant 
air,  and  which  is  positively  the  finest  love- 
ballad  in  that  style  in  the  Scottish,  or 
perhaps  in  any  other  language.  “When 
she  came  ben  she  bobbit,”  as  an  air,  is  more 
beautiful  than  either,  and  in  the  andante 
way  would  unite  with  a charming  senti- 
mental ballad. 

“Saw  ye  my  father?”  i9  one  of  my 
greatest  favourites.  The  evening  before 
last,  I wandered  out,  and  began  a tender 
song,  in  what  I think  is  its  native  style.  I 
must  premise,  that  the  old  way,  and  the  way 
to  give  most  effect,  is  to  have  no  starting- 
note,  as  the  fiddlers  call  it,  but  to  burst  at 
once  into  the  pathos.  Every  country  girl 
sings  “Saw  ye  my  father?”  &c. 

My  song  is  but  just  begun ; and  I should 
like,  before  I proceed,  to  know  your  opinion 
of  it.  I have  sprinkled  it  with  the  Scottish 
dialect,  but  it  may  be  easily  turned  into 
Correct  English.  (176) 

“Todlin  hame.”  Urbani  mentioned  an 
dea  of  his,  which  has  long  been  mine,  that 
his  air  is  highly  susceptible  of  pathos : 
accordingly,  you  will  soon  hear  him  at  your 
concert  try  it  to  a song  of  mine  in  the 
Museum,  “Ye  banks  and  braes  o’  bonnie 
l)uon.”  One  song  more,  and  I have  done ; 
“Auld  lang  syne.”  The  air  is  but  mediocre; 
hut  the  following  song,  the  old  song  of  the 
olden  times,  and  which  has  never  been  in 
print,  nor  even  in  manuscript,  until  I took  it 


[R.  THOMSON.  411 

down  from  an  old  man’s  sing  ng,  is  enough 
to  recommend  any  air. 

[Here  the  'poet  gives  “Auld  lang  syne!1] 

Now,  I suppose,  I have  tirec.  your  patience 
fairly.  You  must,  after  all  is  over,  have  a 
number  of  ballads,  properly  so  called.  “ Gill 
Morice,”  “Tranent  Muir,”  “ Macpherson’s 
farewell,”  “Battle  of  Sheriff- muir,”  or,  “We 
ran,  and  they  ran”  (I  know  the  author  of 
this  charming  ballad,  and  his  history), 
“ Hardiknute,”  “ Barbara  Allan”  (I  can 
furnish  a finer  set  of  this  tune  than  any 
that  has  yet  appeared) ; and  besides,  do  you 
know  that  I really  have  the  old  tune  to 
which  “The  cherry  and  the  slae”  was  sung, 
and  which  is  mentioned  as  a well-known  air 
in  “Scotland’s  Complaint,”  a book  published 
before  poor  Mary’s  days?  It  was  then 
called,  “ The  banks  o’  Helicon ; ” an  old 
poem  which  Pinkerton  has  brought  to  light. 
You  will  see  all  this  in  Ty tier’s  History  of 
Scottish  Music.  The  tune,  to  a iearned  ear, 
may  have  no  great  merit ; but  it  is  a great 
curiosity.  I have  a good  many  original 
things  of  this  kind. 


NO.  CCXCIIL 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

I am  happy,  my  dear  Sir,  that  my  ode 
pleases  you  so  much.  Your  idea,  “ honour’s 
bed,”  is,  though  a beautiful,  a hackneyed 
idea ; so,  if  you  please,  we  will  let  the  line 
stand  as  it  is.  I have  altered  the  song  at 
follows 

BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT  BRUCE’S  ADDRESS  TO  IIIS  ARM  It 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 

Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led. 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed ! 

Or  to  glorious  victory ! 

Now’s  the  day,  and  now’s  the  hour; 

See  the  front  o’  battle  lour ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power  1 
Edward  ! chains  and  slavery. 

Wha  will  he  a traitor  knave  ? 

Wha  can  fill  a coward’s  grave  P 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a slave  ? 

Traitor  ! coward ! turn,  and  fletl 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


Wha  for  Scotland’3  king  ’and  law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeiaan  stand,  or  freeman  fa’, 

Sodger ! hero ! on  wi’  me  ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains ! 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be — shall  be  free! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  1 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 

Liberty’s  in  every  blow ! 

Forward!  let  us  do  or  die! 

N.B.  I have  borrowed  the  last  stanza 
from  the  common  stall  edition  of  Wallace — 

A false  usurper  sinks  in  every  foa 
And  liberty  returns  with  every  blow. 

A couplet  worthy  of  Homer.  Yesterday 
you  had  enough  of  my  correspondence.  The 
post  goes,  and  my  head  aches  miserably. 
One  comfort ! I suffer  so  much,  just  now,  in 
S&ds  world,  for  last  night’s  joviality,  that  I 
shall  escape  scot-free  for  it  in  the  world  to 
come.  Amen. 


NO.  CCXCIV. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

September  12  th,  1793. 

A thousand  thanks  to  you,  my  dear 
Sir,  for  your  observations  on  the  list  of  my 
songs.  I am  happy  to  find  your  ideas  so 
much  in  unison  with  my  own,  respecting  the 
generality  of  the  airs,  as  well  as  the  verses. 
About  some  of  them  we  differ,  but  there  is 
no  disputing  about  hobby-horses.  I shall 
not  fail  to  profit  by  the  remarks  you  make, 
and  to  re-consider  the  whole  with  attention. 

“ Dainty  Davie”  must  be  sung,  two  stanzas 
together,  and  then  the  chorus:  ’tis  the 
proper  way.  I agree  with  you,  that  there 
may  be  something  of  pathos,  or  tenderness 
at  least,  in  the  air  of  “Fee  him,  father,” 
when  performed  with  feeling ; but  a tender 
cast  may  be  given  almost  to  any  lively  air,  if 
you  sing  it  very  slowly,  expressively,  and 
witL  serious  words.  I am,  however,  clearly 
and  invariably  for  retaining  the  cheerful 
tunes  ‘joined  to  their  own  humorous  verses, 
wherever  the  verses  are  passable.  But  the 
sweet  song  for  “Fee  him,  father,”  which 
you  began  about  the  back  of  midnight,  I 
will  publish  as  an  additional  one.  Mr. 
Jamea  Balfour,  the  king  of  good  fellows. 


and  the  best  singer  of  the  lively  Scottish 
ballads  that  ever  existed,  has  charmed  thou- 
sands of  companies  with  “ Fee  him,  father,’* 
and  with  “Todlin  hame”  also,  to  the  old 
words,  which  never  should  be  disunited  from 
either  of  these  airs.  Some  bacchanals  I 
would  wish  to  discard.  “ Fy  ! let’s  a’  to  the 
bridal,”  for  instance,  is  so  coarse  and  vulgar, 
that  I think  it  fit  only  to  be  sung  in  a con> 
pany  of  drunken  colliers  ; and  “ Saw  ye  my 
father?”  appears  to  me  both  indelicate  and 
silly. 

One  word  more  with  regard  to  your  heroic 
ode.  I think,  with  great  deference  to  the 
poet,  that  a prudent  general  would  avoid 
saying  any  thing  to  his  soldiers  which  might 
tend  to  make  death  more  frightful  than  it  is. 
“ Gory”  presents  a disagreeable  image  to  the 
mind;  and  to  tell  them  “Welcome  to  your 
gory  bed,”  seems  rather  a discouraging 
address,  notwithstanding  the  alternative 
which  follows.  I have  shown  the  song  to 
three  friends  of  excellent  taste,  and  each  of 
them  objected  to  this  line,  which  emboldens 
me  to  use  the  freedom  of  bringing  it  again 
under  your  notice.  I would  suggest. 

Now  prepare  for  honour’s  bed, 

Or  for  glorious  victory ! 


no.  ccxcv. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

“ Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disa- 
gree ?”  My  ode  pleases  me  so  much  that  1 
cannot  alter  it.  Your  proposed  alterations 
would,  in  my  opinion,  make  it  tame.  I am 
exceedingly  obliged  to  you  for  putting  me 
on  reconsidering  it,  as/ 1 think,  I have  much 
improved  it.  Instead  of  “ sodger ! hero  ! ” 
I will  have  it  “ Caledonian  ! on  wi’  me ! ” 

I have  scrutinized  it  over  and  over ; and 
to  the  world,  some  way  or  other,  it  shall  go 
as  it  is.  At  the  same  time,  it  will  not  in  the 
least  hurt  me  should  you  leave  it  out  alto- 
gether, and  adhere  to  your  first  intention  of 
adopting  Logan’s  verses.  (177) 

I have  finished  my  song  to  “ Saw  ye  my 
father?”  and  in  English,  as  you  will  see. 
That  there  is  a syllable  too  much  for  the  ex- 
pression of  the  air,  is  true ; but,  allow  me  to 
say,  that  the  mere  dividing  of  a dotted 
crotchet  into  a crotchet  and  a quaver,  is  not 
a great  matter  : however,  in  that  I hnre  no 
pretension*  to  cope  in  judgi  lent  with  you  0/ 


BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON 


tba  poetry  I speak  with  confidence  ; but  the 
music  is  a business  where  I hint  my  ideas 
with  the  utmost  diffidence. 

The  old  verses  have  merit,  though  un- 
equal, and  are  popular : my  advice  is  to  set 
the  air  to  the  old  words,  and  lev  mine  follow 
as  English  verses.  Here  they  are  : — 

[Here  follows  the  song  “Where  we  the  joys”] 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir ! the  post  goes,  so  I 
shall  defer  some  other  remarks  until  more 
.eisure. 


NO.  CCXCVI. 

BURNS  TO  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

I ha  vis  been  turning  over  some  volumes 
of  songs,  to  find  verses  whose  measures 
would  suit  the  airs  for  which  you  have 
allotted  me  to  find  English  songs. 

For  “Muirland  Willie,”  you  have,  in 
Ramsay’s  Tea-table  an  excellent  song,  be- 
ginning, “Ah,  why  those  tears  in  Nelly’s 
eyes?”  As  for  “The  Collier’s  dochter,” 
take  the  following  old  bacchanal : — 

[Here  follows  “ Deluded  swain , the 
pleasure”] 

The  faulty  line  in  Logan-Water,  I mend 
thus : — 

“ How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy 
rl  he  widow’s  tears,  the  orphan’s  cry  ?” 

The  song  otherwise  will  pass.  As  to 
*M‘Gregoria  Rua-Ruth.”  you  will  see  a 
song  of  mine  to  it,  with  a set  of  the  air 
superior  to  yours,  in  the  Museum,  vol.  ii. 
p.  181.  The  song  begins, 

“ Raving  winds  around  her  blowing.” 

Your  Irish  airs  are  pretty,  but  they  are 
downright  Irish.  If  they  were  like  the 
“Banks  of  Banna,”  for  instance,  though 
really  Irish,  yet  in  the  Scottish  taste,  you 
might  adopt  them.  Since  you  are  so  fond  of 
Irish  music,  what  say  you  to  twenty-five  of 
them  in  an  additional  number?  We  could 
easily  find  this  quantity  of  charming  airs : I 
will  take  care  that  you  shall  not  want  songs; 
and  I assure  you  that  you  would  find  it  the 
most  saleable  of  the  whole.  If  you  do  not 
approve  of  “Roy’s  wife,”  for  the  music’s 
sake,  w e shall  not  insert  it.  “ Deil  tak  the 
wars  ” is  a charaung  song ; so  is,  “ Saw  ye 
my  Peggy  ? ” “ There’s  nae  luck  about  the 

house  ” well  deser/es  a place.  I cannot  say 
that  “ O’er  the  hills  and  far  awa  ” strikes  me 
&8  equal  as  your  selection.  “ This  is  no  my 


413 

cm  house”  is  a great  favourite  air  of  mine ; 
and  if  you  will  send  me  your  set  of  it,  I will 
task  my  muse  to  her  highest  effort.  What 
is  your  opinion  of  “ I hae  laid  a herriu’  in 
saut  ? ” I like  it  much.  Your  Jacobite  airs 
are  pretty,  and  there  are  many  others  of  the 
same  kind  pretty;  but  you  have  not  room 
for  them.  You  cannot,  I think,  insert  “ Fy ! 
let’s  a’  to  the  bridal,”  to  any  other  words 
than  its  own. 

What  pleases  me,  as  simple  and  naif  dis- 
gusts you  as  ludicrous  and  low.  For  this 
reason,  “ Fy ! gie  me  my  coggie.  Sirs,”  “Fy! 
let’s  a’  to  the  bridal,”  with  several  others  of 
that  cast,  are  to  me  highly  pleasing ; while, 
“ Saw  ye  my  father,  or  saw  ye  my  mother  ? ” 
delights  me  with  its  descriptive  simple 
pathos.  Thus  my  song,  “ Ken  ye  what  Meg 
o’  the  mill  has  gotten  ? ” pleases  myself  so 
much,  that  I cannot  try  my  hand  at  another 
song  to  the  air,  so  I shall  not  attempt  it.  I 
know  you  will  laugh  at  all  this ; but  “ ilka 
man  wessrs  his  belt  his  ain  gait.” 


no.  ccxcvii. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

October  1793. 

Your  last  letter,  my  dear  Thomson,  wai 
indeed  laden  with  heavy  news.  Alas,  poor 
Erskine  ! (178)  The  recollection  that  he 
was  a coadjutor  in  your  publication,  has,  till 
now,  scared  me  from  writing  to  you,  oi 
turning  my  thoughts  on  composing  for  you. 

I am  pleased  that  you  are  reconciled  to 
the  air  of  the  “ Quaker’s  wife ; ” though,  by 
the  bye,  an  old  Highland  gentleman,  and  a 
deep  antiquarian,  tells  me  it  is  a Gaelic  air, 
and  known  by  the  name  of  “Leiger  m* 
choss.”  The  following  verses,  I hope,  will 
please  you,  as  an  English  song  to  the  air. 

[Here  follows  “ Thine  am  I,  my  faithful 
fair.”] 

Your  objection  to  the  English  song  I pro- 
posed for  “John  Anderson,  my  jo,”  is  cer- 
tainly just.  The  following  is  by  an  old 
acquaintance  of  mine,  and  I think  has  merit. 
The  song  was  never  in  print,  which  I think 
is  so  much  in  your  favour.  The  more  origi- 
nal good  poetry  your  collection  contains,  it 
certainly  has  so  much  the  more  merit. 

SONG. — By  Gavin  Turnbull.  (179> 

“ Oh  condescend,  dear  charming  maid. 

My  wretched  state  to  view ; 

A tender  swain  to  love  betray’d. 

And  sad  despair,  by  yoa. 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS, 


414 


While  here,  all  melancholy. 

My  passion  I deplore. 

Yet,  urg’d  by  stern  resistless  fate, 

I love  thee  more  and  more. 

I heard  of  love,  and  with  disdain 
The  urchin’s  power  denied  ; 

I laugh’d  at  every  lover’s  pain. 

And  mock’d  them  when  they  sigh'd. 

But  how  my  state  is  alter’d  ! 

Those  happy  days  are  o’er ; 

For  all  thy  unrelenting  hate, 

I love  thee  more  and  more. 

Oh,  yield,  illustrious  beauty,  yield  t 
No  longer  let  me  mourn  ; 

And  though  victorious  in  the  field. 

Thy  captive  do  not  scorn. 

Let  generous  pity  warm  thee. 

My  wonted  peace  restore ; 

And,  grateful,  I shall  bless  thee  still. 

And  love  thee  more  and  more.” 

The  following  address  of  Turnbull’s  to  the 
Nightingale,  will  suit  as  an  English  song  to 
the  air,  “ There  was  a lass,  and  she  was  fair.” 
By  the  bye,  Turnbull  has  a great  many  songs 
in  MS.,  which  I can  command,  if  you  like 
feis  manner.  Possibly,  as  he  is  an  old  friend 
of  mine,  I may  be  prejudiced  in  his  favour : 
but  I like  some  of  his  pieces  very  much. 

THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

*Thou  sweetest  minstrel  of  the  grove. 
That  ever  tried  the  plaintive  strain. 

Awake  thy  tender  tale  of  love. 

And  soothe  a poor  forsaken  swain. 

For  though  the  muses  deign  to  aid. 

And  teach  him  smoothly  to  complain ; 

Yet  Delia,  charming,  cruel  maid. 

Is  deaf  to  her  forsaken  swain. 

All  day,  with  fashion’s  gaudy  sons. 

In  sport  she  wanders  o’er  the  plain : 

Their  tales  approves,  and  still  she  shuns 
The  notes  of  her  forsaken  swain. 

When  evening  shades  obscure  the  sky. 
And  bring  the  solemn  hours  again. 

Begin,  sweet  bird,  thy  melody. 

And  soothe  a poor  forsaken  swain.” 

I shall  just  transcribe  another  of  Turn- 
bulks,  which  would  go  charmingly  to  " Lewie 
Soraon.” 

„ LAURA. 

•Let  me  wander  where  I will. 

By  shady  wood,  or  winding  rill; 


Where  the  sweetest  May-born  floaew 
Paint  the  meadows,  deck  the  bo  /rers  ; 
Where  the  linnet’s  early  song 
Echoes  sweet  the  woods  among: 

Let  me  wander  where  I will, 

Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 

If  at  rosy  dawn  I choose 
To  indulge  the  smiling  muse  ; 

If  I court  some  cool  retreat. 

To  avoid  the  noontide  heat ; 

If  beneath  the  moon’s  pale  ray. 

Thro’  unfrequented  wilds  I stray; 

Let  me  wander  where  I will, 

Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still.  . 

When  at  night  the  drowsy  god 
Waves  his  sleep-compelling  rod. 

And  to  fancy’s  wakeful  eyes 
Bids  celestial  visions  rise ; 

While  with  boundless  joy  I ro«6 
Thro’  the  fairy  land  of  love : 

Let  me  wander  where  I will, 

Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still.” 

The  rest  of  your  letter  I shall  anawer  OH 
some  other  opportunity. 


NO.  CCXCVIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

November  1th,  1793. 

My  Good  Sir — After  so  long  a silence, 
it  gave  me  peculiar  pleasure  to  recognise 
your  well  known-hand,  for  I had  begun  to 
be  apprehensive  that  all  was  not  well  with 
you.  I am  happy  to  find,  however,  that 
your  silence  did  not  proceed  from  that 
cause,  and  that  you  have  got  among  the 
ballads  once  more. 

I have  to  thank  you  for  your  English 
song  to  “Leiger  m’  choss,”  which  I think 
extremely  good,  although  the  colouring  ra 
warm.  Your  friend,  Mr.  Turnbull’s  songs 
have  doubtless _ considerable  merit;  and  as 
you  have  the  command  of  his  manuscripts 
I hope  you  may  find  out  some  that  will 
answer  as  English  songs,  to  the  aura  yet 
unprovided.  (180) 


NO.  CCXCIX. 

TO  JOHN  M’MURDO,  Esq. 

Dumfries , December , 1793. 

Sir — It  is  said  that  we  take  the  greatest 
liberties  with  our  greatest  friends,  and  1 


TO  MBS.  RIDDEL. 


41$ 


piy  rayself  a very  high  compliment  in  the 
manner  in  which  I am  going  to  apply  the 
remark.  I have  owed  you  money  longer 
than  ever  I owed  it  to  any  man.  Here  is 
Ker’s  account,  and  here  are  six  guineas ; 
and  now,  1 don’t  owe  a shilling  to  man — or 

woman  either.  But  for  these  d dirty, 

dog-ear’d  little  pages  (181),  I had  done  my- 
self the  honour  to  have  waited  on  you  long 
ago.  Independent  of  the  obligations  your 
hospitality  has  laid  me  under,  the  con- 
ciousness  of  your  superiority  in  the  rank  of 
man  and  gentleman,  of  itself  was  fully  as 
much  as  I could  ever  make  head  against ; 
but  to  owe  you  money  too,  was  more  than  I 
could  face. 

I think  I once  mentioned  something  of  a 
collection  of  Scots  songs  I have  for  some 
years  been  making — I send  you  a perusal  of 
what  I have  got  together.  I could  not 
conveniently  spare  them  above  five  or  six 
days,  and  five  or  six  glances  of  them  will 
probably  more  than  suffice  you.  A very 
few  of  them  are  my  own.  When  you  are 
tired  of  them,  please  leave  them  with  Mr. 
Clint,  of  the  King’s  Arms.  There  is  not 
another  copy  of  the  collection  in  the  world ; 
and  1 should  be  sorry  that  any  unfortunate 
negligence  should  deprive  me  of  what  has 
cost  me  a good  deal  of  pahi3.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCC. 


TO  JOHN  M’MURDO,  Eso, 

DRUMLANRIG. 

Dumfries,  1793. 

Will  Mr.  M’Murdo  do  me  the  favour  to 
accept  of  these  volumes  (182);  a trifling  but 
sincere  mark  of  the  very  high  respect  I bear 
for  his  worth  as  a man,  his  manners  as  a 
gentleman,  and  his  kindness  as  a friend. 
However  inferior  now,  or  afterwards,  I may 
rank  as  a poet,  one  honest  virtue  to  which 
few  poets  can  pretend,  I trust  I shall  ever 
claim  as  mine — to  no  man,  whatever  his 
station  in  life,  or  his  power  to  serve  me, 
have  I ever  paid  a compliment  at  the 
expense  of  truth.  The  Author. 


NO.  CCCI. 

TO  CAPTAIN . (183) 

Dumfries December  5th,  1793. 
Sir — Heated  as  I was  with  wine  yester- 
night, I was  perhaps  rather  seemingly  im- 


pertinent in  my  anxious  wish  to  be  honoured 
with  your  acquaintance.  You  will  forgive  it 
— it  was  the  impulse  of  heart-felt  respe.it. 
“He  is  the  father  of  the  Scottish  county 
reform,  and  is  a man  who  does  honour  to 
the  business,  at  the  same  time  that  the 
business  does  honour  to  him,”  said  my 
worthy  friend  Glenriddel  to  somebody  by 
me  who  was  talking  of  your  coming  to  this 
country  with  your  corps.  " Then,”  I said, 
“ I have  a woman’s  longing  to  take  him  by 
the  hand,  and  say  to  him,  ‘ Sir,  I honour  you 
as  a man  to  whom  the  interests  of  humanity 
are  dear,  and  as  a patriot  to  whom  the 
rights  of  your  country  are  sacred.’  ” 

In  times  like  these.  Sir,  when  our  com- 
moners are  barely  able,  by  the  glimmering 
of  their  own  twilight  understandings,  to 
scrawl  a frank,  and  when  lords  are  what 
gentlemen  would  be  ashamed  to  be,  to 
whom  shall  a sinking  country  call  for 
help  ? To  the  independent  country  gentle- 
man. To  him  who  has  too  deep  a stake  in 
his  country  not  to  be  in  earnest  for  her 
welfare ; and  who,  in  the  honest  pride  of 
man,  can  view,  with  equal  contempt,  the 
insolence  of  office,  and  the  allurements  of 
corruption. 

I mentioned  to  you  a Scots  ode  or 
song  I had  lately  composed  (184),  and 
which,  I think,  has  some  merit.  Allow  me 
to  enclose  it.  When  I fall  in  with  you  at 
the  theatre,  I shall  be  glad  to  have  yoor 
opinion  of  it.  Accept  of  it.  Sir,  as  a very 
humble,  but  most  sincere  tribute  of  respect 
for  a man  who,  dear  as  he  prizes  poetic 
fame,  yet  holds  dearer  an  independent 
mind.  I have  the  honour  to  be, 

R.B. 


NO.  CCCII. 

TO  MRS.  RIDDED 

WHO  WAS  AEOTJT  TO  BESPEAK  A PLAT  OK* 
EVENING  AT  THE  DUMFRIES  THEATRE. 

I am  thinking  to  send  my  “ Address  ” to 
some  periodical  publication,  but  it  has  not 
got  your  sanction,  so  pray  look  over  it. 

As  to  the  Tuesday’s  play,  let  me  beg  of 
you,  my  dear  Madam,  to  give  us  “The 
Wonder,  a Woman  keeps  a Secret ! ” to 
; which  please  add,  “ The  Spoilt  Child  ” — you 
j will  highly  oblige  me  by  so  doing. 

| Ah,  what  an  enviable  creature  you  are ! 

(There  now,  this  cursed,  gloomy,  bine-devil 
day,  you  are  going  to  a party  of  c.boiea 
spirits — 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


To  play  the  shapes 
Of  frolic  fancy,  and  incessant  form 
Those  rapid  pictures,  assembled  train 
Of  fleet  ideas,  never  join’d  before, 

Where  lively  wit  excites  to  gay  surprise : 

Or  folly-painting  humour,  grave  himself. 
Calls  laughter  forth,  deep  shaking  every 
nerve. 

But,  as  you  rejoice  with  them  that  do 
rejoice,  do  also  remember  to  weep  with  them 
that  weep,  and  pity  your  melancholy  friend, 
R.  B.  (185) 


NO.  CCCIII. 

TO  A LADY, 

IN  FAVOUR  OP  A PLAYER’S  BENEFIT. 

Dumfries , 1794. 

Madam — You  were  so  very  good  as  to 
promise  me  to  honour  my  friend  with  your 
presence  on  his  benefit  night.  That  night 
is  fixed  for  Friday  next : the  play  a most 
interesting  one — "The  Way  to  Keep  Him.” 
I have  the  pleasure  to  know  Mr.  G.  well. 
His  merit  as  an  actor  is  generally  acknow- 
ledged. He  has  genius  and  worth  which 
would  do  honour  to  patronage : he  is  a 

poor  and  modest  man  : — claims  which,  from 
their  very  silence  have  the  more  forcible 
power  on  the  generous  heart.  Alas,  for 
pity ! that,  from  the  indolence  of  those  who 
haw;  the  good  things  of  this  life  in  their 
gift,  too  often  does  brazen-fronted  im- 
portunity snatch  that  boon,  the  rightful  due 
of  retiring,  humble  want ! Of  all  the 
qualities  we  assign  to  the  author  and 
director  of  Nature,  by  far  the  most  enviable 
is,  to  be  able  “ to  wipe  away  all  tears  from 
all  eyes.”  Oh  what  insignificant,  sordid 
wretches  are  they,  however  chance  may 
have  loaded  them  with  wealth,  who  go  to 
their  graves,  to  their  magnificent  mauso- 
leums, with  hardly  the  consciousness  of 
having  made  one  poor  honest  heart  happy. 

But  I crave  your  pardon.  Madam;  I 
lame  to  beg  not  to  preach.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCIT. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 

Dumfries , January  1 2th,  1794. 

My  Lord — Will  your  lordship  allow  me 
to  present  you  with  the  enclosed  little  com- 


position of  mine  (186),  as  a small  tribute  of 
gratitude  for  the  acquaintance  with  which 
you  have  been  pleased  to  honour  me.  Inde- 
pendent of  my  enthusiasm  as  a Scotsman,  I 
have  rarely  met  with  any  thing  in  history 
which  interests  my  feelings  as  a man,  equal 
with  the  story  of  Bannockburn.  On  the  one 
hand,  a cruel  but  able  usurper,  leading  on 
the  finest  army  in  Europe  to  extinguish  the 
last  spark  of  freedom  among  a greatly-daring 
and  greatly-injured  people ; on  the  other 
hand,  the  desperate  relics  of  a gallant  nation, 
devoting  themselves  to  rescue  their  bleeding 
country,  or  perish  with  her. 

Liberty!  thou  art  a prize  truly,  and  indeed 
invaluable,  for  never  canst  thou  be  too  dearly 
bought ! 

If  my  little  ode  has  the  honour  of  your 
lordship’s  approbation,  it  will  gratify  my 
highest  ambition.  I have  the  honour  to  be, 

&c.  R.  B. 


NC.  CCCT. 

TO  CAPTAIN  MILLER, 

DALSWINTON. 

Dear  Sir — The  following  ode  (187)  is  oa 
a subject  which  I know  you  by  no  mean* 
regard  with  indifference.  Oh,  Liberty, 

Thou  mak’st  the  gloomy  face  of  nature  gay, 
Giv’st  beauty  to  the  sun,  and  pleasure  to 
the  day. 

It  does  me  so  much  good  to  meet  with  a 
man  whose  honest  bosom  glows  with  the 
generous  enthusiasm,  the  heroic  daring  of 
liberty,  that  I could  not  forbear  sending  you 
a composition  of  my  own  on  the  subject, 
which  I really  think  is  in  my  best  manner. 
I have  the  honour  to  be,  dear  Sir,  &c. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCCVI. 

TO  MRS.  RIDDEL 

Dear  Madam — I meant  to  have  called 
on  you  yesternight ; but  as  I edged  up  to 
your  box-door,  the  first  object  which  greeted 
my  view  was  one  of  those  lobster-coated 
puppies,  sitting  like  another  dragon,  guarding 
the  Hesperian  fruit.  On  the  conditions  and 
capitulations  you  so  obligingly  offer,  I shall 
certainly  make  my  wtmther -beaten,  rustic 


TO  MRS. 

phi*  a part  of  your  box-furniture  on  Tuesday, 
when  we  may  ai range  the  business  of  the 
visit. 

Among  the  profusion  of  idle  compliments, 
which  insidious  (Taft,  or  unmeaning  folly, 
incessantly  offer  at  your  shrine — a shrine, 
how  far  exalted  above  such  adoration — per- 
mit me,  were  it  but  for  rarity’s  sake,  to  pay 
you  the  honest  tribute  of  a warm  heart  and 
an  independent  mind, — and  to  assure  you, 
that  I am,  thou  most  amiable,  and  most 
accomplished  of  thy  sex,  with  the  most 
respectful  esteem,  and  fervent  regard,  thine, 
&c.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCVII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I will  wait  on  you,  my  ever-valued 
friend,  but  whether  in  the  morning  I am  not 
Bure.  Sunday  closes  a period  of  our  curst 
revenue  business,  and  may  probably  keep 
me  employed  with  my  pen  until  noon.  Fine 
employment  for  a poet’s  pen  ! There  is  a 
species  of  the  human  genus  that  I call  the 
gin-horse  class:  what  enviable  dogs  they  are! 
Round,  and  round,  and  round  they  go. 
Mundell’s  ox,  that  drives  his  cotton  mill,  is 
their  exact  prototype — without  an  idea  or 
wish  beyond  their  circle — fat,  sleek,  stupid, 
patient,  quiet  and  contented ; while  here  I 

sit,  altogether  Novemberish,  a d melange 

of  fretfulness  and  melancholy ; not  enough 
Of  the  one  to  rouse  me  to  passion,  nor  of  the 
Other  to  repose  me  in  torpor ; my  soul 
flouncing  and  fluttering  round  her  tenement, 
like  a wild  finch,  caught  amid  the  horrors  of 
winter,  and  newly  thrust  into  a cage.  Well, 
I am  persuaded,  that  it  was  of  me  the  Hebrew 
sage  prophesied,  when  he  foretold — “And, 
behold,  on  whatsoever  this  man  doth  set  his 
heart,  it  shall  not  prosper  !”  If  my  resent- 
ment is  awaked,  it  is  sure  to  be  where  it  dare 
rot  squeak;  and  if — * * * 

Pray  that  wisdom  and  bliss  he  more  fre- 
|uent  visitors  of  R.  H. 


NO.  XICVIIX. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I have  this  moment  got  the  song  from 
Byrne,  and  I am  sorry  to  aee  that  he  has 

fc  fi 


RIDDEL.  417 

spoilt  it  a good  deal.  It  shall  be  a lesson  to 
me  how  I lend  him  anything  again. 

I have  sent  you  “ Werter,”  truly  happy  to 
have  any,  the  smallest,  opportunity  of  obli- 
ging you. 

’Tis  true,  Madam,  I saw  you  once  since  I 
was  at  Woodlee;  and  that  once  froze  the 
very  life-blood  of  my  heart.  Your  reception 
of  me  was  such,  that  a wretch  meeting  the 
eye  of  his  judge,  about  to  pronounce  sentence 
of  death  on  him,  could  only  have  envied  my 
feelings  and  situation.  But  I hate  the 
theme,  and  never  more  shall  write  or  speak 
on  it. 

One  thing  I shall  proudly  say,  that  I can 
pay  Mrs.  R.  a higher  tribute  of  esteem,  and 
appreciate  her  amiable  worth  more  truly, 
than  any  man  whom  I have  seen  approach. 

her.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCI3L 

TO  THE  SAME 

I have  often  told  you,  my  dear  friend, 
that  you  had  a spice  of  caprice  in  your  com- 
position, and  you  have  as  often  disavowed  it; 
even,  perhaps,  while  your  opinions  were,  at 
the  moment,  irrefragably  proving  it.  Could 
anything  estrange  me  from  a friend  such  as 
you?  No!  To-morrow  I shall  have  the 
honour  of  waiting  on  you. 

Farewell,  thou  first  of  friends,  and  most 
accomplished  of  women,  even  with  all  thy 
little  caprices ! R.  B. 


NO.  CCC3L 

TO  THE  SAME 

MAD^yvi — I return  your  common-place 
book.  1 have  perused  it  with  much  pleasure, 
and  would  have  continued  my  criticisms,  but 
as  it  seems  the  critic  has  forfeited  your 
esteem,  his  strictures  must  lose  their  value. 

If  it  is  true  that  “offences  come  only  front 
the  heart before  you  I am  guiltless.  To 
admire,  esteem  and  prize  you,  as  the  most 
accomplished  of  women,  and  the  first  of 
friends — if  these  are  crimes,  I am  the  moat 
offending  thing  alive. 

In  a face  where  1 used  to  meet  the  kind 
complacency  of  friendly  confidence,  now  Ml 


419 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


find  (old  neglect,  an_  contemptuous  scorn — 
is  a wrench  that  my  heart  can  ill  bear. 
It  is,  however,  some  kind,  of  miserable  good 
luck^  that  while  de  haut-en-bas  rigour  may 
depress  an  unoffending  wretch  to  the  ground, 
it  has  a tendency  to  rouse  a stubborn  some- 
thing in  his  bosom,  which,  though  it  cannot 
heal  the  wounds  of  his  soul,  is  at  least  an 
opiate  to  blunt  their  poignancy. 

With  the  profoundest  respect  for  your 
abilities;  the  most  sincere  esteem,  and  ardent 
regard  for  your  gentle  heart  and  amiable 
manners ; and  the  most  fervent  wish  and 
prayer  for  your  welfare,  peace,  and  bliss — I 
have  the  honour  to  be,  Madam,  your  most 
devoted  humble  servant,  R.  B 


MO.  CCCXI. 

TO  JOHN  SYME,  Esa  (188) 

You  know  that  among  other  high  dignities, 
you  have  the  honour  to  be  my  supreme  court 
of  critical  judicature,  from  which  there  is  no 
appeal.  I enclose  you  a song,  which  I com- 
posed since  I saw  you,  and  I am  going  to 
give  you  the  history  of  it.  (189)  Do  you 
know,  that  among  much  that  I admire  in  the 
characters  and  manners  of  those  great  folks 
whom  I have  now  the  honour  to  call  my 
acquaintances,  the  Oswald  family, — there  is 
nothing  charms  me  more  than  Mr.  Oswald’s 
unconcealable  attachment  to  that  incompa- 
rable woman.  Did  you  ever,  my  dear  Syme, 
meet  with  a man  who  owed  more  to  the 
Divine  Giver  of  all  good  things  than  Mr.  O.? 
A fine  fortune;  a pleasing  exterior;  self- 
evident  amiable  dispositions, an  dan  ingenuous, 
upright  mind, — and  that  informed,  too,  much 
beyond  the  usual  run  of  young  fellows  of  his 
rank  and  fortune : and  to  all  this,  such  a 
woman  ! — but  of  her  I shall  say  nothing  at 
all,  in  despair  of  saying  anything  adequate : 
in  my  song,  I have  endeavoured  to  do  justice 
to  what  would  be  his  feelings,  on  seeing,  in 
the  scene  I have  drawn,  the  habitation  of  his 
Lucy.  As  I am  a good  deal  pleased  with 
my  performance,  I,  in  my  first  fervour, 
thought  of  sending  it  to  Mrs.  Oswald,  but, 
on  second  thoughts,  perhaps  what  I offer  as 
the  honest  incense  of  genuine  respect,  might, 
from  the  well-known  character  of  poverty 
arid  poetry,  be  construed  into  some  modifi- 
cation or  other  of  that  servility  which  my 
scul  abhor*,  JL  B, 


no.  cccxn. 

TO  MISS  * 

Dumfries,  1794 

Madam — Nothing  short  of  a kind  of 
absolute  necessity  could  have  made  me  trouble 
you  with  this  letter.  Except  my  ardent  and 
just  esteem  for  your  sense,  taste  and  worth, 
every  sentiment  arising  in  my  breast,  as  I 
put  pen  to  paper  to  you,  is  painful.  The 
scenes  I have  passed  with  the  friend  of  my 
soul,  and  his  amiable  connexions ! the  wrench 
at  my  heart  to  think  that  he  is  gone,  for 
ever  gone  from  me,  never  more  to  meet 
in  the  wanderings  of  a weary  world!  and 
the  cutting  reflection  of  all,  that  I had  most 
unfortunately,  though  most  undeservedly, 
lost  the  confidence  of  that  soul  of  worth,  ere 
it  took  its  flight ! 

These  Madam,  are  sensations  of  no  ordi- 
nary anguish.  However,  you  also  may  be 
offended  with  some  imputed  improprieties  of 
mine ; sensibility  you  know  I possess,  and 
sincerity  none  will  deny  me. 

To  oppose  those  prejudices  which  have 
been  raised  against  me,  is  not  the  business 
of  this  letter.  Indeed,  it  is  a warfare  I know 
not  how  to  wage.  The  powers  of  positive 
vice  I can  in  some  degree  calculate,  and 
against  direct  malevolence  I can  be  on  my 
guard : but  who  can  estimate  the  fatuity  of 
giddy  caprice,  or  ward  off  the  unthinking 
mischief  of  precipitate  folly  ? 

I have  a favour  to  request  of  you,  Madam ; 

and  of  your  sister,  Mrs. , through  your 

means.  You  know  that,  at  the  wish  of  my 
late  friend,  I made  a collection  of  all  my 
trifles  in  verse  which  I had  ever  written. 
They  are  many  of  them  local,  some  of  them 
puerile  and  silly,  and  all  of  them  unfit  for 
the  public  eye.  As  I have  some  little  fame 
at  stake — a fame  that  I trust  may  live  when 
the  hate  of  those  who  “watch  for  my  halting,’* 
and  the  contumelious  sneer  of  those  whom 
accident  has  made  my  superiors,  will,  with 
themselves,  be  gone  to  the  regions  of  oblivion 
— I am  uneasy  now  for  the  fate  of  those 
manuscripts.  Will  Mrs. have  the  good- 

ness to  destroy  them,  or  return  them  to  me? 
As  a pledge  of  friendship  they  were  bestowed  ; 
and  that  circumstance,  indeed,  was  all  their 
merit.  Most  unhappily  for  me,  that  merit 
they  no  longer  possess;  and  I hope  that 

Mrs.  ’s  goodness,  v hich  I well  know, 

and  ever  will  revere,  will  not  refuse  this 
favour  to  a man  whom  she  once  he?  I in  som* 
degree  of  estimation. 

With  the  sincerest  esteem,  I have  thft 
honour  to  be.  Madam,  &c.  R.  R» 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 


419 


no.  ccexm. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

February  2 5th,  1794. 

Can st  tliou  minister  to  a mind  diseased? 
Canst  thou  speak  peace  and  rest  to  a soul 
tost  on  a sea  of  troubles,  without  one  friendly 
•tar  to  guide  her  course,  and  dreading  that 
the  next  surge  may  overwhelm  her  ? Canst 
thou  give  to  a frame,  tremblingly  alive  to  the 
, tortures  of  suspense,  the  stability  and  hardi- 
hood of  the  rock  that  braves  the  blast ! If 
thou  canst  not  do  the  least  of  these,  why 
wouMst  thou  disturb  me  in  my  miseries, 
with  thy  inquiries  after  me  ? 

For  these  two  months  I have  not  been 
able  to  lift  a pen.  My  constitution  and 
frame  were  ah  origine,  blasted  with  a deep, 
incurable  taint  of  hypochondria,  which 
poisons  my  existence.  Of  late  a number  of 
domestic  vexations,  and  some  pecuniary 
share  in  the  ruin  of  these  cursed  times — 
losses  which,  though  trifling,  were  yet  what 
1 could  ill  bear — have  so  irritated  me,  that 
my  feelings  at  times  could  only  be  envied  by 
a reprobate  spirit  listening  to  the  sentence 
that  dooms  it  to  perdition. 

Are  you  deep  in  the  language  of  consola- 
tion ? I have  exhausted  in  reflection  every 
topic  of  comfort.  A heart  at  ease  would 
have  been  charmed  with  my  sentiments  and 
reasonings;  but  as  to  myself,  I was  like 
Judas  Iscariot  preaching  the  gospel : he 
might  melt  and  mould  the  hearts  of  those 
around  him,  but  his  own  kept  its  native 
incorrigibilty. 

Still,  there  are  two  great  pillars  that  bear 
us  up,  amid  the  wreck  of  misfortune  and 
misery.  The  o n e is  composed  of  the  d Afferent 
modifications  of  a certain  noble,  stubborn 
•omething  in  man,  known  by  the  names 
ef  courage,  fortitude,  magnanimity.  The 
other  is  made  up  of  those  feelings  and  sen- 
timents, which,  however  the  sceptic  may 
deny  them,  or  the  enthusiast  disfigure  them, 
are  yet,  I am  convinced,  original  and  compo- 
nent parts  of  the  human  soul ; those  senses 
of  the  mind — if  I may  be  allowed  the  expres- 
sion— which  connect  us  with,  and  link  us  to, 
those  awful  obscure  realities — an  all-power- 
ful, and  equally  beneficent  God,  and  a world 
to  come,  beyond  death  and  the  grave.  The 
first  gives  the  nerve  of  combat,  while  a ray 
of  hope  beams  on  the  field : the  last  pours 
the  balm  of  comfort  into  the  wounds  which 
time  can  never  qure. 

I do  not  remember,  my  dear  Cunningham, 
that  you  and  I ever  talked  on  the  subject  of 

religiq&  at  all.  I know  some  who  laugh  at 


it,  as  the  trick  of  the  crafty  pew  to  lead  tho 
undiscerning  many;  or,  at  most,  as  an 
uncertain  obscurity,  which  mankind  can 
never  know  anything  of,  and  with  which 
they  are  fools  if  they  give  themselves  much 
to  do.  Nor  would  I quarrel  with  a man  for 
his  irreligion,  any  more  than  I would  for 
his  want  of  a musical  ear.  I would  regret 
that  he  was  shut  out  from  what,  to  me  and 
to  others,  were  such  superlative  sources  of 
enjoyment.  It  is  in  this  point  of  view,  and 
for  this  reason,  that  I will  deeply  imbue  the 
mind  of  every  child  of  mine  with  religion. 
If  my  son  should  happen  to  be  a man  of 
feeling,  sentiment  and  taste,  I shall  thus  add 
largely  to  his  enjoyments.  Let  me  flatter 
myself,  that  this  sweet  little  fellow,  who  ie 
just  now  running  about  my  desk,  will  be  % 
man  of  a melting,  ardent,  glowing  heart,— 
and  an  imagination  delighted  with  the 
painter,  and  rapt  with  the  poet.  Let  me 
figure  him  wandering  out  in  a sweet  evening, 
to  inhale  the  balmy  gales,  and  enjoy  the 
growing  luxuriance  of  the  spring;  himself 
the  while  in  the  blooming  youth  of  life.  He 
looks  abroad  on  all  nature,  and  through 
nature  up  to  nature’3  God.  His  soul,  by 
swift,  delighting  degrees,  is  rapt  above  this 
sublunary  sphere,  until  he  can  be  silent  no 
longer,  and  bursts  out  into  the  glorious 
enthusiasm  of  Thomson : — 

“ These,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father 
these 

Are  but  the  varied  God.  The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee 

and  so  on,  in  all  the  spirit  and  ardour  of 
that  charming  hymn.  These  are  no  ideal 
pleasures,  they  are  real  delights ; and  I ask. 
what  of  the  delights  among  the  sons  of  men 
are  superior,  not  to  say  equal,  to  them? 
And,  they  have  this  precious,  vast  addition, 
that  conscious  virtue  stamps  them  for  her 
own,  and  lays  hold  on  them  to  bring  herself 
into  the  presence  of  a witnessing,  judging, 
and  approving  God.  R B. 


ho.  cccxir. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  April  17 th,  1794. 

My  dear  Sir — Owing  to  the  distress 
of  our  friend  for  the  loss  of  his  child,  at  th«» 
time  of  his  receiving  your  admirable  bit* 
melancholy  letter,  I had  not  an 


420 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  .BURNS. 


till  lately,  of  perusing  it.  How  sorry  I 
am  to  find  Burns  saying,  “ Canst  thou  not 
minister  to  a mind  diseased  ? ” while  he  is 
delighting  others  from  one  end  of  the  island 
to  the  other.  Like  the  hypochondriac  who 
went  to  consult  a physician  upon  his  case — 
“Go,”  says  the  doctor,  “and  see  the  famous 
Carlini,  who  keeps  all  Paris  in  good 
humour.”  “Alas  ! Sir,”  replied  the  patient, 
“ I am  that  unhappy  Carlini ! ” 

Your  plan  for  our  meeting  together 
pleases  me  greatly,  and  I trust  that  by  some 
means  or  other  it  will  soon  take  place ; but 
your  bacchanalian  challenge  almost  frightens 
me,  for  I am  a miserable  weak  drinker ! 

Allan  is  much  gratified  by  your  good 
opinion  of  his  talents.  He  has  just  began  a 
•ketch  from  your  “ Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,” 
and,  if  it  pleases  himself  in  the  design, 
he  will  probably  etch  or  engrave  it.  In 
subjects  of  the  pastoral  and  humorous 
kind,  he  is,  perhaps,  unrivalled  by  any  artist 
living.  He  fails  a little  in  giving  beauty 
and  grace  to  his  females,  and  his  colouring 
is  sombre,  otherwise  his  paintings  and 
drawings  would  be  in  greater  request. 

I like  the  music  of  the  “ Sutor’s  dochter,” 
and  will  consider  whether  it  shall  be  added 
to  the  last  volume;  your  verses  to  it  are 
pretty ; but  your  humorous  English  song, 
to  suit  “Jo  Janet,”  is  inimitable.  What 
think  you  of  the  air,  “Within  a mile  of 
Edinburgh  ? ” It  has  always  struck  me  as 
a modern  English  imitation,  but  it  is  said  to 
be  Oswald’s,  and  is  so  much  liked,  that  I 
believe  I must  include  it.  The  verses  are 
little  better  than  namby-pamby.  Do  you 
consider  it  worth  a stanza  or  two  P 


NO.  CCCXV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

May,  1794. 

My  Dear  Sir — I return  you  the  plates, 
with  which  I am  highly  pleased;  I would 
humbly  propose,  instead  of  the  younker 
knitting  stockings,  to  put  a stock  and  horn 
into  his  hands.  A friend  of  mine,  who  is 
positively  the  ablest  judge  on  the  subject  I 
have  ever  met  with,  and  though  an  unknown, 
is  yet  a superior  artist  with  the  burin,  is 
quite  charmed  with  Allan’s  manner.  I got 
him  a peep  of  the  “Gentle"  Shepherd;”  and 
he  pronounces  Allan  a most  original  artist 
of  great  excellence- 


For  my  part,  I look  on  Mr.  Allan’s  choos- 
ing my  favourite  poem  for  his  subject,  to  b« 
one  of  the  highest  compliments  I have  evei 
received. 

I am  quite  vexed  at  Pleyel’s  being  cooped 
up  in  France,  as  it  will  put  an  entire  stop  to 
our  work.  Now,  and  for  six  or  seven  months, 
I shall  be  quite  in  song,  as  you  shall  see  by 
and  bye.  I got  an  air,  pretty  enough,  com- 
posed by  Lady  Elizabeth  Heron,  of  Heron, 
which  she  calls  “ The  banks  of  Cree.”  Cree 
is  a beautiful  romantic  stream ; and  as  her 
ladyship  is  a particular  friend  of  mine,  I have 
written  the  following  song  to  it. 

[Here  follows  the  song  entitled  “ The  Banks 
of  Cree:* 


NO.  CCCXVI. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 

May,  1794. 

My  Lord — When  you  cast  your  eye  on 
the  name  at  the  bottom  of  this  letter,  and 
on  the  title-page  of  the  book  I do  myself 
the  honour  to  send  your  lordship,  a more 
pleasurable  feeling  than  my  vanity,  tells  me 
that  it  must  be  a name  not  entirely  unknown 
to  you.  The  generous  patronage  of  your  late 
illustrious  brother  found  me  in  the  lowest 
obscurity : he  introduced  my  rustic  muse  to 
the  partiality  of  my  country ; and  to  him  I 
owe  all.  My  sense  of  his  goodness,  and  the 
anguish  of  my  soul  at  losing  my  truly  noble 
protector  and  friend,  I have  endeavoured  to 
express  in  a poem  to  his  memory,  which  I 
have  now  published.  This  edition  is  just 
from  the  press ; and  in  my  gratitude  to  the 
dead,  and  my  respect  for  the  living  (fame 
belies  you,  my  lord,  if  you  possess  not  the 
same  dignity  of  man,  which  was  your  noble 
brother’s  characteristic  feature),  I had  des- 
tined a copy  for  the  Earl  of  Glencairn.  I 
learnt  just  now  that  you  are  in  town : allow 
me  to  present  it  to  you. 

I know,  my  lord,  such  is  the  vile,  venal 
contagion  which  pervades  the  world  of  let- 
ters, that  professions  of  respect  from  an 
author,  particularly  from  a poet  to  a lord, 
are  more  than  suspicious.  I claim,  by  my 
past  conduct,  and  my  feelings  at  this  moment, 
an  exception  to  the  too  just  conclusion. 
Exalted  as  are  the  honours  of  your  lordship’s 
name.,  and  unnoted  as  is  the  obscurity  of 
mine;  with  the  uprightness  of  an  honest 
man,  I come  before  your  lordship,  with  an 
offering — however  humble,  *ti§  all  I have  to 


TO  MR.  JAMES  JOHNSON. 


421 


give,  ef  my  gt  ateful  respec  I ; and  to  beg  of 
you,  my  lord,  ’tis  all  I have  to  ask  of  you, 
that  you  will  do  me  the  honour  to  accept  of 
it.  I have  the  honour  to  be,  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCXVII. 

TO  DAVID  MACCULLOCH,  Esa.  (190) 
Dumfries,  June  21st,  1794. 

My  Dear  Sir— My  long  projected  jour- 
ney through  your  country  is  at  last  fixed  ; 
and  on  Wednesday  next,  if  you  have  nothing 
of  more  importance  to  do,  take  a saunter 
down  to  Gatehouse  about  two  or  three 
o’clock ; I shall  be  happy  to  take  a draught 
of  M'Kune’s  best  with  you.  Collector 
Syme  will  be  at  Glens  about  that  time,  and 
will  meet  us  about  dish-of-tea  hour.  Syme 
goes  also  to  Kerroughtree,  and  let  me  remind 
you  of  your  kind  promise  to  accompany  me 
there;  I will  need  all  the  friends  I can  muster, 
for  I am  indeed  ill  at  ease  whenever  I approach 
your  honourables  and  right-honourables. 
Yours  sincerely,  IL  B. 


NO.  CCCXVIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Castle  Douglas , June  25th,  1794. 

Here,  in  a solitary  inn,  in  a solitary  village, 
am  I set  by  myself,  to  amuse  my  brooding 
fancy  as  I may.  Solitary  confinement,  you 
know,  is  Howard’s  favourite  idea  of  reclaim- 
ing sinners ; so  let  me  consider  by  what 
fatality  it  happens  that  I have  so  long  been 
exceeding  sinful  as  to  neglect  the  correspond- 
ence of  the  most  valued  friend  I have  on 
earth.  To  tell  you  that  I have  been  in  poor 
health  will  not  be  excuse  enough,  though  it 
is, true.  I am  afraid  that  I am  about  to 
suffer  for  the  follies  of  my  youth.  My 
medical  friends  threaten  me  with  a flying 
gout ; but  I trust  they  are  mistaken. 

I am  just  going  to  trouble  your  critical 
patience  with  the  first  sketch  of  a stanza  I 
have  been  framing  as  I passed  along  the  road. 
The  subject  is  liberty : you  know,  my  hon- 
oured friend,  how  dear  the  theme  is  to  me. 
I design  it  as  an  irregular  ode  for  General 
Washington’s  birth-day.  After  having  men- 
tioned the  degeneracy  of  other  kingdoms,  I 
come  to  Scotland  thus : * 


Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among, 
Thee,  famed  for  martial  deed  and  sacred  . 
song. 

To  thee  I turn  with  swimming  eyes; 
Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  fled  ? 
Immingled  with  the  mighty  dead. 

Beneath  the  hallowed  turf  where  Wallace 
lies  l 

Hear  it  not,  W allace,  in  thy  bed  of  death. 
Ye  babbling  winds  in  silence  sweep. 
Disturb  ye  not  the  hero’s  sleep. 

With  the  addition  of 

That  arm  which  nerved  with  thundering 
fate. 

Braved  usurpation’s  boldest  daring ! 

One  quenched  in  darkness  like  the  sinking 
star. 

And  one  the  palsied  arm  of  tottering, 
powerless  age. 

You  will  probably  have  another  scrawl 
from  me  in  a stage  or  two.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCXIX. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  JOHNSON. 

Dumfries,  1794. 

My  Dear  Friend — You  should  have 
heard  from  me  long  ago;  but  over  and  above 
some  vexatious  share  in  the  pecuniary  losses 
of  these  accursed  times,  I have  all  this  win- 
ter been  plagued  with  low  spirits  and  blue 
devils,  so  that  I have  almost  hung  my  harp  on 
the  willow  trees. 

I am  just  now  busy  correcting  a new 
edition  of  my  poems,  and  this  with  my  ordi- 
nary business,  finds  me  in  full  employment. 

I send  you  by  my  friend,  Mr.  Wallace, 
forty-one  songs  for  your  fifth  volume ; if  w« 
cannot  finish  it  any  other  way,  what  would 
you  think  of  Scots  words  to  some  beautiful 
Irish  airs  ? In  the  meantime,  at  your  leisure, 
give  a copy  of  the  “Museum”  to  my  worthy 
friend,  Mr.  Peter  Hill,  bookseller,  to  biud  for 
me,  interleaved  with  blank  leaves,  exaetly  as 
he  did  the  Laird  of  Glenriddel’s,  that  I may 
insert  every  anecdote  I can  learn,  together 
with  my  own  criticisms  and  remarks  on  the 
songs.  A copy  of  this  kind  I shall  leave 
with  you,  the  editor,  to  publish  at  some  after 
period,  by  way  of  making  the  “ Museum  ” a 
book  famous  to  the  end  of  time,  and  you 
renowned  for  ever. 

1 have  got  a Highland  dirk,  for  which  I 
have  great  veneration,  as  it  once  was  the 
dirk  of  Lord  Balmerino.  It  fell  into  bad 


422 


CORRESPONDENCE  OP  BURNS. 


hands,  who  stripped  it  of  the  silver  mounting, 
is  well  as  the  knife  and  fork.  1 have  some 
thoughts  of  sending  it  to  your  care,  to  get 
jt  mounted  anew. 

Thank  y >u  for  the  copies  of  my  Volunteer 
Ballad.  Our  friend  Clarke  has  done  indeed 
well ! — ’ti's  chaste  and  beautiful.  I have  not 
met  with  anything  that  has  pleased  me  so 
much.  You  know  I am  no  connoisseur ; but 
that  I am  an  amateur  will  be  allowed  me. 

&,  B. 


wo.  cccxx. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

July , 1794. 

Is  there  no  news  yet  of  Pleyel  ? Or  is 
your  work  to  be  at  a dead  stop,  until  the 
allies  set  our  modern  Orpheus  at  liberty 
from  the  savage  thraldom  of  democrat  dis- 
cords ? Alas,  the  day  ! And  woe  is  me  ! 
That  auspicious  period,  pregnant  with  the 
happiness  of  millions.  * * * * 

1 have  presented  a copy  of  your  songs  to 
the  daughter  of  a much-valued  and  much- 
hqnoured  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Graham  of 
Pintry.  I wrote  on  the  blank  side  of  the 
title-page  the  following  address  to  the  young 
lady  : 

**  Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal 
lives,  [join’d. 

In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  numbers 
Accept  the  gift ; tho’  humble  he  who  gives. 
Rich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful  mind. 
So  may  no  ruffian-feeling  (191)  in  thy 
breast, 

Discordant  jar  thy  bosom-chords  among ; 
But  peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest. 

Or  love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  song. 

Or  pity’s  notes,  in  luxury  of  tears. 

As  modest  want  the  tale  of  woe  reveals : 
While  conscious  virtue  all  the  strain 
endears,  [seals.” 

And  heaven-born  piety  her  unction 


wo.  cccxxi. 

TO  MR.  SAMUEL  CLARKE,  Juw., 

DUMFRIES. 

Sunday  Morning , 

Dear  Sir — I was,  I know,  drunk  last 
night,  but  I am  sober  this  morning.  From 
the  expressions  Capt.  made  use  of  to 


me,  had  I had  nobody’s  welfare  in  care  fc? 
but  my  own,  we  should  certaiuly  have  corn*, 
according  to  the  manners  of  the  world,  to 
the  necessity  of  murdering  one  another 
about  the  business.  The  words  were  such 
as,  generally,  I believe,  end  in  a brace  of  pis- 
tols ; but  I am  still  pleased  to  think  that  I 
did  not  ruin  the  peace  and  welfare  of  a wife 
and  family  of  children  in  a drunken  squabble. 
Farther,  you  know  that  the  report  of  certain 
political  opinions  being  mine,  has  already 
once  before  brought  me  to  the  brink  of  de- 
struction. I dread  lest  last  night’s  business 
may  be  misrepresented  in  the  same  way. 
You,  I beg,  will  take  care  to  prevent  it.  I 
tax  your  wish  for  Mr.  Burns’s  welfare  with 
the  task  of  waiting,  as  soon  as  possible,  on 
every  gentleman  who  was  present,  and  state 
this  to  him,  and,  as  you  please,  show  him 
this  letter.  What,  after  all,  was  the  ob- 
noxious toast  ? “ May  our  success  in  the 
present  war  be  equal  to  the  justice  of  our 
cause” — a toast  that  the  most  outrageous 
frenzy  of  loyalty  cannot  object  to.  I re- 
quest and  beg,  that  thi3  morning  you  will 
wait  on  the  parties  present  at  the  foolish 
dispute.  I shall  only  add,  that  I am  truly 
sorry  that  a man  who  stood  so  high  in  my 

estimation  as  Mr. , should  use  me  in 

the  maimer  in  which  I conceive  he  has  done; 

R.  B. 


WO.  CCCXXII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh , August  10/ h,  1794. 

My  Dear  Sir— I owe  you  an  apology 
for  having  so  long  delayed  to  acknowledge 
the  favour  of  your  last.  I fear  it  will  be,  as 
you  say,  I shall  have  no  more  songs  from 
Pleyel  till  France  and  we  are  friends ; but, 
nevertheless,  I am  very  desirous  to  be  pre* 
pared  with  the  poetry ; and  as  the  season 
approaches  in  which  your  muse  of  Coila 
visits  you,  I trust  I shall,  as  formerly,  be 
frequently  gratified  with  the  result  of  ywut 
amorous  and  tender  interviews  1 


WO.  CCCXXIII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August  30 th,  1794. 

The  last  evening,  as  I was  straying  ou£ 
and  thinking  »f  w O’er  the  hills  and  fef 


BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 


423 


away,*  1 spun  the  following1  stanza  for  it ; 
but  whether  my  spinning  will  deserve  to  be 
laid  up  in  store,  like  the  precious  thread  of 
the  silk-worm,  or  brushed  to  the  devil,  like 
the  vile  manufacture  of  the  spider,  I leave 
my  dear  Sir,  to  your  usual  candid  criticism. 
I was  pleased  with  several  lines  in  it  at  first, 
but  I own  that  now  it  appears  rather  a 
flimsy  business. 

This  is  just  a hasty  sketch,  until  I see 
whether  it  be  worth  a critique.  We  have 
many  sailor  songs,  but  as  far  as  I at  present 
recollect,  they  are  mostly  the  effusions  of 
the  jovial  sailor,  not  the  wailings  of  his  love- 
lorn mistress.  I must  here  make  one  sweet 
exception — “ Sweet  Annie  frae  the  sea-beach 
came.”  Now  for  the  song : — 

[“  On  the  seas  and  far  away."'] 

I give  you  leave  to  abuse  this  song,  but 
do  it  in  the  spirit  of  Christian  meekness. 


NO.  CCCXXIT. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Sept.  1 6th,  1794. 

My  Dear  Sir — You  have  anticipated 
my  opinion  of  “ On  the  seas  and  far  away ; ” 
I do  not  think  it  one  of  your  very  happy 
productions,  though  it  certainly  contains 
stanzas  that  are  worthy  of  all  acceptation. 

The  second  is  the  least  to  my  liking,  par- 
ticularly “Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy.” 
Confound  the  bullets ! It  might,  perhaps, 
be  objected  to  the  third  verse,  “At  the 
starless  midnight  hour,”  that  it  has  too 
much  grandeur  of  imagery,  and  that  greater 
simplicity  of  thought  would  have  better 
suited  the  character  of  a sailoY’s  sweetheart. 
The  tune,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  of  the 
brisk,  cheerful  kind.  Upon  the  whole,  there- 
fore, in  my  humble  opinion,  the  song  would 
be  better  adapted  to  the  tune,  if  it  con- 
sisted only  of  the  first  and  last  verses,  with 
the  choruses. 


HO.  CCCXXV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Sept.  1794. 

I shall  withdraw  my  w On  the  seas  and 
far  away  ” altogether : it  is  unequal,  and 
unworthy  the  work.  Making  a poem  is  like 
Vegetting  a son : you  cannot  know  whether 


you  have  a wise  man  or  a fool,  until  you 
produce  him  to  the  world  to  try  him. 

For  that  reasos  I send  you  the  offspring 
of  my  brain,  abortions  and  all ; and,  as 
such  pray  look  over  them  and  forgive  them, 
and  burn  them.  (192)  I am  flattered  at  your 
adopting  “ Ca’  the  yowes  to  the  knowes,” 
as  it  was  owing  to  me  that  ever  it  saw  tho 
light.  About  seven  years  ago  I was  well 
acquainted  with  a worthy  little  fellow  of  a 
clergyman,  a Mr.  Clunie,  who  sang  it  charm- 
ingly ; and,  at  my  request,  Mr.  Clarke  took 
it  down  from  his  singing.  When  I gave  it 
to  Johnson,  I added  some  stanzas  to  the 
song,  and  mended  others,  but  still  it  will 
not  do  for  you.  In  a solitary  stroll  which  I 
took  to-day,  I tried  my  hand  on  a few 
pastoral  lines,  following  up  the  idea  of  the 
chorus,  which  I would  preserve.  Here  it  is, 
with  all  its  crudities  and  imperfections  on 
its  head. 

[Here  follows  “ Ca ' the  yowes.'* ] 

I shall  give  you  my  opinion  of  your 
other  newly  adopted  songs  my  first  scrib- 
bling fit. 


NO.  CCCXXVI. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON 

Sept.  1794. 

Do  you  know  a blackguard  Irish  song 
called  “Onagh’s  Waterfall?”  The  air  is 
charming,  and  I have  often  regretted  the 
want  of  decent  verses  to  it.  It  is  too  much, 
at  least  for  my  humble  rustic  muse,  to 
expect  that  every  effort  of  hers  shall  have 
merit;  still,  I think  it  is  better  to  have 
mediocre  verses  to  a favourite  air,  than  none 
at  all.  On  this  principle  I have  all  along 
proceeded  on  the  Scots  Musical  Museum; 
and  as  that  publication  is  at  its  last  volume, 
I intend  the  following  song,  to  the  air 
above  mentioned,  for  that  work. 

If  it  does  not  suit  you  as  an  editor,  you 
may  be  pleased  to  have  verses  to  it  that  you 
can  sing  in  the  company  of  ladies. 

[Here  follows  “She  says  she  loves  me  best 
of  a’.”] 

Not  to  compare  small  things  with  great, 
my  taste  in  music  is  like  the  mighty 
Frederick  of  Prussia’s  taste  in  painting  ; we 
are  told  that  he  frequently  admired  what 
the  connoisseurs  decried,  and  always  with 
out  any  hypocrisy  confessed  his  admiration, 
I am  sensible  that  my  taste  in  music  must 


424 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


be  inelegant  and  vulgar  became  people  of  I 
undisputed  and  cultivated  taste  can  find  no 
merit  in  my  favourite  tunes.  Still,  because 
I am  cheaply  pleased,  is  that  any  reason 
why  I should  deny  myself  that  pleasure? 
Many  of  our  strathspeys,  ancient  and 
modern,  give  me  most  exquisite  enjoyment, 
where  you  and  other  judges  would  probably 
be  showing  disgust.  For  instance,  I am 
just  now  making  verses  for  “ Rothemurche’s 
rant,”  an  air  which  puts  me  in  raptures: 
and,  in  fact,  unless  I be  pleased  with  thfc 
tunel  I never  can  make  verses  to  it.  Here  I 
have  Cl-arke  on  my  side,  who  is  a judge  that 
I will  pit  against  any  of  you.  “ Rothe- 
murche,”  he  says,  “is  an  air  both  original 
and  beautiful ; ” and,  on  his  recommenda- 
tion, I have  taken  the  first  part  of  the  tune 
for  a chorus,  and  the  fourth  or  last  part  for 
the  song.  I am  but  two  stanzas  deep  in  the 
work,  and  possibly  you  may  think,  and 
justly,  that  the  poetry  is  as  little  worth 
your  attention  as  the  music. 

[Here  follow  two  stanzas  of  the  song, 
beginning  “ Lassie  wV  the  lint-white  locks^'] 

I have  begun  anew,  “ Let  me  in  this  ane 
wight.”  Do  you  think  that  we  ought  to 
retain  the  old  chorus?  I think  we  must 
retain  both  the  old  chorus  and  the  first 
%tanza  of  the  aid  song.  I do  not  altogether 
tike  the  third  line  of  the  first  stanza,  but 
cannot  alter  it  to  please  myself.  I am  just 
three  stanzas  deep  in  it.  Would  you  have 
the  denouement  to  be  successful  or  other- 
wise ? — should  she  “ let  him  in  ” or  not  ? 

Did  you  not  once  propose  “The  sow’s 
•ail  to  Geordie  ” as  an  air  for  your  work  ? 

{ am  quite  delighted  with  it ; but  I acknow- 
ledge that  is  no  mark  of  its  real  excellence. 
I once  set  about  verses  for  it,  which  I meant 
to  be  in  the  alternate  way  of  a lover  and  his 
mistress  chanting  together.  I have  not  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  Mrs.  Thomson’s 
Christian  name ; and  yours,  I am  afraid,  is 
rather  burlesque  for  sentiment,  else  I had 
meant  to  have  made  you  the  hero  and 
heroine  of  the  little  piece. 

How  do  you  like  the  following  epigram 
which  T wrote  the  other  day  on  a lovely 
young  girl’s  recovery  from  a fever  ? Doctor 
Maxwell  was  the  physician  who  seemingly 
saved  her  from  the  grave ; and  to  him  I 
address  the  following : — 

TO  DR.  MAXWELL, 

ON  MISS  JESSIE  STAIG’S  REOOY3P.Y. 

Maxwell,  if  merit  here  you  crave, 

That  vnerit  I deny  : 


You  save  fair  Jessie  from  the  grave  ? 

An  angel  could  not  die  ! 

God  grant  you  patience  with  this  stupid 
epistle  1 


HO.  CCCXXVII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

I perceive  the  sprightly  muse  is  now 
attendant  upon  her  favourite  poet,  whose 
woodnotes  wild  are  become  as  enchanting  as 
ever.  “ She  says  she  loes  me  best  of  a’,”  is 
one  of  the  pleasantest  table  songs  I have 
seen,  and  henceforth  shall  be  mine  when  the 
song  is  going  round.  I’ll  give  Cunningham 
a copy ; he  can  more  powerfully  proclaim 
its  merit.  I am  far  from  undervaluing 
your  taste  for  the  strathspey  music ; on  the 
contrary,  I think  it  highly  animating  and 
agreeable,  and  that  some  of  the  strathspeys, 
when  graced  with  such  verses  as  yours,  will 
make  very  pleasing  songs,  in  the  same  way 
that  rough  Christians  are  tempered  and 
softened  by  lovely  woman,  without  whom, 
you  know,  they  had  been  brutes. 

I am  clear  for  having  the  “Sow’s  tail,” 
particularly  as  your  proposed  verses  to  it  are 
so  extremely  promising.  Geordie,  as  you 
observe,  is  a name  only  fit  for  burlesque 
composition.  Mrs.  Thomson’s  name  (Katha- 
rine) is  not  at  all  poetical.  Retain  Jeanie, 
therefore,  and  make  the  other  Jamie,  or  any 
other  that  sounds  agreeably. 

Your  “ Ca’  the  ewes  ” is  a precious  little 
morceau.  Indeed,  I am  perfectly  astonished 
and  charmed  with  the  endless  variety  of 
your  fancy.  Here  let  me  ask  you,  whether 
you  never  seriously  turned  your  thoughts 
upon  dramatic  writing?  That  is  a field 
worthy  of  your  genius,  in  which  it  might 
shine  forth  in  all  its  splendo'ur.  One  or 
two  successful  pieces  upon  the  London  stags 
would  make  your  fortune.  The  rage  at 
present  is  for  musical  dramas : few  or  none 
of  those  which  have  appeared  since  the 
“Duenna,”  possess  much  poetical  merit; 
there  is  little  in  the  conduct  of  the  fable,  or 
in  the  dialogue,  to  interest  the  audience: 
they  are  chiefly  vehicles  for  music  and 
pageantry.  I think  you  might  produce  a 
comic  opera  in  three  acts,  which  would  live 
by  the  poetry,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
would  be  proper  to  take  every  assistance 
from  her  tuneful  sister.  Part  of  the  songs, 
of  course,  would  be  to  our  favourite  Scottish 
airs ; the  rest  might  be  left  to  the  London 
composer — Storace  for  Drury-lane,  or  Shield 


BURNS  TO  ME.  THOMSON. 


42* 


for  Coveut-garden,  both  of  them  very  able 
end  popular  musicians.  I believe  that 
«nterest  and  manoeuvring  are  often  necessary 
to  have  a drama  brought  on  ; so  it  may  be 
with  the  namby-pamby  tribe  of  flowery 
scribblers : but  were  you  to  address  Mr. 
Sheridan  himself  by  letter,  and  send  him  a 
dramatic  piece,  I am  persuaded  he  would, 
for  the  honour  of  genius,  give  it  a fair  and 
candid  trial.  Excuse  me  for  obtruding 
these  hints  snon  your  consideration.  (193) 
R.  B. 


NO.  CCCXXVIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh , October  14 th,  1794. 

The  last  eight  days  have  been  devoted  to 
the  re-examination  of  the  Scottish  collections. 
I nave  read,  and  sung,  and  fiddled,  and 
considered,  till  I am  half  blind,  and  wholly 
stupid.  The  few  airs  I have  added,  are 
enclosed. 

Peter  Pindar  has  at  length  sent  me  all 
the  songs  I expected  from  him,  which  are, 
in  general,  elegant  and  beautiful.  Have 
you  heard  of  a London  collection  of  Scottish 
airs  and  songs,  just  published  by  Mr. 
Ritson,  an  Englishman?  I shall  send  you 
a copy.  His  introductory  essay  on  the 
subject  is  curious,  and  evinces  great  reading 
and  research,  but  does  not  decide  the 
question  as  to  the  origin  of  our  melodies ; 
though  he  shows  clearly  that  Mr.  Tytler,  in 
his  ingenious  dissertation,  has  adduced  no 
sort  of  proof  of  the  hypothesis  he  wished  to 
establish,  and  that  his  classification  of  the 
airs  according  to  the  eras  when  they  were 
composed,  is  mere  fancy  and  conjecture. 
On  John  Pinkerton,  Esq.,  he  has  no  mercy, 
but  consigns  him  to  damnation.  He  snarls 
at  my  publication,  on  the  score  of  Pindar 
being  engaged  to  write  songs  for  it;  un- 
candidly  and  unjustly  leaving  it  to  be 
inferred,  that  the  songs  of  Scottish  writers 
had  been  sent  a-packing  to  make  room  for 
Peter’s ! Of  you  he  speaks  with  some 
respect,  but  gives  you  a passing  hit  or  two, 
for  daring  to  dress  up  a little  some  old 
foolish  songs  for  the  Museum.  His  sets  of 
the  Scottish  airs  are  taken,  he  says,  from 
the  oldest  collections  and  best  authorities ; 
many  of  them,  however,  have  such  a strange 
aspect,  and  are  so  unlike  the  sets  which  are 
*ung  by  every  person  of  taste,  old  or  young, 
in  town  or  country,  that  we  can  scarcely 
recognise  the  features  of  our  favourites.  By 


going  to  the  oldest  collections  of  oui  musit^ 
it  does  not  follow  that  we  find  the  melodies 
in  their  original  state.  These  melodies  had 
been  preserved,  we  know  not  how  long,  b) 
oral  communication,  before  being  collected 
and  printed  ; and,  as  different  persons  sing 
the  same  air  very  differently,  according  tc 
tlieir  accurate  or  confused  recollection  of  it, 
so,  even  supposing  the  first  collectors  to 
possess  the  industry,  taste,  and  discernment, 
to  choose  the  best  they  could  hear  (which  is 
far  from  certain),  still  it  must  evidently  be 
a chance,  whether  the  collections  exhibit 
any  of  the  melodies  in  the  state  they  were 
first  composed.  In  selecting  the  melodies 
for  my  own  collection,  I have  been  as  much 
guided  by  the  living  as  by  the  dead, 
Where  these  differed,  I preferred  the  sets 
that  appeared  to  me  the  most  simple  and 
beautiful,  and  the  most  generally  approved  : 
and  without  meaning  any  compliment  to  my 
own  capability  of  choosing,  or  speaking  of 
the  pains  I have  taken,  I flatter  myself  that 
my  sets  will  be  found  equally  free  frorr 
vulgar  errors  on  the  one  hand,  and  affected 
graces  on  the  other. 


NO.  CCCXXIX. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

October  19  th,  1794. 

My  Dear  Friend — By  this  morning's 
post  I have  your  list,  and,  in  general,  I 
highly  approve  of  it.  I shall,  at  more  lei- 
sure, give  you  a critique  on  the  whole. 
Clarke  goes  to  your  town  by  to-day’s  fly, 
and  I wish  you  would  call  on  him  and  take 
his  opinion  in  general : you  know  his  taste 
is  a standard.  He  will  return  here  again  in 
a week  or  two,  so  please  do  not  miss  asking 
for  him.  One  thing  I hope  he  will  do — 
persuade  you  to  adopt  my  favourite,  “Craigie- 
burn  wood,”  in  your  selection  : it  is  as  great 
a favourite  of  his  as  of  mine.  The  lady  on 
whom  it  was  made  is  one  of  the  finest  women 
in  Scotland  ; and  in  fact  ( entre  nous ) is  m a 
manner  to  me,  what  Sterne’s  Eliza  was  to 
him — a mistress,  ur  friend,  or  what  you  will, 
in  the  guileless  simplicity  of  Platonic  love. 
(Nowr,  don’t  put  any  of  your  squinting  con- 
structions on  this,  or  have  any  clishmaclaver 
about  it  among  our  acquaintances.)  I assure 
you  that  to  my  lovely  friend  you  are  indebted 
for  many  of  your  best  songs  of  mine.  Do 
you  think  that  the  sober,  gin-horse  routing 
of  existence  could  inspire  a man  with  lifo* 


426 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


and  love,  and  joy— -could  fire  him  with  enthu- 
siasm, or  melt  him  with  pathos,  equal  to  the 
gen  ins  of  your  book  ? No!  no!  Whenever 
1 want  to  be  more  than  ordinary  in  song — to 
be  m some  degree  equal  to  your  diviner  airs 
• — do  you  imagine  1 fast  and  pray  for  the 
celestial  emanation  ? Tout  au  contraire ! I 
have  a glorious  recipe;  the  very  one  that  for 
his  own  use  was  invented  by  the  divinity  of 
healing  and  poetry,  when  erst  he  piped  to 
the  flocks  of  Admetus.  I put  myself  in  a 
regimen  of  admiring  a fine  woman ; and  in 
proportion  to  the  adorability  of  her  charms, 
in  proportion  you  are  delighted  with  my 
verses.  The  lightning  of  her  eye  is  the  god- 
head of  Parnassus,  and  the  witchery  of  her 
smile  the  divinity  of  Helicon ! 

To  descend  to  business ; if  you  like  my 
idea  of  “ When  she  cam  ben  she  bobbit,”  the 
following  stanzas  of  mine,  altered  a little 
from  what  they  were  formerly,  when  set  to 
another  air,  may  perhaps  do  instead  of  worse 
stanzas : — 

[Here  follows  “ Sav)  ye  my  Philly .”] 

Now  for  k few  miscellaneous  remarks. 
"The  Posie”  (in  the  Museum)  is  my  compo- 
sition ; the  air  was  taken  down  from  Mrs. 
Burns’s  voice.  (194)  It  is  well  known  in 
the  west  country,  but  the  old  words  are 
trash.  By  the  bye,  take  a look  at  the  tune 
again,  and  tell  me  if  you  do  not  think  it  is 
the  original  from  which  “ Roslin  Castle  ” is 
composed.  The  second  part,  in  particular, 
for  the  first  two  or  three  bars,  is  exactly  the 
old  air.  “ Strathallan’s  Lament  ” is  mine  ; 
the  music  is  by  our  right  trusty  and 
deservedly  well-beloved  Allan  Masterton. 
"Donocht-Head”  (195)  is  not  mine;  I would 
give  ten  pomnds  it  were.  It  appeared  first 
in  the  Edinburgh  Herald,  and  came  to  the 
editor  of  that  paper  with  the  Newcastle  post- 
mark on  it.  (195)  “ Whistle  o’er  the  lave 

o’t”  is  mine:  the  music  said  to  be  by  a 
John  Bruce,  a celebrated  violin  player  in 
Dumfries,  about  the  beginning  of  this 
century.  This  I know,  Bruce,  who  was  an 
honest  man,  though  ared-wud  Highlandman, 
constantly  claimed  it ; and  by  all  the  old 
musical  people  here,  is  believed  to  be  the 
author  of  it. 

“Andrew  and  his  cutty  gun.”  The  song  to 
which  this  is  set  in  the  Museum  is  mine,  and 
was  composed  on  Miss  Euphemia  Murray,  of 
Iintrose,  commonly  and  deservedly  called 
the  Flower  of  Strathmore. 

“ How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night ! ” I 
met  with  some  such  words  in  a collection  of 
songs  somewhere,  which  1 altered  and 


enlarged ; and  to  please  you,  and  to  suit 
your  favourite  air,  I have  taken  a stride  oi 
two  across  my  room  and  have  arranged  it 
anew,  as  you  will  find  on  the  other  page. 

[Here follows  “ How  long  and  dreary  is 
the  Night”] 

Tell  me  how  you  like  this.  I differ  from 
your  idea  of  the  expression  of  the  tune. 
There  is,  to  me,  a great  deal  of  tenderness  in 
it.  You  cannot,  in  my  opinion,  dispense 
with  a bass  to  your  addenda  airs.  A lady  of 
my  acquaintance,  a noted  performer,  plays 
and  sings  at  the  same  time  so  charmingly, 
that  I shall  never  bear  to  see  any  of  her  songs 
sent  into  the  world,  as  naked  as  Mr.  What- 
d’ye-call-um  has  done  in  his  London  collec- 
tion. (197) 

These  English  songs  gravel  me  to  death. 
I have  not  that  command  of  the  language 
that  I have  of  my  native  tongue.  I have 
been  at  “Duncan  Gray,”  to  dress  it  in 
English,  but  all  I can  do  is  deplorably  stupid. 
For  instance : — 

[Here  follows  u Let  not  Woman  efcr 
complain 

Since  the  above,  I have  been  out  in  the 
country  taking  a dinner  with  a friend,  where 
I met  with  the  lady  whom  I mentioned 
in  the  second  page  in  this  odds-and-ends  of 
a letter.  As  usual,  I got  into  song ; and 
returning  home  I composed  the  following:— 

THE  LOVER’S  MORNING  SALUTE 
TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Tune — Deil  tah  the  Wars . 

Sleep’st  thou,  cr  wak’st  thou,  fairest  crea- 
ture ; 

Rosy  morn  now  lifts  his  eye. 

Numbering  ilka  bud  which  nature 
W aters  wi’  the  tears  o’  joy : 

Now  thro’  the  leafy  woods. 

And  by  the  reeking  floods. 

Wild  nature’s  tenants,  freely,  gladly  stray; 
The  lintwhite  in  his  bower 
Chants  o’er  the  breathing  flower; 

The  lav’rock  to  the  sky 
Ascends  wi’  sangs  o’  joy. 

While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bkss  the 
day. 

Phoebus  gilding  the  brow  o’  raornir^. 
Banishes  ilk  darksome  shade. 

Nature  gladd’ning  and  adorning; 

Such  to  me  my  lovely  maid. 

When  absent  frae  my  fair. 

The  murky  shades  o’  car® 


TO  MR.  THOMSON. 


427 


Wit'n.  starless  gloom  o’ercast  my  sullen  sky ; 

But  when  in  beauty’s  light, 

She  meets  my  ravished  s'ght. 

When  through  my  very  heart 

Her  beaming  glories  dart ; 

then  I wake  to  life,  to  light,  wad 
joy!  (198) 

If  you  honour  my  verse*  by  setting  the 
air  to  them,  I will  vamp  up  the  old  song,  and 
make  it  English  enough  to  be  understood. 

I enclose  you  a musical  curiosity,  an  East 
Indian  air,  which  you  would  swear  was  a 
Scottish  one.  I know  the  authenticity  of  it, 
as  the  gentleman’  who  brought  it  over  is  a 
particular  acquaintance  of  mine.  Do  pre- 
serve me  the  copy  I send  you,  as  it  is  the 
only  one  I have.  Clarke  has  set  a bass  to  it, 
and  I intend  putting  it  into  the  Musical 
Museum.  Here  follow  the  verses  I intend 
for  it. 

[Here  follows  “But  lately  seen  in  glad- 
some green”] 

I would  be  obliged  to  you  if  you  would 
procure  me  a sight  of  Ritson’s  collection  of 
English  songs,  which  you  mention  in  your 
letter.  I will  thank  you  for  another  infor- 
mation, and  that  as  speedily  as  you  please  : 
whether  this  miserable,  drawling,  hotchpotch 
epistle  has  not  completely  tired  you  of  my 
correspondence? 


NO.  cccxxx. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  October  27th,  1794. 

I am  sensible,  my  dear  friend,  that  a 
genuine  poet  can  no  more  exist  without  his 
mistress  than  his  meat.  I wish  I knew  the 
adorable  she,  whose  bright  eyes  and  witching 
smiles  have  so  often  enraptured  the  Scottish 
bard,  that  I might  drink  her  sweet  health 
when  the  toast  is  going  round.  “Craige- 
burn  wood  ” must  certainly  be  adopted  into 
my  family,  since  she  is  the  object  of  the 
song;  but,  in  the  name  qf  decency,  I must 
beg  a new  chorus  verse  from  you.  “ Oh  to 
be  lying  beyond  thee,  dearie,”  is  perhaps  a 
consummation  to  be  wished,  but  will  not  do 
for  singing  in  the  company  of  ladies.  The 
songs  in  your  last  will  do  you  lasting  credit, 
and  suit  the  respective  aus  charmingly.  I am 
perfectly  of  your  opinion  writh  respect  to 
the  additional  airs.  The  idea  of  sending 


them  into  tbt  world  naked  as  they  were 
born,  was  ungenerous.  Th&y  must  all  be 
clothed  and  made  decent  by  our  friend 
Clarke. 

I find  I am  anticipated  by  the  friendly 
Cunningham  in  sending  you  Ritson’s  Scot- 
tish collection.  Permit  me,  therefore,  to 
present  you  with  his  English  collection, 
which  you  will  receive  by  the  coach.  1 do 
not  find  his  historical  essay  on  Scottish  song 
interesting.  Your  anecdotes  and  miscella- 
neous remarks  will,  I am  sure,  be  much  more 
so.  Allan  has  just  sketched  a charming  de- 
sign from  “Maggie  Lauder.”  She  is  dancing 
with  such  spirit  as  to  electrify  the  piper,  who 
seems  almost  dancing  too,  while  he  is  playing 
with  the  most  exquisite  glee.  I am  much 
inclined  to  get  a small  copy,  and  to  have  it 
engraved  in  the  style  of  Ritson’s  prints. 

P.S.  Pray  what  do  your  anecdotes  say 
concerning  “ Maggie  Lauder  ?” — was  she  a 
real  personage,  and  of  what  rank  ? You 
would  surely  “ spier  for  her,  if  you  ca’d  at 
Anstruther  town.” 


NO.  CCCXXXI. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

November,  1794. 

Many  thanks  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for 
your  present;  it  is  a book  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  me.  I have  yesterday  begun 
my  anecdotes,  &c.,  for  your  work.  I intend 
drawing  them  up  in  the  form  of  a letter  to 
you,  which  will  save  me  from  the  tedious 
dull  business  of  systematic  arrangement. 
Indeed,  as  all  I have  to  say  consists  of  un- 
unconnected  remarks,  anecdotes,  scraps  of 
old  songs,  &c.,  it  would  be  impossible  to  give 
the  work  a beginning,  a middle,  and  an  end, 
which  the  critics  insist  to  be  abolutely  neces- 
sary  in  a work.  In  my  last,  I told  you  my 
objections  to  the  song  you  had  selected  for 
“ My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground.”  On 
my  visit  the  other  day  to  my  fair  Chlorig 
(that  is  the  poetic  name  of  the  lovely  god- 
dess of  my  inspiration),  she  suggested  an 
idea,  which  I,  on  my  return  from  the  visit, 
wrought  into  tlie  following  song. 

“My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves.* 

How  do  you  like  the  simplicity  and  te"> 
derness  of  this  pastoral?  I think  it  pretty 
well. 


42S 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


I like  you  for  entering  so  candidly  and  so 
kindly  into  the  story  of  “ma  chere  amie” 
I assure  you  I was  never  more  earnest  in  my 
life,  than  in  the  account  of  that  affair  which 

I sent  you  in  my  last.  Conjugal  love  is  a 
passion  which  I deeply  feel,  and  highly  vene- 
rate ; but  somehow  it  does  not  make  such  a 
figure  in  poesy  as  that  other  species  of  the 
passion. 

Where  love  is  liberty,  and  nature  law. 

Musically  speaking,  the  first  is  an  instru- 
ment of  which  the  gamut  is  scanty  and 
coufined,  but  the  tones  inexpressibly  sweet, 
while  the  last  has  powers  equal  to  all  the 
intellectual  modulations  of  the  human  soul. 
Still,  I am  a very  poet  in  my  enthusiasm 
of  the  passion.  The  welfare  and  happiness 
of  the  beloved  object  is  the  first  and  invio- 
late sentiment  that  pervades  my  soul ; and 
whatever  pleasures  I might  wish  for,  or 
whatever  might  be  the  raptures  they  would 
give  me,  yet,  if  they  interfere  with  that  first 
principle,  it  is  having  these  pleasures  at  a 
dishonest  price;  and  justice  forbids,  and 
generosity  disdains,  the  purchase  ! (199) 

Despairing  of  my  own  powers  to  give  you 
variety  enough  in  English  songs,  I have 
been  turning  over  old  collections,  to  pick 
out  songs,  of  which  the  measure  is  some- 
thing similar  to  what  I want ; and,  with  a 
little  alteration,  so  as  to  suit  the  rhythm  of 
the  air  exactly,  to  give  you  them  for  your 
work.  Where  the  songs  have  hitherto  been 
but  little  noticed,  nor  have  ever  been  set  to 
music,  I think  the  shift  a fair  one.  A song, 
which,  under  the  same  first  verse,  you  will 
find  in  Ramsay’s  Tea-Table  Miscellany,  I 
have  cut  down  for  an  English  dress  to  your 
* Dainty  Davie/’  as  follows  : — 

“ It  was  the  charming  month  of  May” 

You  may  think  meanly  of  this,  but  take 
a look  at  the  bombast  original,  and  you  will 
be  surprised  that  I have  made  so  much  of 
it.  I have  finished  my  song  to  “ Rothe- 
murche’s  rant/’  and  you  have  Clarke  to 
consult  as  to  the  set  of  the  air  for  singing. 

[Here  follows  “ lassie  m*  ike  lint-white 

locks : ”] 

This  piece"  has  at  least  the  merit  of  being 

II  regular  pastoral : the  vernal  morn,  the 
summer  noon,  the  autumnal  evening,  and 
the  winter  night,  are  regularly  rounded.  If 
you  like  it,  well ; if  uot,  I will  insert  it  in 
the  Museum. 


P 

NO.  CCCXXX3I. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

I am  out  of  temper  that  you  should  set 
so  sweet,  so  tender  an  air,  as  “ Deil  tak  the 
wars,”  to  the  foolish  old  verses.  You  talk 
of  the  silliness  of  “ Saw  ye  my  father  ? ” 
(200) — by  Heavens ! the  odds  are  gold  to 
brass  ! Besides,  the  old  song,  though  now 
pretty  well  modernised  into  the  Scottish 
language,  is  originally,  and  in  the  early 
editions,  a bungling  low  imitation  of  the 
Scottish  manner,  by  that  genius  Tom 
D’Urfey,  so  has  no  pretensions  to  be  a 
Scottish  production.  There  is  a pretty 
English  song  by  Sheridan,  in  the  “ Duenna,” 
to  this  air,  which  is  out  of  sight  superior  to 
D’Urfey ’s.  It  begins, 

“ When  sable  night  each  drooping  plant 

restoring.” 

The  air,  if  I understand  the  expression  of 
it  properly,  is  the  very  native  language  of 
simplicity,  tenderness,  and  love.  I have 
again  gone  over  my  song  to  the  tune  as 
follows.  (201) 

Now  for  my  English  song  to  “Nancy’s 
to  the  greenwoods,”  &c. 

[ Here  follows  the  song  “Farewell  thou 

stream.”] 

There  is  an  air,  “ The  Caledonian  Hunt’s 
delight,”  to  which  I wrote  a song  that  you 
will  find  in  Johnson,  “ Ye  banks  and  braes 
o’  bonnie  Doon : ” this  air,  I think,  might 
find  a place  among  your  hundred,  as  Lear 
says  of  his  knights.  Do  you  know  the 
history  of  the  air?  It  is  curious  enough. 
A good  many  years  ago,  Mr.  James  Miller, 
writer  in  your  good  town,  a gentleman  whom 
possibly  you  know,  was  in  company  with  our 
friend  Clarke;  and  talking  of  Scottish  music. 
Miller  expressed  an  ardent  ambition  to  be 
able  to  compose  a Scots  air.  Mr.  Clarke, 
partly  by  way  of  joke,  told  him  to  keep  to 
the  black  keys  of  the  harpsicord,  and  pre- 
serve some  kind  of  rhythm,  and  he  would 
infallibly  compose  a Scots  air.  Certain  it  is 
that,  in  a few  days,  Mr.  Miller  produced  the 
rudiments  of  an  air,  which  Mr.  Clarke,  with 
some  touches  and  corrections,  fashioned  into 
the  tune  in  question.  Ritson,  you  know, 
has  the  same  story  of  the  black  keys ; but 
this  account  which  I have  just  given  you, 
Mr.  Clarke  informed  me  of  several  years 
ago.  Now,  to  show  you  how  difficult  it  is 
to  trace  the  origin  of  our  airs,  I have  heard 
it  repeatedly  asserted  that  this  was  an  Irish 
air;  nay,  I met  with  an  Irish  gentleman 


TO  M R.  THOMSON. 


428 


who  affirmed  he  had  heard  it  in  Ireland 
among  the  old  women  ; while,  on  the  Other 
hand,  a countess  informed  me,  that  the  first 
person  who  introduced  the  air  into  this 
country,  was  a baronet’s  lady  of  her  ac- 
quaintance, who  took  down  the  notes  from 
an  itinerant  piper  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  How 
difficult,  then,  to  ascertain  the  truth  respect- 
ing our  poesy  and  music ! I,  myself,  have 
lately  seen  a couple  of  ballads  sung  through 
the  streets  of  Dumfries,  with  my  name  at 
the  head  of  them  as  the  author,  though 
it  was  the  first  time  I had  ever  seen 
them. 

1 thank  you  for  admitting  “ Craigieburn 
wood  : ” and  I shall  take  care  to  furnish 
you  with  a new  chorus.  In  fact,  the  chorus 
was  not  my  work,  but  a part  of  some  old 
verses  to  the  air.  If  I can  catch  myself  in 
a more  than  ordinarily  propitious  moment, 
I shall  write  a new  “ Cragieburn  wood” 
altogether.  My  heart  is  much  in  the 
theme. 

I am  ashamed,  my  dear  fellow,  to  make 
the  request;  ’tis  dunning  your  generosity; 
but  in  a moment  when  I had  forgotten 
whether  I was  rich  or  poor,  I promised 
Chlcris  a copy  of  your  songs.  It  wrings 
my  honest  pride  to  write  you  this ; but  an 
ungracious  request  is  doubly  so  by  a tedious 
apology.  To  make  you  so'me  amends,  as 
soon  as  I have  extracted  the  necessary  infor- 
mation out  of  them,  I will  return  you  Rit- 
son’s  volumes. 

The  lady  is  not  a little  proud  that  she  is 
to  make  so  distinguished  a figure  in  your 
collection,  and  1 am  not  a little  proud  that  I 
have  it  in  my  power  to  please  her  so  much. 
Lucky  it  is  for  your  patience  that  my  paper 
is  done,  for  when  I am  in  a scribbling 
humour,  I know  not  when  to  give  over. 


NO.  CCCXXXIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

November  15  th,  1794. 

My  Good  Sir — Since  receiving  your  last, 
1 have  had  an  other  interview  with  Mr.  Clarke, 
and  a long  consultation.  He  thinks  the 
“ Caledonian  Hunt  ” is  more  bacchanalian 
than  amorous  in  its  nature,  and  recommends 
it  to  you  to  match  the  air  accordingly.  Pray, 
did  it  ever  occur  to  you  how  peculiarly  well 
the  Scottish  airs  are  adapted  for  verses  in  the 
form  of  a dialogue  ? The  first  part  of  the 
air  is  generally  low,  and  suited  for  s man’s 


voice;  and  tht  second  part.  In  many  in- 
stances, cannot  be  sung,  at  concert  pitch, 
but  by  a female  voice.  A song  thus  per- 
formed makes  an  agreeable  variety,  but  few 
of  ours  are  written  in  this  form  : I wish  you 
would  think  of  it  in  some  of  those  that 
remain.  The  only  one  of  the  kind  you  have 
sent  me  is  admirable,  and  will  be  an  universal 
favourite. 

Your  verses  far  " Rothemurche  ” aie  so 
sweetly  pastoral,  and  your  serenade  to 
Chloris,  for  “Deil  tak  the  Wars,”  so  passion- 
ately tender,  that  I have  sung  myself  into 
raptures  with  them.  Your  song  for  “ My 
lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground,”  is  likewise  a 
diamond  of  the  first  water : I am  quite  daz- 
zled and  delighted  by  it.  Some  of  your 
Chlorises,  I suppose,  have  flaxen  hair,  from 
your  partiality  for  this  colour — else  we  differ 
about  it;  for  I should  scarcely  conceive  a 
woman  to  be  a beauty,  on  reading  that  she 
had  lint-white  locks ! 

“ Farewell  thou  stream  that  winding 
flows,”  I think,  excellent,  but  it  is  much  too 
serious  to  come  after  "Nancy;” — at  least, it 
would  seem  an  incongruity  to  provide  the 
same  air  with  merry  Scottish  and  melancholy 
English  verses ! The  more  that  the  two  seta 
of  verses  resemble  each  other,  in  their  gen- 
eral character,  the  better.  Those  you  have 
manufactured  for  " Dainty  Davie  ” will 
answer  charmingly.  I am  happy  to  find  you 
have  begun  your  anecdotes  : I care  not  how 
long  they  be,  for  it  is  impossible  that  any- 
thing from  your  pen  can  be  tedious.  Let 
me  beseech  you  not  to  use  ceremony  in 
telling  me  when  you  wish  to  present  any  of 
your  friends  with  the  songs:  the  next  carrier 
will  bring  you  three  copies,  and  you  are  aa 
welcome  to  twenty  as  to  a pinch  of  suult 


NO.  CCCXXXIV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

November  19  th,  1794. 

You  see,  my  dear  Sir,  what  a punctual 
correspondent  I am ; though,  indeed,  you 
may  thank  yourself  for  the  tedium  of  my 
letters,  as  you  have  so  flattered  me  on  my 
horsemanship  with  my  favourite  hobby,  and 
have  praised  the  grace  of  hi3  ambling  so 
much,  that  I am  scarcely  ever  off  his  back. 
For  instance,  this  morning,  though  a keen 
blowing  frost,  in  my  walk  before  breakfast,  I 
finished  my  duev,  which  you  were  pleased  to 
praise  so  much.  Whether  I have  uniformly 


*30 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


succeeded,  I will  not  say ; but  here  it  is  for 
you.  though  it  is  not  an  hour  old. 

[Here  follows  the  song  " Philly  and 

Willy.”] 

Tell  me  honestly  how  you  like  it,  and  point 
out  whatever  you  think  faulty. 

I am  much  pleased  with  your  idea  of 
singing  our  songs  in  alternate  stanzas,  and 
regret  that  you  did  not  hint  it  to  me  sooner. 
In  those  that  remain,  I shall  have  it  in  my  eye. 
I remember  your  objections  to  the  name 
Philly,  but  it  is  the  common  abbreviation  of 
Phillis.  Sally,  the  only  other  name  that 
suits,  has,  to  my  ear,  a vulgarity  about  it, 
which  unfits  it  for  anything  except  burlesque. 
The  legion  of  Scottish  poetasters  of  the  day, 
whom  your  brother  editor,  Mr.  Ritson,  ranks 
with  me  as  my  coevals,  have  always  mistaken 
vulgarity  for  simplicity ; whereas,  simplicity 
is  as  much  eloignee  from  vulgarity  on  the  one 
hand,  as  from  affected  point  and  puerile  con- 
ceit on  the  other. 

I agree  with  you  as  to  the  air,  “ Craigie- 
burn  wood,”  that  a chorus  would,  in  some 
degree,  spoil  the  effect,  and  shall  certainly 
have  none  in  my  projected  song  to  it.  It  is 
not,  however,  a case  in  point  with  " Rothe- 
murche  ; ” there,  as  in  “ Roy’s  wife  of  Aldi- 
valloch,” a chorus  goes,  to  my  taste,  well 
enough.  As  to  the  chorus  going  first, 
that  is  the  case  with  Roy’s  wife,  as  wrell 
as  “ Rothemurche.”  In  fact,  in  the  first 
part  of  both  tunes,  the  rhythm  is  so  peculiar 
and  irregular,  and  on  that  irregularity 
depends  so  much  of  their  beauty,  that  we 
must  e’en  take  them  with  all  their  wildness, 
and  humour  the  verse  accordingly.  Leaving 
out  the  starting  note,  in  both  tunes,  has,  I 
think,  an  effect  that  no  regularity  could 
counterbalance  the  want  of. 


Try, 

and 

uompare  with, 


!Oh  Roy’s  wife-of  Aldivalloch. 
Oh  lassie  wi’  the  lint-white 
locks. 

{Roy’s  wife  of  Aldivalloch. 
Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white 
locks. 


Does  not  the  tameness  of  the  prefixed  sylla- 
ble strike  you  ? In  the  last  case,  with  the 
true  furor  of  genius,  you  strike  at  once  into 
the  wild  originality  of  the  air;  whereas,  in 
the  first  insipid  method,  it  is  like  the  grating 
screw  of  the  pins  before  the  fiddle  is  brought 
mto  tune.  This  is  my  taste;  if  I am  wrong, 
I beg  pardon  of  the  cognoscenti. 

“ The  Caledonian  Hunt  ” is  so  charming, 
that  it  would  make  any  subject  in  a song  go 
down ! but  pathos  is  certainly  its  native 
tongue  Scofcto&h  bacchanalians  we  certainly 


want,  though  the  few  we  have  are  excellent. 
For  instance,  “ Todlin  hame,”  is,  for  wit  and 
humour,  an  unparalleled  composition;  and 
“ Andrew  and  his  cutty  gun,”  is  the  work  of 
a master.  By  the  way,  are  you  not  quite 
vexed  to  think  that  those  men  of  genius,  for 
such  they  certainly  were,  who  composed  our 
fine  Scottish  lyrics,  should  be  uuknown?  It 
has  given  me  many  a heart-ache.  A-propos 
to  bacchanalian  songs  in  Scotch,  I com*, 
posed  one  yesterday,  for  an  air  I like  much 
— “ Lumps  o’  pudding.” 

[Here  follows  “ Contented  wi’  Little”] 

If  you  do  not  relish  this  air,  I will  send  it 
to  Johnson. 


HO.  CCCXXXV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Since  yesterday’s  penmanship,  I have 
framed  a couple  of  English  stanzas,  by  way 
of  an  English  song  to  “ Roy’s  Wife.”  You 
will  allow  me,  that  in  this  instance  my 
English  corresponds  in  sentiment  with  thie 
Scottish. 

[Here  follows  “ Canst  thou  leave  me  this, 
my  Katy  ? ”] 

Well ! I think  this  to  be  done  in  two  or 
three  turns  across  my  room,  and  with  two  or 
three  pinches  of  Irish  blackguard,  is  not  so 
far  amiss.  You  see  I am  determined  to  have 
my  quantum  of  applause  from  somebody. 

Tell  my  friend  Allan  (for  I am  sure  that 
we  only  want  the  trifling  circumstance  of 
being  known  to  one  another,  to  be  the  best 
friends  on  earth),  that  I much  suspect  he 
has,  in  his  plates,  mistaken  the  figure  of  the 
stock  and  horn.  I have,  at  last,  gotten  one, 
but  it  is  a very  rude  instrument.  It  is  com- 
posed of  three  parts;  the  stock,  which  is  the 
hinder  thigh-bone  of  a sheep,  such  as  you 
see  in  a mutton  ham;  the  horn,  which  is 
a common  Highland  cow’s  horn,  cut  off  at 
the  smaller  end,  until  the  aperture  be  large 
enough  to  admit  the  stock  to  be  pushed  up 
through  the  horn  until  it  be  held  by  the 
thicker  end  of  the  thigh-bone;  and  lastly, 
an  oaten  reed  exactly  cut  and  notched 
like  that  which  you  see  every  shepherd  boy 
have,  when  the  corn-stems  are  green  and 
full-grown.  The  reed  is  not  made  fast  in 
the  bone,  but  is  held  by  the  lips,  and  plays 
loose  in  the  smaller  end  of  the  stock ; while 
the  stock,  with  the  horn  hanging  on  its 
larger  end,  is  held  by  the  hands  in  playiig. 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 


m 


The  stock  ha*  six  or  seven  ventiges  on  the 
upper  side,  and  one  back-ventige,  like  the 
common  flute.  This  of  mine  was  made  by  a 
man  from  the  braes  of  Athole,  and  is  exactly 
what  the  shepherds  are  wont  to  use  in  that 
country. 

However,  either  it  is  not  quite  properly 
bored  in  the  holes,  or  else  we  have  not  the 
art  of  blowing  it  rightly ; for  we  can  make 
little  of  it.  If  Mr.  Allan  chooses,  I will  send 
him  a sight  of  mine,  as  I look  on  myself  to 
be  a kind  of  brother -brush  with  him.  “ Pride 
in  poets  is  nae  sin  ; ” and  I will  say  it,  that 
I look  on  Mr.  Allan  and  Mr.  Burns  to  be 
the  only  genuine  and  real  painters  of  Scottish 
costume  in  the  world. 


NO.  CCCXXXVI. 

TO  PETER  MILLER,  Jun.,  Esa.  (202), 

OP  DALSWINTON. 

Dumfries,  November,  1794. 

Hear  Sir — Your  offer  is  indeed  truly 
generous,  and  most  sincerely  do  I thank  you 
for  it ; but  in  my  present  situation,  I find 
that  I dare  not  accept  it.  You  well  know 
my  political  sentiments;  and  were  I an 
insular  individual,  unconnected  with  a wife 
and  a family  of  children,  with  the  most 
fervid  enthusiasm  I would  have  volunteered 
my  services  : I then  could  and  would  have 
despised  all  consequences  that  might  have 
ensued. 

My  prospect  in  the  Excise  is  something ; 
at  least,  it  is,  encumbered  as  I am  with  the 
welfare,  the  very  existence,  of  near  half-a- 
gcore  of  helpless  individuals — what  I dare 
not  sport  with. 

In  the  mean  time,  they  are  most  welcome 
to  my  ode ; only,  let  them  insert  it  as  a 
thing  they  have  met  with  by  accident,  and 
unknown  to  me.  Nay,  if  Mr.  Perry,  whose 
honour,  after  your  character  of  him,  I 
cannot  doubt,  if  he  will  give  me  an  address 
and  channel  by  which  any  thing  will  come 
safe  from  those  spies  with  which  he  may  be 
certain  that  his  correspondence  is  beset,  I 
will  now  and  then  send  him  any  bagatelle 
that  I may  write.  In  the  present  hurry  of 
Europe,  nothing  but  news  and  politics  will 
be  regarded  ; but  against  the  days  of  peace, 
which  Heaven  send  soon,  my  little  assis- 
tance may  perhaps  fill  up  an  idle  column  of 
a newspaper.  I have  long  had  it  in  my 
head  to  try  my  hand  in  the  way  of  little  i 
j^rose  essays,  which  I propose  sending  into  I 


the  world  through  the  medium  of  some 
newspaper ; and  should  these  be  worth  his 
while,  to  these  Mr.  Perry  shall  be  welcome: 
and  all  my  reward  shall  be,  his  treating  me 
with  his  paper,  which,  by  the  bye,  to  any 
body  who  has  the  least  relish  for  wit,  is  % 
high  treat  indeed.  With  the  most  grateful 
esteem,  I am  ever,  dear  Sir,  R.  B 


no.  cccxxxvrr. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

November  28th,  1794. 

I acknowledge,  my  dear  Sir,  you  are  not 
only  the  most  punctual,  but  the  most  delec- 
table correspondent  I ever  met  with.  To 
attempt  flattering  you  never  entered  into  my 
head;  the  truth  is,  I look  back  with  surprise  at 
my  impudence,  in  so  frequently  nibbling  at 
lines  and  couplets  of  your  incomparable 
lyrics,  for  which,  perhaps,  if  you  had  served 
me  right,  you  would  have  sent  me  to  the 
devil.  On  the  contrary,  however,  you  have 
all  along  condescended  to  invite  my  criticism 
with  so  much  courtesy,  that  it  ceases  to  be 
wonderful  if  I have  sometimes  given  myself 
the  airs  of  a reviewer.  Your  last  budget 
demands  unqualified  praise  : all  the  songs 
are  charming,  but  the  duet  is  a chef 
cT oeuvre.  “Lumps  o*  pudding”  shall  cer- 
tainly make  one  of  my  family  dishes ; you 
have  cooked  it  so  capitally,  that  it  will 
please  all  palates.  Do  give  us  a few  more 
of  this  cast  when  you  find  yourself  in  good 
spirits ; these  convivial  songs  are  more 
wanted  than  those  of  the  amorous  kind,  of 
which  we  have  great  choice.  Besides,  one 
does  not  often  meet  with  a singer  capable  of 
giving  the  proper  effect  to  the  latter,  while 
the  former  are  easily  sung,  and  acceptable  to 
every  body.  I participate  in  your  regret 
that  the  authors  of  some  of  our  best  songs 
are  unknown;  it  is  provoking  to  every 
admirer  of  geniu9. 

I mean  to  have  a picture  painted  from 
your  beautiful  ballad  “The  Soldier’s  Re- 
turn,” to  be  engraved  for  one  of  my  frontis- 
pieces. The  most  interesting  point  of  time 
appears  to  me,  when  she  first  recognises  her 
ain  dear  Willy,  “She  gaz’d,  she  redden’d 
like  a rose.”  The  three  lines  immediately 
following  are  no  do  abt  more  impressive  on 
the  reader’s  feelings  ; but  we  ;e  the  painter 
to  fix  on  these,  then  you’ll  observe  the 
animation  and  anxiety  of  her  countenance  it 
gone,  and  he  covld  only  represent  her  faint- 


38 


432 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


ing  in  the  soldier  arms.  But  I submit  the 
matter  to  you,  and  beg  your  opinion. 

Allan  desires  me  to  thank  you  for  your 
accurate  description  of  the  stock  and  horn, 
and  for  the  very  gratifying  compliment  you 
pay  him  in  considering  him  worthy  of 
standing  in  a niche  by  the  side  of  Burns  in 
the  Scottish  Pantheon.  He  has  seen  the 
rude  instrument  you  describe,  so  does  not 
want  you  to  send  it ; but  wishes  to  know 
whether  you  believe  it  to  have  ever  been 
generally  used  as  a musical  pipe  by  the 
Scottish  shepherds,  and  when,  and  in  what 
part  of  the  country  chiefly.  I doubt  much 
if  it  was  capable  of  any  thing  but  routing 
and  roaring.  A friend  of  mine  says  he 
remembers  to  have  heard  one  in  his  younger 
days,  made  of  wood  instead  of  your  bone, 
and  that  the  sound  was  abominable. 

Do  not,  I beseech  vou.  return  any  books. 


NO.  CCCXXXVIII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

December,  1794. 

It  is,  I assure  you,  the . pride  of  my  heart 
to  do  any  thing  to  forward  or  add  to  the 
value  of  your  book ; and  as  I agree  with 
you  that  the  Jacobite  song  in  the  Museum 
to  “ There’ll  never  be  peace  till  J amie  comes 
hame,”  would  not  so  well  consort  with 
Peter  Pindar’s  excellent  love-song  to  that 
air,  I have  just  framed  for  you  the  fol- 
lowing : — 

u My  Nannie's  awa,”  8fc. 

How  does  this  please  you  ? As  to  the  points 
of  time  for  the  expression,  in  your  proposed 
print  from  my  “ Sodger’s  Return,”  It  must 
certainly  be  at — “ She  gaz’d.”  The  in- 
teresting dubiety  and  suspense  taking 
possession  of  her  countenance,  and  the 
gushing  fondness,  with  a mixture  of  roguish 
playfulness  in  his,  strike  me  as  things  of 
which  a master  will  make  a great  deal.  In 
great  haste,  but  in  great  truth,  yours,  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCXXXIX. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

January,  1795. 

I ffar  for  my  songs;  however,  a few 
Bfcay  p ease,  yet  originality  is  a coy  feature 


in  composition,  and  in  a multiplitcity  of 
efforts  in  the  same  style,  disappears  al- 
together. For  these  three  thousand  years, 
we  poetic  folks  have  been  describing  the 
spring,  for  instance ; and  as  the  spring  con- 
tinues the  same,  there  must  soon  be  a same- 
ness in  the  imagery,  &c.,  of  these  said 
rhyming  folks. 

A great  critic  (Aikin)  on  songs,  says  that 
love  and  wine  are  the  exclusive  themes  for 
song-writing.  The  following  is  on  neither 
subject,  and  consequently  is  no  song ; but 
will  be  allowed,  I think,  to  be  two  or  three 
pretty  good  prose  thoughts  inverted  into 
rhyme. 

“ For  a ’ that,  and  a*  that** 

I do  not  give  you  the  foregoing  song  for 
your  book,  but  merely  by  way  of  vice  la 
bagatelle;  for  the  piece  is  not  really  poetry. 
How  will  the  following  do  for  “ Craigie-bun* 
wood  ? ” — 

[ Here  follows  “ Craigie-bum  wood '* 

Farewell ! God  blesa  you  l 


NO.  CCCXL. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  January  30,  1795. 

My  dear  Sir — I thank  you  heartily  for 
“Nannie’s  awa,”  as  well  as  for  “ Craigie- 
burn,”  which  I think  a very  comely  pair. 
Your  observation  on  the  difficulty  of  original 
writing  in  a number  of  efforts,  in  the  same 
style,  strikes  me  very  forcibly ; and  it  has, 
again  and  again,  excited  my  wonder  to  find 
you  continually  surmounting  this  difficulty, 
in  the  many  delightful  songs  you  have  sent 
me.  Your  vine  la  bagatelle  song,  “For  a' 
that,”  shall  undoubtedly  be  included  in  my 
list.  (203) 


NO.  CCCXLI. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Ecclefechan,  February  7th,  1795. 

My  dear  Thomson — You  cannot  have 
any  idea  of  the  predicament  in  which  I write 
to  you.  In  the  course  of  my  duty  as  super- 
visor (in  which  capacity  I have  acted  of  late), 
I came  yesternight  to  this  unfortunate. 


TO  MRS.  RIDDEL. 


483 


wicked,  little  village.  (204)  I have  gone 
forward,  t at  snows,  of  ten  feet  deep,  have 
impeded  my  progress  : I have  tried  to  “ g ae 
back  the  gate  I cam  again,”  but  the  same 
obstacle  has  shut  me  up  within  insuperable 
bars.  To  add  to  my  misfortune,  since  dinner, 
ft  scraper  has  been  torturing  catgut,  in  sounds 
that  would  have  insulted  the  dying  agonies 
of  a sow  under  the  hands  of  a butcher,  and 
thinks  himself,  on  that  very  account,  ex- 
ceeding good  company.  In  fact,  I have  been 
in  a dilemma,  either  to  get  drunk,  to  forget 
these  miseries ; or  to  hang  myself,  to  get  rid 
of  them : like  a prudent  man  (a  character 
congenial  to  my  every  thought,  word,  and 
deed),  I,  of  two  evils,  have  chosen  the  least, 
and  am  very  drunk,  at  your  service ! 

I wTote  you  yesterday  from  Dumfries.  I 
had  not  time  then  to  tell  you  all  I wanted  to 
say ; and.  Heaven  knows,  at  present  I have 
not  capacity. 

Do  you  know  an  air — I am  sure  you  must 
know  it — “We’ll  gang  no  more  to  yon  town?” 
I think,  in  slowish  time,  it  would  make  an 
excellent  song.  I am  highly  delighted  with 
it;  and  if  you  should  think  it  worthy  of 
your  attention,  I have  a fair  dame  in  my  eye, 
to  whom  I would  consecrate  it. 

As  I am  just  going  to  bed,  I wish  you  ft 
good  uight. 


NO.  CCCXLII. 

HR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

February  25th,  1795. 

I have  to  thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  two 
epistles ; one  containing  “ Let  me  in  this  ane 
night;”  and  the  other  from  Ecclefechan, 
proving  that,  drunk  or  sober,  your  “ mind  is 
never  muddy.”  You  have  displayed  great 
address  in  the  above  song.  Her  answer  is 
excellent,  and,  at  the  same  time,  takes  away 
the  indelicacy  that  otherwise  would  have 
attached  to  his  entreaties.  I like  the  song, 
as  it  now  stands,  very  much. 

I had  hopes  you  would  be  arrested  some 
days  at  Ecclefechan,  and  be  obliged  to  be- 
guile the  tedious  forenoons  by  song-making. 
It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  receive  the  verses 
you  intend  for  “ Oh  wat  je  wha’s  in  yon 
town  ?” 


NO.  CCCXLtll. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON.  (205) 
May,  1795. 

Let  me  know,  your  very  first  leisure,  how 
you  like  this  song. 

[Here  follows  the  song  “On  Chloris  being  ill.3 ' 

How  do  you  like  the  foregoing?  The 
Irish  air,  “ Humours  of  Glen,”  is  a great 
favourite  of  mine,  and  as,  except  the  silly 
stuff  in  the  “Poor  Soldier,”  there  are  not 
any  decent  verses  for  it,  I have  written  for  it 
as  follows : — 

[Here  follow  “ Their  groves  o*  sweet  myrtle,9* 
and  <(,fwas  na  her  bonnie  blue  ee  was  my 
ruin.”'] 

Let  me  hear  from  you. 


[Bums  supposes  himself  to  be  writing  from 

the  dead  to  the  living .] 

NO.  CCCXLIV. 

TO  MRS.  RIDDEL. 

Madam — I dare  say  that  this  is  the  first 
epistle  you  ever  received  from  this  nether 
world.  I write  you  from  the  regions  of  hell, 

amid  the  horrors  of  the . The  time 

and  manner  of  my  leaving  your  earth  I do 
not  exactly  know,  as  I took  my  departure  in 
the  heat  cf  a fever  of  intoxication,  contracted 
at  your  too  hospitable  mansion ; but,  on  my 
arrival  here,  I was  fairly  tried,  and  sentenced 
to  endure  the  purgatorial  tortures  of  this 
infernal  confine  for  the  space  of  ninety-nine 
! years,  eleven  months,  and  twenty-nine  days, 
and  all  on  account  of  the  impropriety  of  my 
conduct  yesternight  under  your  roof.  Here 
am  I,  laid  on  a bed  of  pitiless  furze,  with 
my  aching  head  reclined  on  a pillow  of  ever- 
piercing  thorn,  while  an  infernal  tormentor, 
wrinkled,  and  old,  and  cruel,  his  name,  I 
think,  is  Recollection,  with  a whip  of  scor- 
pions, forbids  peace  or  rest  to  approach  me, 
and  keeps  anguish  eternally  awake.  Still, 
Madam,  if  1 could  in  any  measure  be  rein- 
stated in  the  good  opinion  of  the  fair  circle 
whom  my  conduct  last  niiriit  so  much  injured, 
I think  it  would  be  an  alleviation  to  my  tor- 
ments. For  this  reason,  I trouble  you  with 
this  letter.  To  the  men  of  the  company  I 
will  make  no  apology.  Your  husband,  wh« 
insisted  on  my  drinking  more  than  I chosen 
has  no  right  to  blame  me ; and  the  othaf 


434 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


gentlemen  were  partakers  of  my  guilt.  But 
to  you,  Madam,  I have  much  to  apologise. 
Your  good  opinion  I valued  as  one  of  the 
greatest  acquisitions  I had  made  on  earth, 
and  I was  truly  a beast  to  forfeit  it.  There 
was  a Miss  I — , too,  a woman  cf  fine 
sense,  gentle  and  unassuming  manners — do 

make,  on  my  part,  a miserable  

wretch’s  best  apology  to  her.  A Mrs. 

G , a charming  woman,  did  me  the 

honour  to  be  prejudiced  in  my  favour;  this 
makes  me  hope  that  I have  not  outraged  her 
beyond  all  forgiveness.  To  all  the  other 
ladies  please  present  my  humblest  contrition 
for  my  conduct, "and  my  petition  for  their 
gracious  pardon.  Oh  all  ye  powers  of  de- 
cency and  decorum ! whisper  to  them  that 
my  errors,  though  great,  were  involuntary — 
that  an  intoxicated  man  is  the  vilest  of 
beasts — that  it  was  not  in  my  nature  to  be 
brutal  to  any  one — that  to  be  rude  to  a 
woman,  when  in  my  senses,  was  impossible 
with  me — but 

* * • t • 

Regret ! Remorse  ! Shame ! ye  three  hell- 
hounds that  ever  dog  my  steps  and  bay  at 
my  heels,  spare  me ! spare  me ! 

Forgive  the  offences,  and  pity  the  perdition 
of  Madam,  your  humble  slave,  R.  B. 


MO.  CCCXLV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Dumfries,  1795. 

Mr.  Burns’s  compliments  to  Mrs.  Riddel 
—is  much  obliged  to  her  for  her  polite  atten- 
tion in  sending  him  the  book.  Owing  to 
Mr.  B.  at  present  acting  as  supervisor  of 
Excise,  a department  that  occupies  his  every 
hour  of  the  day,  he  has  not  that  time  to 
spare  which  is  necessary  for  any  belle-lettre 
pursuit ; but  as  he  will  in  a week  or  two 
again  return  to  his  wonted  leisure,  he  will 
then  pay  that  attention  to  Mrs.  R.’s  beauti- 
ful song,  “To  thee,  loved  Nith,”  which  it  so 
well  deserves.  (206)  When  “Anacharsis’ 
Travels  ” come  to  hand,  which  Mrs.  Riddel 
mentioned  as  her  gift  to  the  public  library, 
Mr.  B.  will  feel  honoured  by  the  indulgence 
of  a porusal  of  them  before  presentation  : it 
fa  a book  he  lias  never  yet  seen,  and  the 
regulations  of  the  library  allow  too  little 
leisure  for  deliberate  reading. 


Friday  Evening. 

P.S.  Mr.  Burns  will  be  much  obliged  tc 
Mr3.  Riddel  if  she  will  favour  him  with  a 
perusal  of  any  of  her  poetical  pieces  whieM 
he  may  not  have  seen. 


wot  CCCXLVL 

TO  MR.  HERON,  OF  HERON.  (207) 
Dumfries,  1795. 

Sir — I enclose  you  some  copies  of  a couple 
of  political  ballads,  one  of  which,  I believe, 
you  have  never  seen.  (208)  Would  to 
Heaven  I could  make  you  master  of  as  many 
votes  in  the  Stewartry — but — 

Who  does  the  utmost  that  he  can. 
Does  well,  acts  nobly — angels  could  no  more. 

In  order  to  bring  my  humble  efforts  to 
bear  with  more  effect  on  the  foe,  I have  pri- 
vately printed  a good  many  copies  of  both 
ballads,  and  have  sent  them  among  friends 
all  about  the  country. 

To  pillory  on  Parnassus  the  rank  reproba- 
tion of  character,  the  utter  dereliction  of  all 
principle,  in  a profligate  junto,  which  has  not 
only  outraged  virtue,  but  violated  common 
decency;  which,  spurning  even  hypocrisy  as 
paltry  iniquity  below  their  daring — to  un- 
mask their  flagitiousness  to  the  broadest  day 
— to  deliver  such  over  to  their  merited  fate 
— is  surely  not  merely  innocent,  but  lauda- 
ble ; is  not  only  propriety,  but  virtue.  You 
have  already  as  your  auxiliary,  the  sober  de- 
testation of  mankind  on  the  heads  of  your 
opponents;  and  I swear  by  the  lyre  of  Thalia 
to  muster  on  your  side  all  the  votaries  of 
honest  laughter,  and  fair,  candid  ridicule ! 

I am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for  your 
kind  mention  of  ray  interests  in  a letter 
which  Mr.  Syme  showed  me.  At  present 
my  situation  in  life  must  be  in  a great  mea- 
sure stationary,  at  least  for  two  or  three 
years.  The  statement  is  this — I am  on  the 
supervisors’  list,  and  as  we  come  on  there  by 
precedency,  in  two  or  three  years  I shall  be 
at  the  head  of  that  list,  and  be  appointed 
of  course.  Then,  a friend  might  be  of 
service  to  me  in  getting  me  into  a place  of 
the  kingdom  which  I would  like.  A super- 
visor’s income  varies  from  about  a hundi  cd 
and  twenty  to  two  hundred  a-year  ; but  the 
business  is  an  incessant  drudgery,  and  would 
be  nearly  a complete  bar  to  every  species  of 
literary  pursuit.  The  moment  I am  ap  poiufed 


BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 


m 


ii.pemsor,  in  the  common  routine,  I may  be 
nominated  on  the  collector’s  list ; and  this  js 
always  a business  purely  of  political  patron- 
age. A collectorship  varies  much,  from  better 
than  two  hundred  a-year  to  near  a thousand. 
They  also  come  forward  by  precedency  on 
the  list ; and  have,  besides  a handsome  in- 
come, a life  of  complete  leisure.  A life  of 
literary  leisure,  with  a decent  competency, 
is  the  summit  of  my  wishes.  Il  would  be 
the  prudish  affectation  of  silly  pr>de  in  me 
to  say  that  I do  not  need,  or  would  not  be 
indebted  to,  a political  friend ; at  the  same 
time.  Sir,  I by  no  means  lay  my  affairs  before 
you  thus,  to  hook  my  dependent  situation 
on  your  benevolence.  If,  in  my  progress  of 
life,  an  opening  should  occur  where  the  good 
offices  of  a gentleman  of  your  pubhc  charac- 
ter and  political  consequence  migb  , bring  me 
forward,  I shall  petition  your  goodness  with 
the  same  frankness  as  I now  do  myself  the 
honour  to  subscribe  myself,  R.  B. 


JIO.  CCCXLYII. 

TO  MISS  EONTENELLE. 

Dumfries,  1795. 

Madam — In  such  a bad  world  as  ours, 
those  who  add  to  the  scanty  sum  of  our 
pleasures  are  positively  our  benefactors.  To 
you,  Madam,  on  our  humble  Dumfries  hoards, 
I have  been  more  indebted  for  entertainment 
than  ever  I was  in  prouder  theatre.  Your 
charms  as  a woman  would  ensure  applause 
to  'the  most  indifferent  actress,  and  your 
theatrical  talents  would  ensure  admiration  to 
the  plainest  figure.  This,  Madam,  is  not  the 
unmeaning  or  insidious  compliment  of  the 
frivolous  or  interested;  I pay  it  from  the 
same  honest  impulse  that  the  sublime  of 
nature  excites  my  admiration,  or  her  beauties 
give  me  delight. 

Will  the  foregoing  lines  (209)  be  of  any 
service  to  you  in  your  approaching  benefit 
night  ? If  they  will,  I shall  be  prouder  of 
my  muse  than  ever.  They  are  nearly  ex- 
tempore : I know  they  have  no  great  merit ; 
but  though  they  should  add  but  little  to  the 
entertainment  of  the  evening,  they  give  me 
the  happiness  of  an  opportunity  to  declare 
how  much  I have  the  honour  to  be,  &c. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCCXLV*II. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

You  must  not  think,  my  good  Sir,  that  1 
have  any  intention  to  enhance  the  value  of 
my  gift,  when  I say,  in  justice  to  the  in- 
genious and  worthy  artist,  that  the  design 
and  execution  of  the  “ Cotter’s  Saturday 
Night  ” is,  in  my  opinion,  one  of  the  happi- 
est productions  of  Allan’s  pencil.  I shall 
be  grievously  disappointed  if  you  are  not 
quite  pleased  with  it. 

The  figure  intended  for  your  portrait,  I 
think  strikingly  like  you,  as  far  as  I can 
remember  your  phiz.  This  should  make 
the  piece  interesting  to  your  family  every 
way.  Tell  me  whether  Mrs.  Burns  finch 
you  out  among  the  figures. 

I cannot  express  the  feeling  of  admiration 
with  which  I have  read  your  pathetic  “ Ad- 
dress to  the  Woodlark,”  your  elegant  pane- 
gyric on  Caledonia,  and  your  affecting  verses 
on  Chloris’s  illness.  Every  repeated  perusal 
of  these  gives  new  delight.  The  other  song 
to  “ Laddie,  lie  near  me,”  though  not  equal 
to  these,  is  very  pleasing. 


WO.  CCCXLIX. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON.  (210) 

Well!  this  is  not  amiss.  You  see  how 
I answer  your  orders — your  tailor  could  not 
be  more  punctual.  I am  just  now  in  a high 
fit  for  poetising,  provided  that  the  strait 
jacket  of  criticism  don’t  cure  me.  If  you 
can,  in  a post  or  two,  administer  a little  of 
the  intoxicating  potion  of  your  applause,  it 
will  raise  your  humble  servant’s  frenzy  to 
any  height  you  want.  I am  at  this  moment 
"holding  high  converse”  with  the  Muses, 
and  have  not  a word  to  throw  away  on  such 
a mosaic  dog  as  you  axe. 


NO.  CCCL. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

May,  1795. 

Ten  thousand  thanks  for  your  elegant 
present — though  I am  ashamed  of  the  value 
of  it  being  bestowed  on  a man  who  has  not, 
by  any  means,  merited  such  an  instance  of 
kindness.  I have  shown  it  to  two  or  three 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  01  BURNS. 


judges  of  the  first  abilities  here,  and  they 
all  agree  with  me  in  classing  it  as  a first- 
rate  production.  My  phiz  is  sae  kenspeckle, 
that  She  very  joiner’s  apprentice,  whom  Mrs. 
Burns  employed  to  break  up  the  parcel  (I 
was  out  of  town  that  day),  knew  it  at  once. 
My  most  grateful  compliments  to  Allan, 
who  has  honoured  my  rustic  muse  so  much 
with*  his  masterly  pencil.  One  strange  coin- 
cidence is,  that  the  little  one  who  is  making 
the  felonious  attempt  on  the  cat’s  tail,  is  the 
most  Striking  likeness  of  an  ill-deedie, 
d — n’d,  wee,  rumble-gairie  urchin  of  mine, 
whom,  from  that  propensity  to  witty  wicked- 
ness, and  manfu’  mischief,  which,  even  at 
twa  days’  auld,  I foresaw  would  form  the 
striking  features  of  his  disposition,  I named 
Willie  Nicol,  after  a certain  friend  of  mine, 
who  is  one  of  the  masters  of  a grammar- 
fcchool  in  a city  which  shall  be  nameless. 

Give  the  enclosed  epigram  to  my 
much-valued  friend  Cunningham,  and  tell 
him,  that  on  Wednesday  I go  to  visit  a 
friend  of  his,  to  whom  his  friendly  par- 
tiality in  speaking  of  me,  in  a manner  in- 
trodhced  me — I mean  a well-known  military 
and  literary  character.  Colonel  Dirom. 

You  do  not  tell  me  how  you  liked  my  two 
last  songs.  Are  they  condemned  ? 


NC,  CCCLI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

May  13  th,  1795. 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  find  that 
you  are  all  so  well  satisfied  with  Mr.  Allan’s 
production.  The  chance  resemblance  of 
your  little  fellow,  whose  promising  disposi- 
tion appeared  so  very  early,  and  suggested 
w hom  he  should  be  named  after,  is  curious 
enough.  I am  acquainted  with  that  person, 
who  is  a prodigy  of  learning  and  genius,  and 
ft  pleasant  fellow,  though  no  saint. 

You  really  make  me  blush  when  you  tell 
me  you  have  not  merited  the  drawing  from 
me.  I do  not  think  I can  ever  repay  you, 
or  sufficiently  esteem  and  respect  you,  for 
the  liberal  and  kind  manner  in  which  you 
have  entered  into  the  spirit  of  my  under- 
taking, which  could  not  have  been  perfected 
without  you.  So  I beg  you  would  not 
make  a fool  of  me  again  by  speaking  of 
©biigation. 

I like  your  two  last  songs  very  much,  and 


am  happy  to  find  you  are  in  such  a high  fit 
of  poet  ising.  Long  may  it  last ! Clarke 
has  made  a fine  pathetic  air  to  Mallet’a 
superlative  ballad  of  “ William  and  Marga- 
ret,” and  is  to  give  it  to  me,  to  be  enrolled 
among  the  elect. 


WO.  CCCLIX. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

In  "Whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my 
lad,”  the  iteration  of  that  line  is  tiresome  to 
my  ear.  Here  goes  what  I think  is 
improvement : — 

“ O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad; 

Oh  whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 

Tho’  father  and  mother  and  a’ should  gaa 

mad. 

Thy  Jeanie  will  venture  wi’  ye,  my  lad.” 

In  fact,  a fair  dame,  at  whose  shrine  T, 
the  Priest  of  the  Nine,  offer  up  the  incense 
of  Parnassus — a dame  whom  the  Graces 
have  attired  in  witchcraft,  and  whom  the 
Loves  have  armed  with  lightning — a fair 
one,  herself  the  heroine  of  the  song,  insists 
on  the  amendment,  and  dispute  her  com- 
mands if  you  dare ! 

[Here  follows  “ This  is  no  my  ain  lassie”] 

Do  you  know  that  you  have  roused  the 
torpidity  of  Clarke  at  last?  He  has  re- 
quested me  to  write  three  or  four  songs  for 
him,  which  he  is  to  set  to  music  himself. 
The  enclosed  sheet  contains  two  songs  for 
him,  which  please  to  present  to  my  valued 
friend  Cunningham. 

I enclose  the  sheet  open,  both  for  your 
inspection,  and  that  you  may  copy  the  song 
u Oh  bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier.”  I do  not 
know  whether  I am  right,  but  that  song 
pleases  me ; and  as  it  is  extremely  probable 
that  Clarke’s  newly-roused  celestial  spark 
will  be  soon  smothered  in  the  fogs  of  indo- 
lence, if  you  like  the  song,  it  may  go  as 
Scottish  verses  to  the  air  of  " I wish  my 
love  was  in  a mire ; ” and  poor  Erskine’s 
English  lines  may  follow. 

I enclose  >ou  a " For  a’  that  and  a*  that,” 
which  was  never  in  print;  it  is  a much 
superior  song  to  mine.  I hav*i  been  told 
that  it  was  composed  by  a lady. 

[Here  follow  the  songs,  “ Now  spi'ing  has 
clad  the  grove  in  green,”  and  *’  0 bonnie  was 
yon  rosy  briar” 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


Written  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a copy  of 
the  last  edition  of  my  poems,  presented  to 
the  lad^  whom,  in  so  many  fictitious  reveries 
of  passion,  but  with  the  most  ardent  senti- 
ments of  real  friendship,  I have  so  often 
sung  under  the  name  of  Chloris,  is  the  fol- 
lowing : — 

[“To  Chloris .”] 

CoiLA. 

Unc  bagatelle  de  Vamitii. 


NO.  CCCLIII* 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  August  3rd,  1795. 

My  Dear  Sir — This  will  be  delivered 
to  you  by  a Dr.  Brianton,  who  has  read 
your  works,  and  pants  for  the  honour  of 
your  acquaintance.  I do  not  know  the 
gentleman  ; but  his  friend,  who  applied  to 
me  for  this  introduction,  being  an  excellent 
young  man,  1 have  no  doubt  he  is  worthy 
of  all  acceptation. 

My  eyes  have  just  been  gladdened,  and 
my  mind  feasted,  with  your  last  packet — 
full  of  pleasant  things  indeed.  What  an 
imagination  is  yours ! — it  is  superfluous  to 
tell  you  that  I am  delighted  with  all  the 
three  songs,  as  well  as  with  your  elegant 
and  tender  verses  to  Chloris. 

i am  sorry  you  should  be  induced  to  alter 
“ Oh  whistle  and  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad,” 
to  the  prosaic  line,  “Thy  Jeanie  will  venture 
wi’  ye,  my  lad.”  I must  be  permitted  to 
eay,  that  I do  not  think  the  latter  either 
reads  or  sings  so  well  as  the  former.  I wish, 
therefore,  you  would  in  my  name  petition 
the  charming  Jeanie,  whoever  she  be,  to  let 
the  line  remain  unaltered. 

I should  be  happy  to  see  Mr.  Clarke  pro- 
duce a few  airs  to  be  joined  to  your  verses. 
Everybody  regrets  his  writing  so  very  little, 
as  everybody  acknowledges  his  ability  to 
write  well.  Pray  was  the  resolution  formed 
coolly  before  dinner,  or  was  it  a midnight 
vqm  made  over  a bowl  of  punch  with  the 
bard  ? 

I shall  not  fail  to  give  Mr.  Cunningham 
what  you  have  sent  him. 

P. S. — The  lady’s  “For  a’  that,  and  a’ 
that,”  is  sensible  enough,  but  no  more  to  be 

eompai  ed  to  yours  than  I to  Hercules. 


437 

NO.  CCCLIV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON.  (2  iV 

How  do  you  like  the  foregoing  ? I hav# 
writtteu  it  within  this  hour : so  much  for 
the  speed  of  my  Pegasus ; but  what  say  you 
to  this  bottom. 


NO.  CCCLV. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON.  (212) 

Such  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  rhythm  of 
this  air,  that  I find  it  impossible  to  make 
another  stanza  to  suit  it. 

I am  at  present  quite  occupied  with  the 
charming  sensations  of  the  toothache,  so 
have  not  a word  to  spare. 


NO.  CCCLVI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

June  3rd , 1795. 

My  Dear  Sir — Your  English  verses  to 
“ Let  me  in  this  ane  night,”  are  tender  and 
beautiful ; and  your  ballad  to  the  “ Lothian 
Lassie  ” is  a master-piece  for  its  humour  and 
naivete.  The  fragment  for  the  “ Caledonian 
Hunt  ” is  quite  suited  to  the  original 
measure  of  the  air,  and,  as  it  plagues  you 
so,  the  fragment  must  content  it.  1 would 
rather,  as  I said  before,  have  had  bacchana- 
lian words,  had  it  so  pleased  the  poet ; but, 
nevertheless,  for  what  we  have  received. 
Lord,  make  us  thankful ! 


NO.  CCCLVII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

December  15  th,  17%. 

My  Dear  Friend — As  I am  in  a com- 
plete Decemberish  humour,  gloomy,  sullen, 
stupid,  as  even  the  Deity  of  Dulness  herself 
could  wish,  I shall  not  drawl  out  a heavy 
letter  with  a number  of  heavier  apologies 
for  my  late  silence.  Only  one  I shall  men- 
tion, because  I know  you  will  sympathise  in 
it : these  four  months,  a sweet  little  girl, 
my  youngest  child,  has  been  so  ill,  that  every 
day,  a week  or  less  threatened  to  terminate 
her  existence.  There  had  much  need  b* 


438 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


many  pleasures  annexed  to  the  states  of 
husband  and  father,  for,  God  knows,  they 
have  many  peculiar  cares.  I cannot  describe 
to  you  the  anxious,  sleepless  hours  these 
ties  frequently  give  me.  I see  a train  of 
helpless  little  folks ; myself  and  my  exertions 
all  their  stay  ; and  on  what  a brittle  thread 
does  the  life  of  man  hang ! If  I am  nipt 
off  at  the  command  of  fate,  even  in  all  the 
vigour  of  manhood,  as  I am — such  things 
happen  every  day — Gracious  God ! what 
would  become  of  my  little  flock  ! Tis  here 
that  I envy  your  people  of  fortune.  A 
father  on  his  death-bed,  taking  an  ever- 
lasting leave  of  his  children,  has  indeed 
woe  enough ; but  the  man  of  competent 
fortune  leaves  his  sons  and  daughters 
independency  and  friends;  while  I — but  I 
shall  run  distracted  if  I think  any  longer  on 
the  subject ! 

To  leave  talking  of  the  matter  so  gravely, 
I shall  sing  with  the  old  Scots  ballad — 

“ Oh  that  I had  ne’er  been  married, 

I would  never  had  nae  care : 

Now  I’ve  gotten  wife  and  bairns. 

They  cry  crowdie  evermair. 

Crowdie  ance,  crowdie  twice, 

Crowdie  three  times  in  a day : 

An  ye  crowdie  ony  mair. 

Ye’ll  crowdie  a’  my  meal  away” 

December  24 th. 

We  have  had  a brilliant  theatre  here  this 
season ; only,  as  all  other  business  does,  it 
experiences  a stagnation  of  trade  from  the 
epidemical  complaint  of  the  country,  want  of 
cash.  I mentioned  our  theatre  merely  to 
lug  in  an  occasional  Address,  which  I wrote 
for  the  benefit  night  of  one  of  the  actresses, 
and  which  is  as  follows : — * * * 

25 th,  Christmas  Morning. 

This,  my  much-loved  friend,  is  a morning 
©f  wishes ; accept  mine — so  Heaven  hear 
me  as  they  are  sincere ! — that  blessings  may 
attend  your  steps,  and  affliction  know  you 
,«ot ! In  the  charming  words  of  my  favourite 
author.  The  Man  of  Feeling,  “May  the 
Great  Spirit  bear  up  the  weight  of  thy  grey 
hairs,  and  blunt  the  arrow  that  brings  them 
rest  V* 

Now  that  I talk  of  authors,  how  do  you 
like  Cowper  ? Is  not  the  “ Task  ” a glorious 
poem  ? The  religion  of  the  “ Task,”  bating 
a few  scraps  of  Calvanistic  divinity,  is  the 
religion  of  God  and  Nature — the  religion 
that  exalts,  that  ennobles  man.  Were  not 
you  to  send  me  your  “ Zeluco,”  in  return  for 
mine  ? Tell  me  how  you  like  my  marks  and 


notes  through  the  book.  I would  not  give  a 
farthing  for  a book,  unless  I were  at  liberty 
to  blot  it  with  my  criticisms. 

I have  lately  collected,  for  a friend's  peru- 
sal, all  my  letters;  I mean  those  which  1 
first  sketched,  in  a rough  draught,  and  after- 
wards wrote  out  fair.  On  looking  over  some 
old  musty  papers,  which  from  time  to  time 
I had  parcelled  by,  as  trash  that  were  scare© 
worth  preserving,  and  which  yet,  at  the  same 
time,  I did  not  care  to  destroy,  I discovered 
many  of  these  rude  sketches,  and  have 
written,  and  am  writing  them  out,  in  a bound 
MS.  for  my  friend’s  library.  As  I wrote 
always  to  you  the  rhapsody  of  the  moment, 
I cannot  find  a single  scroll  to  you,  except 
one,  about  the  commencement  of  our  ac- 
quaintance. If  there  were  any  possible  con- 
veyance, I would  send  you  a perusal  of 
my  book.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCLVIII. 

TO  MR.  ALEXANDER  FINDLATER 

(£13), 

SUPERVISOR  OF  EXCISE,  DUMFRIES. 

Sir — Enclosed  are  the  two  schemes.  I 
would  not  have  troubled  you  with  the  col- 
lector’s one,  but  for  suspicion  lest  it  be  not 
right.  Mr.  Erskine  promised  me  to*  make  it 
right,  if  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  show 
him  how.  As  I have  no  copy  of  the  scheme 
for  myself,  and  the  alterations  being  very 
considerable  from  what  it  was  formerly,  I 
hope  that  I shall  have  access  to  this  scheme 
I send  you,  when  I . come  to  face  up  my  new 
books.  So  much  for  schemes.  And  that  no 
scheme  to  betray  a friend,  or  mislead  a 
stranger;  to  seduce  a young  girl,  or 
rob  a hen-roost;  to  subvert  liberty,  or 
bribe  an  exciseman;  to  disturb  the 
general  assemblv,  or  annoy  a gossip- 
ping; to  overthrow  the  credit  of  ortho- 
doxy, or  the  authority  of  old  songs;  to 
oppose  your  wishes,  or  frustrate  my  hopes, — 
may  prosper — is  the  sincere  wish  and 
prayer  of  R.  B. 


no.  ccclix. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  MORNING 
CHRONICLE. 

Dumfries,  1795. 

Sir — You  will  see,  by  your  subscribers* 
list,  that  I have  been  about  nine  months  of 
that  number. 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


439 


I am  sorry  to  inform  you  that  in  that  time 
teven  or  eight  of  your  papers  either  have 
never  been  sent  me,  or  else  have  never 
reached  me.  To  be  deprived  of  any  one 
number  of  the  first  newspaper  in  Great 
Britain  for  information,  ability,  and  inde- 
pendence, is  what  I can  ill  brook  and  bear ; 
but  to  be  deprived  of  that  most  admirable 
oration  of  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  when 
he  made  the  great,  though  ineffectual  at- 
tempt (in  the  language  of  the  poet,  I fear 
too  true)  "to  save  a sinking  state” — 
this  was  a loss  that  J neither  can,  nor  will 
forgive  you.  That  paper,  Sir,  never  reached 
me;  but  I demand  it  of  you.  I am  a Briton, 
and  must  be  interested  in  the  cause  of 
liberty;  I am  a man,  and  the  rights 
op  human  nature  cannot  be  indifferent  to 
me.  However,  do  not  let  me  mislead  you — 
I am  not  a man  in  that  situation  of  life, 
which,  as  your  subscriber,  can  be  of  any 
consequence  to  you,  in  the  eyes  of  those  to 
whom  situation  op  life  alone  is  the 
criterion  of  man.  I am  but  a plain  trades- 
man, in  this  distant,  obscure  country  town ; 
but  that  humble  domicile  in  which  I shelter 
my  wife  and  children,  is  the  Caste llum  of 
a Briton;  and  that  scanty,  hard-earned 
income  which  supports  them,  is  as  truly  my 
property,  as  tfle  most  magnificent  fortune  of 
the  most  puissant  member  of  your  house 
op  nobles. 

These,  Sir,  are  my  sentiments,  and  to 
them  I subscribe  my  name ; and  were  I a 
man  of  ability  and  consequence  enough  to 
address  the  public,  with  that  name  should 
they  appear.  I am,  &c.  (214) 


NO.  CCCLX. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

IN  LONDON. 

Dumfries , 20fA  December,  1795. 

I have  been  prodigiously  disappointed  in 
this  London  journey  of  yours.  In  the  first 
place,  when  your  last  to  me  reached  Dum- 
fries, I was  in  the  country,  and  did  not 
return  until  too  late  to  answer  your  letter  ; 
in  the  next  place,  I thought  you  would  cer- 
taiuly  take  this  route ; and  now  I know  not 
what  is  become  of  you,  or  whether  this  may 
reach  you  at  all.  God  grant  that  it  may 
find  you  and  yours  in  prospering  health  and 
good  spirits ! Do  let  me  hear  from  you  the 
ftoonest  possible. 


As  I hoje  to  get  a (tank  from  my  friend 
Captain  Miller,  I shall,  every  leisure  hour, 
take  up  the  pen,  and  gossip  away  whatever 
comes  first,  prose  or  poetry,  sermon  or  song. 
In  this  last  article  I have  abounded  of  late. 
I have  often  mentioned  to  you  a superb  pub- 
lication of  Scottish  songs,  which  is  making 
its  appearance  in  your  great  metropolis,  and 
where  I have  the  honour  to  preside  over  the 
Scottish  verse,  as  no  less  a personage  than 
Peter  Pindar  does  over  the  English. 

December  29 th. 

Since  I began  this  letter,  I have  been  ap- 
pointed to  act  in  the  capacity  of  supervisor 
here,  and  I assure  you,  what  with  the  load 
of  business,  and  what  with  that  business 
being  new  to  me,  I could  scarcely  have  com- 
manded ten  minutes  to  have  spoken  to  you, 
had  you  been  in  town,  much  less  to  have 
written  you  an  epistle.  This  appointment 
is  only  temporary,  and  during  the  illness  of 
the  present  incumbent ; but  I look  forward 
to  an  early  period  when  I shall  be  appointed 
in  full  form — a consummation  devoutly  to  be 
wished  ! My  political  sins  seem  to  be  for 
given  me. 

This  is  the  season  (New-year’s-day  is  now 
my  date)  of  wishes;  and  mine  are  most 
fervently  offered  up  for  you ! May  life  to 
you  be  a positive  blessing  while  it  lasts,  for 
your  own  sake;  and  that  it  may  yet  be 
greatly  prolonged,  is  my  wish  for  my  own 
sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  rest  of  your 
friends  ! What  a transient  business  is  life? 
Very  lately  I was  a boy ; but  t’other  day  I 
was  a young  man ; and  I already  begin  to 
feel  the  rigid  fibre  and  stiffening  joints  of 
old  age  coming  fast  o’er  my  frame.  With 
all  my  follies  of  youth,  and  I fear,  a few 
vices  of  manhood,  still  I congratulate  myself 
on  having  had,  in  early  days,  religion  strongly 
impressed  on  my  mind.  I have  nothing  to 
say  to  any  one  as  to  which  sect  he  belongs 
to,  or  what  creed  he  believes  ; but  I look  on 
the  man  who  is  firmly  persuaded  of  infinite 
wisdom  and  goodness  superintending  and 
directing  every  circumstance  that  can  happen 
in  his  lot — I felicitate  such  a man  as  having 
a solid  foundation  for  his  mental  enjoyment 
— a firm  prop  and  sure  stay  in  the  hour  of 
difficulty,  trouble,  and  distress — and  a never- 
failing  anchor  of  hope,  when  he  looks  beyond 
the  grave. 

January  \2th. 

You  will  have  seen  our  worthy  and  inge- 
nious friend,  the  doctor,  long  ere  this.  I 
hope  he  is  well,  and  beg  to  be  remembered 
r to  him.  I have  j ost  been  reading  over  again, 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


I dare  say  for  the  hundred  and  fiftieth  time, 
his  View  of  Society  and  Manners ; and  still 
I read  it  with  delight.  His  humour  is  per- 
fectly original — it  is  neither  the  humour  of 
Addison,  nor  Swift,  nor  Sterne,  nor  of  any- 
body but  Dr.  Moore.  By  the  bye,  you  have 
deprived  me  of  Zeluco;  remember  that,  when 
you  are  disposed  to  rake  up  the* sins  of  my 
neglect  from  among  the  ashes  of  my  laziness. 

He  has  paid  me  a pretty  compliment,  by 
quoting  me  in  his  last  publication  (215). 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCCLXI. 

ADDRESS  OF  THE  SCOTCH 
DISTILLERS 

*0  THE  RIGHT  HON.  WILLIAM  PITT. 

Sir — While  pursy  burgesses  crowd  your 
gate,  sweating  under  the  weight  of  heavy 
addresses,  permit  us,  the  quondam  distillers 
in  that  part  of  Great  Britain  called  Scotland, 
to  approach  you,  not  with  venal  approbation, 
but  with  fraternal  condolence ; not  as  what 
you  are  just  now,  or  for  some  time  have  been, 
but  as  what,  in  all  probability,  you  will 
shortly  be.  We  shall  have  the  merit  of  not 
deserting  our  friends  in  the  day  of  their 
calamity^  and  you  will  have  the  satisfaction 
of  perusing,  at  least,  one  honest  address. 
You  are  well  acquainted  with  the  dissection 
of  human  nature;  nor  do  you  need  the 
assistance  of  a fellow-creature’s  bosom  to 
inform  you,  that  man  is  always  a selfish, 
often  a perfidious  being.  This  assertion, 
however  the  hasty  conclusions  of  superficial 
observation  may  doubt  of  it,  or  the  raw  inex- 
perience of  youth  may  deny  it,  those  who 
make  the  fatal  experiment  we  have  done, 
will  feel.  You  are  a statesman,  and  conse- 
quently are  not  ignorant  of  the  traffic  of 
these  corporation  compliments.  The  little 
great  man  who  drives  the  borough  to  market, 
and  the  very  great  man  who  buys  the  borough 
in  that  market,  they  two  do  the  whole  busi- 
ness ; and  you  well  know,  they,  likewise, 
have  their  price.  With  that  sullen  disdain 
which  you  can  so  well  assume,  rise  illustrious 
Sir,  and  spurn  these  hireling  efforts  of  venal 
stupidity.  At  best  they  are  the  compliments 
of  a man’s  friends  on  the  morning  of  his 
execution : they  take  a decent  farewell : 
resign  you  to  your  fate ; and  hurry  away 
from  your  approaching  hour. 


I If  fame  say  true,  and  omens  be  not  very 
much  mist  aken,  you  are  about  to  make  youf 
exit  from  that  werld  where  the  sun  of  glad* 
ness  gilds  the  paths  of  prosperous  men  : 
permit  us,  great  Sir,  with  the  syra  pathy  of 
fellow-feeling,  to  hail  your  passage  to  the 
realms  of  ruin. 

Whether  the  sentiment  proceed  from  the 
selfishness  or  cowardice  of  mankind,  is  imma- 
terial ; but  to  point  out  to  a child  of  misfor- 
tune those  who  are  still  more  unhappy , is  to 
give  him  some  degree  of  positive  enjoy  ment. 
In  this  light,  Sir,  our  downfall  may  be  again 
useful  to  you : though  not  exactly  in  the 
same  way,  it  is  not,  perhaps,  the  first  time 
it  has  gratified  your  feelings.  It  is  true, 
the  triumph  of  your  evil  star  is  exceedingly 
despiteful.  At  an  age  when  others  are  the 
votaries  of  pleasure,  or  underlings  in  business, 
you  had  attained  the  highest  wish  of  a 
British  statesman ; and  with  the  ordinary 
date  of  human  life,  what  a prospect  was 
before  you!  Deeply  rooted  in  royal  favour, 
you  overshadowed  the  land.  The  birds  of 
passage  which  follow  ministerial  sunshine 
through  every  clime  of  political  faith  and 
manners,  flocked  to  your  branches ; and  the 
beasts  of  the  field  (the  lordly  possessors  of 
hills  and  valleys)  crowded  under  your  shade. 
“But  behold  a watcher,  a holy  one,  came 
down  from  heaven,  and  cried  aloud,  and  said 
thus : Hew  down  the  tree,  and  cut  off  his 
branches ; shake  off  his  leaves,  and  scatter 
his  fruit;  let  the  beasts  get  away  from  under 
it,  and  the  fowls  from  his  branches ! ” A 
blow  from  an  unthought-of  quarter,  one  of 
those  terrible  accidents  which  peculiarly 
mark  the  hand  of  Omnipotence,  overset  your 
career,  and  laid  all  your  fancied  honours  in 
the  dust.  But  turn  your  eyes,  Sir,  to  the 
tragic  scenes  of  our  fate.  An  ancient  nation, 
that  for  many  ages  had  gallantly  maintained 
the  unequal  struggle  for  independence  with 
her  much  more  powerful  neighbour,  at  last 
agrees  to  a union  which  should  ever  after 
make  them  one  people.  In  consideration  of 
certain  circumstances,  it  was  covenanted  that 
the  former  should  enjoy  a stipulated  allevia- 
tion in  her  share  of  the  public  burdens, 
particularly  in  that  branch  of  the  revenue 
called  the  Excise.  This  just  privilege  has  of 
late  given  great  umbrage  to  some  interested, 
powerful  individuals  of  the  more  potent  part 
of  the  empire,  and  they  have  spared  no 
wicked  pains,  under  insidious  pretexts,  to 
subvert  what  they  dared  not  openly  to  attack, 
from  the  dread  which  they  yet  entertained 
of  the  spirit  of  their  ancient  enemies. 

In  this  conspiracy  we  fell;  nor  did 
alone  suffer  — our  country  was  deeply 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


4 41 


rounded.  A numl>er  of  (we  will  say) 
respectable  individuals,  largely  engaged  in 
trade,  where  we  were  not  only  useful,  but 
absolutely  necessary,  to  our  country  in  her 
dearest  interests ; we,  with  all  that  was  near 
and  dear  to  us,  were  sacrificed,  without 
remorse,  to  the  infernal  deity  of  political  ex- 
pediency ! We  fell  to  gratify  the  wishes  of 
dark  envy,  and  the  views  of  unprincipled 
ambition  ! Your  foes.  Sir,  were  avowed ; 
were  too  brave  to  take  an  ungenerous  advan- 
tage : you  fell  in  the  face  of  day.  On  the 
contrary,  our  enemies,  to  complete  our  over- 
throw, contrived  to  make  their  guilt  appear 
the  villany  of  a nation.  Your  downfall  only 
drags  with  you  your  private  friends  and 
partisans  : in  our  misery  are  more  or  less 
involved  the  most  numerous  and  most  valu- 
able part  of  the  community — all  those  who 
immediately  depend  on  the  cultivation  of 
the  soil,  from  the  landlord  of  a province 
down  to  his  lowest  hind. 

Allow  us,  Sir,  yet  further,  just  to  hint  at 
another  rich  vein  of  comfort  in  the  dreary 
regions  of  adversity — the  gratulations  of  an 
approving  conscience.  In  a certain  great 
assembly,  of  which  you  are  a distinguished 
member,  panegyrics  on  your  private  virtues 
have  so  often  wounded  your  delicacy,  that, 
we  shall  not  distress  you  with  anything  on 
the  subject.  There  is,  however,  one  part  of 
your  public  conduct  which  our  feelings  will 
not  permit  us  to  pass  in  silence ; our  grati- 
tude must  trespass  on  your  modesty : we 
mean,  worthy  Sir,  your  whole  behaviour  to 
the  Scots  distillers.  In  evil  hours,  when 
obtrusive  recollection  presses  bitterly  on  the 
sense,  let  that.  Sir,  come,  like  a healing  angel, 
and  speak  the  peace  to  your  soul  which  the 
world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away.  We 
have  the  honour  to  be.  Sir,  your  sympa- 
thising fellow-sufferers  and  grateful  humble 
servants, 

John  Barleycorn,  Prases. 


NO.  CCCLXII. 

TO  THE  HON.  THE  PROVOST, 
BATHES,  AND  TOWN  COUNCIL  OF 
DUMFRIES 

Gentlemen — The  literary  taste  and 
liberal  spirit  of  your  gaud  town  has  so  ably 
filled  the  various  departments  of  your 
schools,  as  to  make  it  a very  great  object  for 
& parent  to  have  his  children  educated  in 
them.  Still,  to  me,  a stranger,  with  my 


large  family,  and  very  stinted  income,  to 
give  my  young  ones  that  education  1 wish, 
at  the  high-school  fees  which  a stranger  pays, 
will  bear  hard  upon  me. 

Some  years  ago  your  good  town  did  me 
the  honour  of  making  me  an  honorary  l/ur- 
gess.  Will  you  allow  me  to  request  that 
this  mark  of  distinction  may  extend  so  far 
as  to  put  me  on  a footing  of  a real  freeman 
of  the  town,  in  the  schools  ? 

If  you  are  so  very  kind  as  to  grant  my 
request,  it  will  certainly  be  a constant  incen- 
tive to  me  to  strain  every  nerve  where  I can 
officially  serve  you  ; and  will,  if  possible, 
increase  that  grateful  respect  with  which  I 
have  the  honour  to  be,  gentlemen,  your 
devoted,  humble  servant,  R.  B.  (216) 


NO.  CCCLXIIL 

TO  MRS.  RIDDEL. 

Dumfries , January  20 th,  1790. 

I cannot  express  my  gratitude  to  you 
for  allowing  me  a longer  perusal  of  “ Ana- 
charsis.”  In  fact,  I never  met  with  a book 
that  bewitched  me  so  much;  and  I,  as  a 
member  of  the  library,  must  warmly  feel 
the  obligation  you  have  laid  us  under. 
Indeed,  to  me  the  obligation  is  stronger  than 
to  any  other  individual  of  our  society ; as 
“ Anacharsis”  is  an  indispensable  desideratum 
to  a son  of  the  muses. 

The  health  you  wished  me  in  your  morn- 
ing’s card,  is,  I think,  flown  from  me  for 
ever.  I have  not  been  able  to  leave  my  bed 
to-day  till  about  an  hour  ago.  These 
wickedly  unlucky  advertisements  I lent  (I  did 
wrong)  to  a friend,  and  I am  ill  able  to  go 
in  quest  of  him 

The  muses  have  not  quite  forsaken  me. 
The  following  detached  stanzas  I intend  to 
interweave  in  some  disastrous  tale  of  a 

sheoherd.  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCLXIV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Dumfries , January  31st,  1796 

These  many  mmths  yon  have  been  two 
packets  in  my  debt — what  sin  of  ignorance 
I have  committed  agaii  st  so  highly  valued 
a friend,  I am  utterly  at  a loss  to  guess. 


442 


CORRESPONDENCE  OE  BURNS. 


Alas ! Madam,  ill  can  I afford,  at  this  time, 
to  be  deprived  of  any  of  the  small  remnant 
of  my  pleasures.  I have  lately  drunk  deep 
of  the  cup  of  aJiliction.  The  autumn  robbed 
me  of  my  only  daughter  and  darling  child 
(217),  and  that  at  a distance,  too,  and  so 
rapidly,  as  to  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  pay 
the  last  duties  to  her.  I had  scarcely  begun 
to  recover  from  that  shock,  when  I became 
myself  the  victim  of  a most  severe  rheumatic 
fever,  and  long  the  die  spun  doubtful;  until, 
after  many  weeks  of  a sick-bed,  it  seems  to 
have  turned  up  life,  and  I am  beginning  to 
crawl  across  my  room,  and  once,  indeed, 
have  been  before  my  own  door  in  the  street. 

When  pleasure  fascinates  the  mental  sight. 
Affliction  purifies  the  visual  ray. 

Religion  hails  the  drear,  the  untried  night, 
And  shuts,  for  ever  shuts  1 life’s  doubtful 

day.  II.  B. 


WO.  CCCLXV. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

February  5th , 1796. 

Oh  Robby  Burns,  are  ye  sleeping  yet? 

Or  are  ye  wauking,  I would  wit  ? 

The  pause  you  have  made,  my  dear  Sir, 
is  awful!  Am  I never  to  hear  from  you 
again?  I know,  and  I lament  how  much 
you  have  been  afflicted  of  late ; but  I trust 
that  returning  health  and  spirits  will  now 
enable  you  to  resume  the  pen,  and  delight 
ns  with  your  musings.  I have  still  about  a 
dozen  Scotch  and  Irish  airs  that  I wish 
" married  to  immortal  verse”  We  have 
several  true-born  Irishmen  on  the  Scottish 
list;  but  they  are  now  naturalized,  and 
reckoned  our  own  good  subjects.  Indeed, 
we  have  none  better.  I believe  I before  told 
you  that  I have  been  much  urged  by  some 
friends  to  publish  a collection  of  all  our 
favourite  airs  and  songs  in  octavo,  embel- 
lished with  a number  of  etchings  by  our 
ingenious  friend  Allan ; what  is  your  opinion 
of  this  ? 


HO.  CCCLXVI. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

February , 1796. 

Many  thanks,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your  hand- 
•ome,  elegant  present  to  Mrs.  Burns,  and 


for  my  remaining  volume  of  1\  Pin  lafj 

Peter  is  a delightful  fellow,  and  a fhsfc  favou- 
rite of  mine.  I am  much  pleased  with  your 
idea  of  publishing  a collection  of  our  songs 
in  octavo  with  etchings.  I am  extremely 
willing  to  lend  every  assistance  in  my  power. 
The  Irish  airs  I shall  cheerfully  undertake 
the  task  of  finding  verses  for. 

I have  already,  you  kuow,  equipt  three 
with  words,  and  the  other  day  I strung  up  a 
kind  of  rhapsody  to  another  Hibernian 
melody,  which  I admire  much. 

[Here  follows  “ Hey  for  a lass  w?  a tocher,"] 

If  this  will  do,  you  have  now  four  of  my 
Irish  engagement.  In  my  by-past  songs  I 
dislike  one  thing;  the  name  Chloris — X 
meant  it  as  the  fictitious  name  of  a certain 
lady : but,  on  second  thoughts,  it  is  a high 
i incongruity  to  have  a Greek  appellation  to  a 
| Scottish  pastoral  ballad.  Of  this,  and  some 
things  else,  in  my  next : I have  more  amend- 
ments to  propose.  What  you  once  men- 
tioned of  “ flaxen  locks”  is  justr  they 
cannot  enter  into  an  elegant  description  of 
beauty.  Of  this  also  again — God  blesa 
you  ! (218). 


NO.  CCCLXVII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Your  “Hey  for  a lass  wi’  a tocher”  is  a 
most  excellent  song,  and  wdth  you  the 
subject  is  something  new  indeed.  It  is  the 
first  time  I have  seen  you  debasing  the  god 
of  soft  desire  into  an  amateur  of  acres  ant* 
guineas. 

I am  happy  to  find  you  approve  of  my 
proposed  octavo  edition.  Allan  has  designed 
and  etched  about  twenty  plates,  and  I am  to 
have  my  choice  of  them  for  that  work. 
Independently  of  the  Hogarthian  humour 
with  which  they  abound,  they  exhibit  the 
character  and  costume  of  the  Scottish  pea- 
santry with  inimitable  felicity.  In  this 
respect,  he  himself  says,  they  will  far  exceed 
the  aquatinta  plates  he  did  for  the  Gentle 
Shepherd,  because  in  the  etching  he  sees 
clearly  what  he  is  doing,  but  not  so  with  the 
aquatinta,  which  he  could  not  manage  to  hit 
mind. 

The  Dutch  boors  of  Ostade  are  scarcely 
more  characteristic  and  natural  than  the 
Scottish  figuves  in  those  etchings. 


BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON.  443 


N(.  CCCLXVIII. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

April,  1796. 

Alas  ! my  dear  Thomson,  I fear  it  will 
be  some  time  ere  I tune  my  lyre  again ! 
" By  Babel  streamy  I have  sat  and  wept  ” 
almost  ever  since  I wrote  you  last ; I have 
only  known  existence  by  the  pressure  of  the 
heavy  hand  of  sickness,  and  have  counted 
time  by  the  repercussions  of  pain  ! Rheu- 
matism, cold  and  fever,  have  formed  to  me 
a terible  combination.  I close  my  eyes  in 
misery,  and  open  them  without  hope.  I 
look  on  the  vernal  day,  and  say  with  poor 
Fergusson, 

Say  wherefore  has  an  all-indulgent  heaven 
light  to  the  comfortless  and  wretched  given? 

This  will  be  delivered  to  you  by  a Mrs. 
Hyslop,  landlady  of  the  Globe  Tavern  here, 
which  for  these  many  years  has  been  my 
house,  and  where  our  friend  Clarke  and  I 
have  had  many  a merry  squeeze.  I am 
highly  delighted  with  Mr.  Allan’s  etchings. 
“ Woo’d  an’  married  an’  a’,”  is  admirable! 
The  grouping  is  beyond  all  praise.  The 
expression  of  the  figures,  conformable  to  the 
itory  in  the  ballad,  is  absolutely  faultless 
perfection.  I next  admire  “ Turnimspike.” 
What  I like  least  is  “ Jenny  said  to  Jocky,” 
Besides  the  female  being  in  her  appearance 
• ****,  if  you  take  her  stooping  into  the 
account,  she  is  at  least  two  inches  taller 
than  her  lover.  Toor  Cleghorn  ! I 
sincerely  sympathise  with  him.  Happy  I 
am  to  think  that  he  yet  has  a well-grounded 
hope  of  health  and  enjoyment  in  this  world. 
As  for  me — but  that  is  a sad  subject  1 


NO.  CCCLXIX. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

May  4 th,  1796. 

I need  not  tell  you,  my  good  Sir,  what 
concern  the  receipt  of  your  last  gave  me, 
and  how  much  I sympathise  in  your  suffer- 
ings.  But  do  not,  I beseech  you,  give 
yourself  up  to  despondency,  or  speak  the 
language  of  despair.  The  vigour  of  your 
constitution,  I trust,  will  soon  set  you  on 
your  feet  again;  and  then,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
you  will  see  the  wisdom  and  the  necessity 
of  taking  due  care  of  a life  so  valuable  to 


your  family,  to  your  friend^  and  to  the 
world. 

Trusting  that  your  next  will  biing 
agreeable  accounts  of  your  convalescence 
and  returning  good  spirits,  I remain,  with 
sincere  regard,  yours. 

P.  S.  Mrs.  Hyslop,  I doubt  not,  delivered 
the  gold  seal  to  you  in  good  condition. 


NO.  CCCLXXa 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

My  dear  Sir — I once  mentioned  t« 
you  an  air  which  I have  long  admired — ■ 
“ Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa,  hiiiey/* 
but  I forget  if  you  took  any  notice  of  it.  I 
have  just  been  trying  to  suit  it  with  verses, 
and  I beg  leave  to  recommend  the  air  to 
your  attention  once  more.  I have  only 
begun  it. 

[Here  follow  the  three  first  stanzas  of  the 
song : the  fourth  was  found  among  his  MSS 
after  his  death.] 


NO.  CCCLXXI. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

This  will  be  delivered  by  a Mr.  Lewars, 
a young  fellow  of  uncommon  merit.  As  he 
will  be  a day  or  two  in  town,  you  w ill  hav# 
leisure,  if  you  choose,  to  write  me  by  him : 
and  if  you  have  a spare  half  hour  to  spend 
with  him,  I shall  place  your  kindness  to  my 
account.  I have  no  copies  of  the  songs  I 
have  sent  you,  and  I have  taken  a fancy  to 
review  them  all,  and  possibly  may  mend 
some  of  them  : so,  when  you  have  complete 
leisure,  I will  thank  you  for  either  the 
originals  or  copies.  (219)  I had  rather  be 
the  author  of  five  well-written  songs  than  of 
ten  otherwise.  1 have  great  hopes  that  the 
genial  influence  of  the  approaching  summer 
will  set  me  to  rights,  but  as  yet  I cannot 
boast  of  returning  health.  I have  now  reap, 
son  to  believe  that  my  complaint  is  a flying 
gout — a sad  business  ! 

Do  let  me  know  how  Gleghorn  is,  and 
remember  me  to  him. 

This  should  have  been  delivered  to  you  • 
month  ago.  I am  still  very  poorly,  bu* 
sh  >uld  like  much  to  hear  from  you. 

39 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BORNS. 


£44 


NO.  CCCLXXII. 

TO  MRS.  RIDDEL, 

WHO  HAD  DERIDED  HIM  TO  GO  TO  THE  BIRTHDAY 

ASSEMBLY,  ON  THAT  DAY,  TO  SHOW  HIS 
LOYALTY. 

Dumfries,  June  4 th,  1796. 

I am  in  such  miserable  health  as  to  be 
utterly  incapable  of  showing  my  loyalty  in 
any  way.  Racked  as  I am  with  rheumatism, 
I meet  every  face  with  a greeting,  like  that 
of  Balak — “Come,  curse  me,  Jacob;  and 
tome,  defy  me,  Israel ! ” So  say  I — Come, 
curse  me  that  east  wind ; and  come,  defy 
me  the  north  ! Would  you  have  me  in  such 
circumstances  copy  you  out  a love  song! 

I may,  perhaps,  see  you  on  Saturday,  but 
I will  not  be  at  the  ball.  Why  should  I ? — 
“ man  delights  not  me,  nor  woman  either ! ” 
Can  you  supply  me  with  the  song,  “Let  us 
all  be  unhappy  together” — do  if  you  can, 
and  oblige  le  pauvre  miserable,  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCLXXIII. 

TO  MR.  CLARKE, 

SCHOOLMASTER,  FORFAR. 

Dumfries,  June  26th,  1796. 

My  Dear  Clarke — Still,  the  victim  of 
affliction ! Were  you  to  see  the  emaciated 
figure  who  now  holds  the  pen  to  you,  you 
would  not  know  your  old  friend.  Whether 
I shall  ever  get  about  again,  is  only  known 
to  Him,  the  Great  Unknown,  whose  creature 
I am.  Alas,  Clarke!  I begin  to  fear  the 
worst.  As  to  my  individual  self,  I am  tran- 
quil, and  would  despise  myself  if  I were  not; 
but  Burns’s  poor  widow,  and  half-a-dozen 
of  his  dear  little  ones — helpless  orphans  ! — 
there  I am  weak,  as  a woman’s  tear. 
Enough  of  this ! ’Tis  half  of  my  disease. 

I duly  received  your  last,  enclosing  the 
note.  It  came  extremely  in  time,  and  I am 
much  obliged  by  your  punctuality.  Again 
I must  request  you  to  do  me  the  same  kind- 
ness. Be  so  very  good  as,  by  return  of 
post,  to  enclose  me  another  note.  I trust 
you  can  do  it  without  inconvenience,  and  it 
will  seriously  oblige  me.  If  I must  go,  I 
shall  leave  a few  friends  behind  me,  whom 
I shall  regret  while  consciousness  remains. 
I know  I shall  live  in  their  remembrance. 
Adieu,  dear  Clarke.  That  I shall  ever  see 
you  again,  is,  l am  afraid,  highly  improbable. 

R.  B. 


NO.  CCCLXXIY. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  JOHNSON, 

EDINBURGH. 

Dumfries,  July  4 th,  1796. 

How  are  you,  my  dear  friend,  and  how 
comes  on  your  fifth  volume ! You  may 
probably  think  that  for  some  time  past  I 
have  neglected  you  and  your  work;  but, 
alas ! the  hand  of  pain,  and  sorrow,  and 
care,  has  these  many  months  lain  heavy  on 
me.  Personal  and  domestic  affliction  have 
almost  entirely  banished  that  alacrity  and 
life  with  which  I used  to  woo  the  rural  muse 
of  Scotia. 

You  are  a good,  worthy,  honest  fellow, 
and  have  a good  right  to  live  in  this  world 
— because  you  deserve  it.  Many  a merry 
meeting  this  publication  has  given  us,  and 
possibly  it  may  give  us  more,  though,  alas ! 
I fear  it.  This  protracting,  slow,  consuming 
illness  which  hangs  over  me,  will,  I doubt 
much,  my  ever  dear  friend,  arrest  my  sun 
before  he  has  well  reached  his  middle  career, 
and  will  turn  over  the  poet  to  far  more  im- 
portant concerns  than  studying  the  brilliancy 
of  wit,  or  the  pathos  of  sentiment.  How- 
ever, hope  is  the  cordial  of  the  human  heart 
and  I endeavour  to  cherish  it  as  well  as  I 
can. 

Let  me  hear  from  you  as  soon  as  con- 
venient. Your  work  is  a great  one  ; and 
now  that  it  is  finished,  I see,  if  we  were  to 
begin  again,  twro  or  three  things  that  might 
be  mended ; yet  I will  venture  to  prophesy, 
that  to  future  ages  your  publication  will  be 
the  text-book  and  standard  of  Scottish  song 
and  music. 

I am  ashamed  to  ask  another  favour  of 
you,  because  you  have  been  so  very  good 
already ; but  my  wife  has  a very  particular 
friend  of  hers,  a young  lady  who  sings  well, 
to  whom  she  wishes  to  present  the  “ Scots 
Musical  Museum.”  If  you  have  a spare 
copy,  will  you  be  so  obliging  as  to  send  it 
by  the  very  first  fly,  as  I am  anxious  to 
have  it  soon.  (220)  Yours  ever, 

R.  B, 


NO.  CCCLXXY. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow,  Sea-bathing  Quarters, 
July  7th,  1796.- 

My  Dear  Cunningham — I received 
yours  here  this  morning,  and  am  indeed 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


highly  flattered  with  the  approbation  of  the 
literary  circle  you  mention — a literary  circle 
inferior  to  none  in  the  two  kingdoms.  Alas  ! 
my  friend,  I fear  the  voice  of  the  bard  will 
soon  be  heard  among  you  no  more.  For 
these  eight  or  ten  months  I have  been  ailing, 
sometimes  bedfast,  and  sometimes  not ; but 
these  last  three  months  I have  been  tortured 
with  an  excruciating  rheumatism,  which  has 
reduced  me  to  nearly  the  last  stage.  You 
actually  would  not  know  me  if  you  saw  me. 
Pale,  emaciated,  and  so  feeble,  as  occasionally 
to  need  help  from  the  chair  — my  spirits 
fled  ! fled ! — but  I can  no  more  on  the  sub- 
ject ; only  the  medical  folks  tell  me  that  my 
last  and  only  chance  is  bathing,  and  country 
quarters 'and  riding.  The  deuce  of  the 
matter  is  this  ; when  an  exciseman  is  off 
duty,  his  salary  is  reduced  to  £35  instead 
of  £50.  What  way,  in  the  name  of  thrift, 
shall  I maintain  myself,  and  keep  a horse  in 
country  quarters,  with  a wife,  and  five  chil- 
dren at  home,  on  £35?  I mention  this, 
because  I had  intended  to  beg  your  utmost 
interest,  and  that  of  all  the  friends  you 
can  muster,  to  move  our  commissioners  of 
Excise  to  grant  me  the  full  salary ; I dare 
say  you  know  them  all  personally.  If  they 
do  not  grant  it  me  (221),  I must  lay  my 
account  with  an  exit  truly  en  poete — if 
I die  not  of  disease,  I must  perish  with 
hunger. 

I have  sent  you  one  of  the  songs ; the 
other  my  memory  does  not  serve  me  with, 
and  I have  no  copy  here ; but  I shall  be  at 
home  soon,  when  I will  send  it  you.  A-propos 
to  being  at  home, — Mrs.  Burns  threatens  in 
week  or  or  two  to  add  one  more  to  my 
paternal  charge,  which,  if  of  the  right 
gender,  I intend  shall  be  introduced  to  the 
world  by  the  respectable  designation  of 
Alexander  Cunningham  Burns.  My  last  was 
James  Glencairn,  so  you  can  have  no 
objection  to  the  company  of  nobility. 
Farewell . R.  B. 


WO.  CCCLXXVI. 

TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 

July  10f7i,  1796. 

Dear  Brother  —It  will  be  no  very 
pleasing  news  to  you  to  be  told  that  I am 
dangerously  ill,  and  not  likely  to  get  better. 
An  inveterate  rheumatism  has  reduced  me 
to  such  a state  of  debility,  and  my  appetite 
M so  totally  gone,  that  I can  scarcely  stand 


44$ 

on  my  legs.  I have  been  a week  at  sea- 
bathing, and  I will  continue  there,  or  in  a 
friend’s  house  in  the  country,  all  the  sum- 
mer. God  keep  my  wife  and  children : if  I 
am  taken  from  their  head,  they  will  be  poor 
indeed.  I have  contracted  one  or  two 
serious  debts,  partly  from  my  illness  these 
many  months,  partly  from  too  much  thought- 
lessness as  to  expense  when  I came  to  town, 
that  will  cut  m too  much  on  the  little  I 
leave  them  in  your  hands.  Remember  me 
to  my  mother.  Yours,  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCLXXVI I. 

TO  MRS.  BURNS. 

Brow , Thursday. 

My  Dearest  Love — I delayed  writing 
until  I could  tell  you  what  effect  sea-bathing 
was  likely  to  produce.  It  would  be  injustice 
to  deny  that  it  has  eased  my  pains,  and  I 
think  has  strengthened  me  ; but  my  appetite 
is  still  extremely  bad.  No  flesh  nor  fish 
can  I swallow : porridge  and  milk  are  the 
only  thing  I can  taste.  I am  very  happy 
to  hear,  by  Miss  Jess  Lewars,  that  you  are 
all  well.  My  very  best  and  kindest  com- 
pliments to  her,  and  to  all  the  children.  T 
will  see  you  on  Sunday.  Your  affectionate 
husband,  R.  B. 


NO.  CCCLXXVXir. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Brow , Saturday,  July  12 th,  1796. 

Madam — I have  written  you  so  often, 
without  receiving  any  answer,  that  I would 
not  trouble  you  again,  but  for  the  circumstan- 
ces in  which  I am.  An  illness  which  has  long 
hung  about  me,  in  all  probability  will 
speedily  send  me  beyond  that  bourne  whence 
no  traveller  returns.  Your  friendship,  with 
which  for  many  years  you  honoured  me, 
was  a friendship  dearest  to  my  soul.  Your 
conversation,  and  especially  your  corres- 
pondence, were  at  once  highly  entertaining 
and  instructive.  With  what  pleasure  did  l 
use  to  break  up  the  seal ! The  remem- 
brance yet  adds  one  pulse  more  to  my 
poor  palpitating  heart.  Farewell ! ! ! 

R.  B.  (222) 


m 


CORRESPONDENCE  OP  BURNS. 


NO.  CCCLXXIX. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  BURNESS. 

WRITER,  MONTROSE. 

Dumfries , July  12 th,  1796. 

My  dear  Cousin — When  you  offered 
me  money  assistance,  little  did  I think  I 
should  want  it  so  soon.  A rascal  of  a 
haberdasher,  to  whom  I owe  a considerable 
hill,  taking  it  into  his  head  that  I am  dying, 
has  commenced  a process  against  me,  and 
will  infallibly  put  my  emaciated  body  into 
jail.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  accommodate 
me,  and  that  by  return  of  post,  with  ten 
pounds  ? Oh,  James ! did  you  know  the 
pride  of  my  heart,  you  would  feel  doubly  for 
me ! Alas ! I am  not  used  to  beg.  The 
worst  of  it  is,  my  health  was  coming  about 
finely,  you  know  ; and  my  physician  assured 
me,  that  melancholy  and  low  spirits  are  half 
my  disease  : — guess,  then,  my  horrors  since 
this  business  began.  If  I had  it  settled,  I 
would  be,  I think,  quite  well  in  a manner. 
How  shall  I use  the  language  to  you, — oh  do 
not  disappoint  me ! — but  strong  necessity’s 
curst  coramaud. 

I have  been  thinking  over  and  over  my 
brother’s  affairs,  and  I fear  I must  cut  him 
up ; but  on  this  I will  correspond  at  another 
time,  particularly  as  I shall  [require]  your 
advice. 

Eorgive  me  for  once  more  mentioning  by 
return  of  post save  me  from  the  horrors  of 
a jail ! (223) 

My  compliments  to  my  friend  James,  and 
to  all  the  rest.  I do  not  know  what  I have 
written.  The  subject  is  so  horrible,  I dare 
Eot  look  it  over  again.  Pare  well  1 

K B. 


WO  CCCLXXX. 

BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON 

Brow,  on  the  Solway-frith, 

July  12  th,  1796. 

After  all  my  boasted  independence,  curst 
necessity  compels  me  to  implore  you  for  five 
pounds.  A cruel  wretch  of  a haberdasher, 
to  whom  I owe  an  account,  taking  it  into  his 
head  that  I am  dying,  has  commenced  a 
process,  and  will  infallibly  put  me  into  jail, 
bo,  for  God’s  sake,  send  me  that  sum,  and 
that  by  return  of  post.  Forgive  me  this 


earnestness,  but  the  honors  of  a jail  havi 
made  me  half  distracted.  I do  not  ask  all 
this  gratuitously , for,  upon  returning  health, 
I hereby  promise  and  engage  to  furnish  you 
with  five  pounds’  worth  of  the  neatest  song, 
genius  you  have  seen.  I tried  my  hand  oa 
“ Rothermurche  ” this  morning.  ,The  mea- 
sure is  so  difficult  that  it  is  impossible  to 
infuse  much  genius  into  the  lines ; they  are 
on  the  other  side.  Forgive,  forgive  me ! (221) 


NO  CCCLXXXI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

July  Uth,  1796. 

My  dear  Sir — Ever  since  I received 
your  melancholy  letters  by  Mrs.  Hyslop,  I 
have  been  ruminating  in  what  manner  I 
could  endeavour  to  alleviate  your  sufferings. 
Again  and  again  I thought  of  a pecuniary 
offer,  but  the  recollection  of  one  of  your 
letters  on  this  subject,  and  the  fear  of  offend- 
ing your  independent  spirit,  checked  my 
resolution.  I thank  you  heartily,  therefore, 
for  the  frankness  of  your  letter  of  the  12th, 
and,  with  great  pleasure,  enclose  a draft  for 
the  very  sum  I proposed  sending  (225). 
Would  I were  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
but  for  one  day,  for  your  sake ! 

Pray,  my  good  Sir,  is  it  not  possible  for 
you  to  muster  a volume  of  poetry  ? If  too 
much  trouble  to  you,  in  the  present  state  of 
your  health,  some  literary  friend  might  bo 
found  here,  who  would  select  and  arrange 
from  your  manuscripts,  and  take  upon  him 
the  task  of  editor.  In  the  meantime,  it 
could  be  advertised  to  be  published  by  sub- 
scription. Do  not  shun  this  mode  of  obtain- 
ing the  value  of  your  labour:  remember. 
Pope  published  the  Iliad  by  subscription. 
Think  of  this,  my  dear  Burns,  and  do  not 
reckon  me  intrusive  with  my  advice.  You 
are  too  well  convinced  of  the  respect  and 
friendship  I bear  your  to  impute  anything  I 
say  to  an  unworthy  motive.  Yours  faith- 
fully. 

The  verses  to  " Rothermurche  ” will 
answer  finely.  I am  happy  to  see  you  caa 
still  tune  your  lyr«. 


TO  JAMES  ARMOUR. 


*47 


MO.  CCCLXXXII. 

TO  JAMES  GRACIE,  Esa. 

Brow,  Wednesday  morning, 
July  1 6th,  1796. 

My  Dear  Sir — It  would  be  doing 
irgh  injustice  to  this  place  not  to  acknow- 
ledge that  my  rheumatism  has  derived  great 
benefits  from  it  already ; but,  alas ! my 
loss  of  appetite  still  continues.  I shall  not 
need  your  kind  offer  this  week  (226),  and  I 
t?turn  to  town  the  beginning  of  next  week, 
it  not  being  a tide  week.  I am  detaining  a 
man  in  a burning  hurry.  So,  God  bless 


NO.  CCCLXXXIrt. 

TO  JAMES  ARMOUR  (227), 

MASON,  MAUCHLINE. 

Dumfries,  July,  18 th,  1796. 

My  Dear  Sir — Do,  for  Heaven’s  sake, 
send  Mrs.  Armour  here  immediately.  My 
wife  is  hourly  expecting  to  be  put  to  bed; 
Good  God ! what  a situation  for  her  to  be 
in,  poor  girl,  without  a friend ! I returned 
from  sea-bathing  quarters  to-day,  and  my 
medical  friends  would  almost  persuade  me 
that  I am  better,  but  I think  and  feel  that 
my  strength  is  so  gone,  that  the  disordes 
will  prove  fatal  to  me.  Your  son-in-law, 

kb.  (m 


B.8. 


m 5®B  LIFE,  POEMS,  CORRESPONDENCE 
OF  BURNS 


tn  Jjie  life  nf  fkirtm 


Fage  4,  Note  !. — To  account  for  the 

co-existence  of  a taste  for  dancing,  music, 
and  song,  with  the  austere  religious  feelings 
above  described,  we  must  bear  in  mind  that 
the  latter  are  not  of  such  long  standing, 
having  only  existed  in  great  force  since  the 
time  of  the  civil  wars.  It  is  also  to  be  observed, 
that  those  tastes  and  those  feelings  did  not 
always  possess  the  same  minds.  Throughout 
the  most  rigid  times,  the  young  formed  a 
party  whom  the  promptings  of  nature  com- 
pelled to  favour  mirthful  recreation  and  the 
productions  of  the  muse,  all  preachings 
from  the  old  notwithstanding.  Then  the 
Episcopalian  or  Jacobite  party,  formed  a 
large  and  important  exception  from  the 
general  spirit  of  the  nation,  being  declared 
patrons  of  not  only  dancing  and  song,  but 
of  theatricals. 

Page  4,  Note  2. — Till  a recent  period,  and 
previous  to  the  reign  of  George  I.,  the  his- 
tory of  Scottish  music  was  a matter  of  con- 
jecture only.  Even  the  remark  in  the  text 
as  to  the  existence  of  music  before  the 
Reformation,  had  no  proper  basis.  The 
existence  of  popular  airs  at  a time  little  sub- 
sequent to  the  Reformation,  including  some 
which  still  flourish,  is  at  length  ascertained, 
in  consequence  of  the  discovery  of  an  MS. 
collection  of  airs,  which  belonged  to  Sir 
John  Skene  of  Currie-hill,  and  must  have 
been  written  about  the  year  1620.  See  an 
elegant  and  laboriou*  work  by  William 
X>auncy,  Esq  , Advocate,  4to.,  1838. 

Page  5,  Not?  3. — The  North  American 


Indians,  among  whom  the  attachment 

between  the  sexes  is  said  to  be  weak,  and 
love,  in  the  purer  sense  of  the  word,  unknow  n, 
seem  nearly  unacquainted  with  the  charms 
of  poetry  and  music. — See  Weld's  Tour . 
We  quote  this  as  an  explanatory  reference. 
It  is,  however,  very  far  from  the  truth  in 
both  respects ; with  due  deference  to  the 
information  whence  Dr.  Currie  drew  lii* 
authority. 

Page  5,  Note  4. — Edward  Gibbon. 

Page  6,  Note  5. — This  practice  has 
ceased  to  prevail,  so  that  the  remarks  of  Dr. 
Currie  on  this  subject  are  no  longer  appli- 
cable. 

Page  6,  Note  6. — In  this  instance,  again, 
the  description  of  Dr.  Currie  is  no  longer 
applicable.  And  it  is  rather  true,  at  present, 
that  the  tenant  farmers  of  Scotland  are 
superior,  than  that  they  are  inferior  to  the 
same  class  in  England;  and  there  is  cer- 
tainly as  much  evidence  of  comfort  in  their 
mode  of  living.  There  has  been  a very 
rapid  progress  made  in  agricultural  science, 
especially  amongst  the  Lowland  farmers  of 
late  years ; and  even  the  labouring  classes 
are  upon  an  equal  footing  in  respect  of  means 
and  comforts  in  both  portions  of  great 
Britain,  whereas,  they  are  certainly  better 
informed  and  educated  in  Scotland.  Suppo- 
sing the  remark  to  be  reserved  to  the  holders 
of  land,  or  the  capitalist  peasantry,  so  to  call 
them,  the  distinction  has  here  even  ceased 
to  exist. 

Page  7,  Note  7. — The  rapid  increase  ia 


452 


NOTES  TO  THE 


the  consumption  of  spirituous  liquors  is 
truly  astonishing.  The  following  figures 
tiave  been  stated  by  a contemporary : “ The 
amount  of  the  duty  on  spirits  distilled  in 
Scotland  is  now  upwards  of  £250,000  per 
annum.  In  1777,  it  did  not  reach  £8000.” 
Allowing  for  the  difference  of  values,  and  of 
the  scale  of  duties  levied,  there  is  yet  an 
enormous  disparity;  and,  when  it  is  con- 
sidered that  this  is  independently  of  all 
merely  fermented  liquors,  an  idea  may  be 
formed  of  the  immense  increase  in  the  con- 
eumption  of  intoxicating  beverages.  Taking 
again  the  returns  of  distillery  for  1832,  we 
have  a gross  of  5,407,097  gallons,  and  an 
aggregate  duty  of  nearly  a million  sterling. 

Page  11,  Note  8. — According  to  some 
authorities,  the  fair  heroine  of  this  young 
passion  was  called  Nelly  Blair.  The  lines 
which  immortalized  her  are  those  which 
commence — “Once  I loved  a bonnie  lass.” 
Page  12,  Note  9. — In  October,  1837, 
the  editor  conversed  at  Tarbolton  with  John 
Lees,  shoemaker,  who,  when  a stripling,  used 
to  act  as  Burns’s  second  in  his  courting  ex- 
peditions. The  old  man  spoke  with  much 
glee  of  the  aid  he  had  given  the  poet  in  the 
way  of  asking  out  lasses  for  him.  When  he 
had  succeeded  in  bringing  the  girl  out  of 
doors,  he  of  course  became  Monsieur  de 
Trop,  and  Burns  would  say,  '‘Now,  Jack, ye 
may  gang  hame.” 

Page  12,  Note  10. — A correspondent  of 
the  Scotsman  newspaper,  1828,  communi- 
cated the  following  as  recollections  of  Burns 
in  his  early  rustic  years : — “ He  was  par- 
ticularly distinguished  at  that  species  of 
merry-making  called  * Bookings/  which  are 
frequently  alluded  to  in  his  writings.  This 
kind  of  meeting  is,  or  was  (for  I suppose 
the  change  of  manners  will  have  suppressed 
this  innocent  species  of  * play  ’ ) formed  of 
young  people — servants  generally,  of  both 
sexes,  to  the  neighbouring  farmers — who 
were  allowed,  during  moonlight,  to  meet 
alternately  at  their  respective  houses,  each 
lass  thriftily  carrying  with  her  the  spinning- 
wheel,  and,  while  the  song  and  the  tale  went 
round,  never  failing  to  complete  her  assigned 
task  of  spinning ; the  lads,  in  the  meanwhile, 
being  as  busily  employed  in  knitting  the 
stocking  : the  entertainment  ending  with  a 
supper  of  a particular  dish  or  two  of  country 
fare.  On  these  occasions  my  narrator 
remembers  well  the  distinguished  part 
Burns  used  to  take  in  the  business  of  the 
evening.  Often  has  she  met  him  at  the 
head  of  a little  troop,  coming  from  a distance 
of  three  or  four  miles,  with  the  spinning- 
wheel  of  his  favourite,  for  the  time  being, 


mounted  on  his  shoulders,  and  his  ap« 
proach  announced  by  the  bursts  of  merri- 
ment which  his  ready  and  rough  jokes  had 
excited  amongst  the  group.  It  was  always 
expected  that  some  new  effusion  of  his 
muse  should  be  produced  to  promote  the 
enjoyment  of  the  party,  and  seldom  were 
they  disappointed,  * Rob  Burns’s  last 
night’s  poem’  generally  reaching  the  parlour 
in  the  course  of  the  next  day.  At  the 
kitchen  of  my  friend’s  father  (an  extensive 
land  proprietor)  Burns’s  visits  were  of  such 
frequency  and  duration  as  to  call  down  the 
animadversions  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  the 
alertness  of  her  damsels  in  the  morning 
being  at  times  impaired  by  his  unreasonable 
gallantry.  This  was  supposed  to  be  occa- 
sioned by  a penchant  he  had  formed  for  a 
certain  Nelly  Blair,  a pretty  girl,  a servant 
in  the  family,  and  whom  he  celebrated  in 
more  songs  and  odes  than  her  name  appears 
in  ; the  only  one  likely  to  be  applied  to  her 
now,  being  one  which  he  himself  transcribes, 
in  a letter  to  Mr.  Thomson,  as  one  of  his 
earliest  effusions,  and  of  which  his  * Hand- 
some Nell,’  I think,  forms  the  burden.  My 
friend  describes  him  as  being  considered  at 
that  time  as  a clever  fellow,  but  a wild 
scamp.  ” 

Page  12,  Note  11. — The  songs  in  ques- 
tion are  respectively  identified  by  the  first 
lines  of  each  as  follows  : — 

1.  “It  was  upon  a Lammas  night.” 

2.  Now  westling  winds  and  slaughterin' 
guns.” 

3.  “ Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows.” 

Page  13,  Note  12. — One  Richard  Brown, 

who  however  lived  until  within  the  last  few 
years,  and  was  latterly  held  in  general 
esteem. 

Page  13,  Note  13. — On  the  birth  of  an 
illegitimate  child.  > 

Page  13,  Note  14. — “The  twa  herds.”  5 

Page  14,  Note  15. — John  Blane,  at  one 
time  driver  of  a coach  between  Glasgow  and 
Cumnock,  and  now  (1838)  residing  at 
Kilmarnock,  was  for  four  years  and  a half 
farm-servant  in  the  Burns  family  at 
Lochlee  and  Mossgiel.  With  Robert  Burns* 
who  was  eight  years  his  senior,  he  slept  for 
a long  time  in  the  same  bed,  in  the  stable 
loft,  at  Mossgiel.  He  reports  that  Burns 
had  a little  deal  table  with  a drawer  in  it, 
which  he  kept  constantly  beside  the  bed, 
with  a small  desk  on  the  top  of  it.  The 
best  of  his  poems  were  here  written  during 
the  hours  of  rest ; the  table-drawer  being 
the  depository  in  which  he  kept  them.  To 
think  of  the  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,  the 
Lament,  and  the  Vision,  being  written  in 


LIKE  OF  B4JRNS. 


453’ 


ifhe  poor  garret  over  a 9mall  farmer's  stable  ! 
He  used  to  employ  Blane  to  read  the  poems 
to  him,  immediately  after  their  composition, 
that  he  might  be  able  the  more  effectually 
to  detect  faults  in  them.  When  dissatisfied 
with  a particular  passage,  he  would  stop  the 
reading,  make  an  alteration,  and  then  desire 
his  companion  to  proceed.  Blane  was  often 
awakened  by  him  during  the  night,  that  he 
might  serve  him  in  this  capacity.  It  is  to 
be  gathered  from  the  old  man’s  conversation, 
that  the  bard  of  Ayr  was  a most  rigid 
critic  of  his  own  compositions,  and  burned 
many  with  which  he  was  displeased. 

Page  14,  Note  16. — Miss  Helen  Maria 
Williams. 

Page  14,  Note  17. — There  are  various 
copies  of  this  letter  in  the  author’s  hand- 
writing; and  one  of  these,  evidently  cor- 
rected, is  in  the  book  in  which  he  had 
copied  several  of  his  letters.  This  has  been 
used  for  the  press,  with  some  omissions,  and 
one  slight  alteration  suggested  by  Gilbert 
Burns. 

Page  14,  Note  18. — This  house  is  on 
the  right-hand  side  of  the  road  from  Ayr  to 
Maybole,  which  forms  a part  of  the  road 
from  Glasgow  to  Port-Patrick.  When  the 
poet’s  father  afterwards  removed  to  Tarbol- 
ton  parish,  he  sold  his  leasehold  right  in 
this  house,  and  a few  acres  of  land  adjoining, 
to  the  corporation  of  shoemakers  in  Ayr. 
It  is  now  a country  ale-house. 

Page  15,  Note  19. — Mrs.  Burns,  the 
mother  of  Robert  Burns,  survived  to  the 
advanced  age  of  88.  She  died  on  the  14th 
of  January,  1820. 

Page  15,  Note  20. — Quoted  from  a 
letter  addressed  by  G.  Burns,  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop. 

Page  15,  Note  21. — The  farm  alluded  to 
was  Mount  Oliphant  in  the  parish  of  Ayr. 
The  passage  is  quoted  from  a letter  from  G. 
Burns  to  Mrs.  Dunlop. 

Page  16,  Note  22. — The  reading  from 
Titus  Adronicus,  was  from  the  revolting 
passage, — Act  ii.  Sc.  5 

Page  17,  Note  23. — Mr.  Tennant,  of 
Ayr,  one  of  the  few  surviving  early  friends 
of  Burns,  has  the  following  recollections 
respecting  him  : — “ He  first  knew  the  poet, 
when  attending  Mr.  'Murdoch’s  school  at 
Ayr,  he  being  then  fifteen,  and  Burns  a year 
and  a half  older.  Burns  and  he  were  fa- 
vourite pupils  of  Murdoch,  who  used  to  take 
them  alternately  to  live  with  him,  allowing 
them  a share  of  his  bed.  Mr.  Murdoch 
was  a well-informed  and  zealous  teacher — a 
particularly  good  French  scholar,  insomuch 
that  he  at  one  time  taught  the  language  in 


France.  He  thought  his  voice  had  some 
peculiar  quality  or  power,  adapting  it  in  an 
uncommon  degree  for  French  pronunciation. 
To  this  predilection  of  the  teacher,  it  is 
probably  owing  that  Burns  acquired  so 
much  French,  and  had  such  a fancy  for  in-* 
troducing  snatches  of  it  in  his  letters. 
Murdoch  was  so  anxious  to  advance  his  tw  o 
favourite  pupils,  that,  while  they  were  lying 
with  him,  he  was  always  taking  opportu- 
nities of  communicating  knowledge.  The 
intellectual  gifts  of  Burns  even  at  this  time 
greatly  impressed  his  fellow-scholar.  Robert 
and  Gilbert  Burns  were  like  no  other  young 
men.  Their  style  of  language  was  quite 
above  that  of  their  compeers.  Robert  had 
borrowed  great  numbers  of  books,  and  ac- 
quainted himself  with  their  contents.  He 
read  rapidly,  but  remembered  all  that  was 
interesting  or  valuable  in  what  he  read. 
He  had  the  New  Testament  more  at  com- 
mand than  any  other  youth  ever  known 
to  Mr.  Tennant,  who  was,  altogether, 
more  impressed  in  these  his  boyish  days  by 
the  discourse  of  the  youthful  poet,  than  he 
afterwards  was  by  his  published  verses. 
The  elocution  of  Burns  resembled  that  of 
Edmund  Kean — deep,  thoughtful,  emphatic; 
and  in  controversy,  no  man  could  stand 
before  him.” 

Page  17,  Note  24.— Mr.  John  Murdoch 
died  April  20,  1824,  aged  seventy-seven. 
He  had  published  a Radical  vocabulary  of 
the  French  language,  12mo,  1783;  Pro- 
nunciation and  Orthography  of  the 
French  language,  8vo.  1788  ; Diction- 
ary of  Distinctions,  8vo.  1811  ; and  other 
works.  He  was  a highly  amiable  and 
worthy  man.  In  his  latter  days,  illness  had 
reduced  him  to  the  brink  of  destitution, 
and  an  appeal  was  made  to  the  friends  and 
admirers  of  his  illustrious  pupil,  in  hia 
behalf.  Some  money  wras  thus  raised,  and 
applied  to  the  relief  of  his  necessities.  It  if 
stated,  in  the  obituary  notice  of  Mr.  Mur- 
doch, published  in  the  London  papers,  that 
he  had  taught  English  in  London  to  several 
distinguished  foreigners ; among  the  rest, 
to  the  celebrated  Talleyrand,  during  hi* 
residence  as  an  emigrant  in  England. 

Page  19,  Note  25. — Both  Robert  and 
Gilbert  speak  of  the  total  ruin  of  their 
father  at  the  time  of  his  death.  “ His  all,” 
says  Robert,  “ went  among  the  hell-hounda 
that  prowl  in  the  kennel  of  justice.”  It 
appears  difficult  to  reconcile  this  with  the 
immediately  ensuing  statement,  that  Moss- 
giel  was  stocked  by  the  property  and  indi* 
vidual  savings  of  the  whole  family.  But 
the  fact,  we  understand  to  he,  that  at  the 


454 


NOTES  TO  THE 


bankruptcy  of  William  Burns,  his  children  I 
had  respectively  considerable  claims  upon  ' 
hiir  estate,  on  account  of  their  services  to  i 
him  on  the  farm,  which  claims  were  prefer- 
able to  those  of  the  other  creditors.  They 
thus,  with  the  perfect  approbation  of  the 
law,  and  we  rather  think  of  justice  also, 
(though  some  thought  otherwise  at  the  time), 
rescued  a portion  of  his  property  from  the 
“ hell-hounds.” 

Page  19,  Note  26. — John  Blane,  already 
mentioned,  reports  that,  at  Lochlee,  the 
whole  family,  including  the  daughters, 
w rought  at  the  various  labours  of  the  farm. 
The  second  daughter,  Annabella  by  name, 
had  a turn  for  poetry,  but,  not  having  been 
taught  to  write,  was  unable  to  commit  her 
compositions  to  paper:  few  women  of  the 
game  rank  were  at  that  time  taught  to  write. 
The  family  was  one  which  regularly  went  to 
church,  one  male  and  one  female  being  left 
at  home,  to  take  care  of  the  house,  and 
"the  beasts.”  Annabella  would  contrive  to 
have  Blane  for  her  companion,  that  he  might 
write  down  her  poems  during  the  absence 
of  the  rest.  She  took  possession  of  the 
manuscripts,  but  was  obliged  by  the  severity 
of  parental  discipline,  to  conceal  her  love  of 
the  divine  art. 

Page  20,  Note  27. — According  to  credi- 
ble authorities,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  walking 
every  day  to  Kilmarnock,  for  the  purpose  of 
superintending  the  progress  of  his  literary 
labours,  through  press  ; and  it  is  very 
certain  that  he  was  at  this  time  labouring 
under  the  utmost  privations,  and  subsisting 
upon  the  most  scanty  fare  : — “ dining  off  a 
piece  of  oat  cake,  and  two-pennyworth  of 
ale,”  according  to  one  of  his  biographers. 

Page  20,  Note  28. — Burns,  himself,  in 
many  of  his  extant  letters  of  this  date,  declares 
that  he  was  “ skulking  from  covert  to  covert, 
under  the  terror  of  a jail,”  and  that  he  was 
pursued  to  persecution  by  the  officers,  under 
proceedings  intended  to  extort  a compulsory 
provision  for  his  twin  children,  by  Miss  Ar- 
mour, which,  however,  he  was  bent  upon  legi- 
timating, by  marrying  their  mother ; whilst 
the  relations  of  Miss  A.  were  driving  him 
from  pillar  to  post,  in  the  hope  of  effectually 
separating  the  lovers. 

Page  21,  Note  29. — There  is  another 
observation  of  Gilbert  Burns  on  his  brother’s 
narrative,  in  which  some  persons  will  be 
interested.  It  refers  to  where  the  poet 
speaks  of  his  youthful  friends.  " My 
brother,”  says  Gilbert  Burns,  “ seems  to  set 
off  his  early  companions  in  too  consequential 
a manner.  The  principal  acquaintance  we 
bad  in  Ayr,  w Vile  boys,  were  four  sons  of  I 


I Mr.  Andrew  M’Culloch,  a distant  relatiom 
' of  my  mother’s,  who  kept  a tea  shop,  and 
had  made  a little  money  in  the  contraband 
trade,  very  common  at  that  time.  He  died 
while  the  boys  were  young,  and  my  fathet 
was  nominated  one  of  the  tutors.  The  two 
eldest  were  bred  shopkeepers,  the  third  a 
surgeon,  and  the  youngest,  the  only  survi- 
ving one,  was  bred  in  a counting-house  in 
Glasgow,  where  he  is  now  a respectable 
merchant.  I believe  all  these  boys  went  tc 
the  West  Indies.  Then  there  were  two  sons 
of  Dr.  Malcolm,  whom  I have  mentioned  in 
my  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  The  eldest  a 
very  worthy  young  man,  went  to  the  East 
Indies,  where  he  had  a commission  in  the 
army ; he  is  thq  person  whose  heart,  my 
brother  says,  the  Munny  Begum  scenes  could 
not  corrupt.  The  other,  by  the  interest  of 
Lady  Wallace,  got  an  ensigncyin  a regiment 
raised  by  the  Duke  of  Hamilton  during  the 
American  War.  I believe  neither  of  them 
are  now  (1797)  alive.  We  also  knew  the 
present  Dr.  Paterson  of  Ayr,  and  a younger 
brother  of  his,  now  in  Jamaica,  who  were 
much  younger  than  us.  I had  almost  forgot 
to  mention  Dr.  Charles  of  Ayr,  who  was  a 
little  older  than  my  brother,  and  with  whom 
we  had  a longer  and  closer  intimacy  than 
with  any  of  the  others,  which  did  not,  how- 
ever, continue  in  after  life.” 

Page  21,  Note  30. — A Scottish  term 
meaning  fire. 

Page  21,  Note  31. — The  hoary  brow.  ’ 

Page  21,  Note  32. — Wishes  or  chooses. 

Page  21,  Notes  33,  34,  and  35. — An 
allusion  to  some  airs  known  amongst  the 
Scottish  Psalmody.  Reference  is  especially 
made  to  the  three  adopted  by  William 
Burns. 

Page  21,  Note  36. — Supplies,  adds  fuel 
to. 

Page  21,  Note  37. — The  father  of  the 
family  leading  the  family  devotion. 

Page  25,  Note  38. — "This  business  was 
first  carried  on  here  from  the  Isle  of  Man, 
and  afterwards  to  a considerable  extent 
from  France,  Ostend,  and  Gottenburgh. 
Persons  engaged  in  it  found  it  necessary 
to  go  abroad,  and  enter  into  business  with 
foreign  merchants ; and  by  dealing  in  tea, 
spirits,  and  silks,  brought  home  to  their 
families  and  friends  the  means  of  luxury 
and  finery  at  the  cheapest  rate.” — Statistical 
Account  of  Kirkoswald,  1794. 

Page  28,  Note  39. — The  subjoined  anec- 
dote may  serve  to  throw  some  additional 
light  upon  the  nature  of  Burns’  connexions 
at  the  period  referred  to.  “ The  poet’s  May- 
I bole  friend,  on  inspecting  the  volume,  was 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


45ft 


mortified  to  find  the  poetical  epistle  which 
had  been  addressed  to  him,  printed  with  the 
name  Andrew  substituted  for  his  own,  and 
the  motto  from  Blair,  as  was  but  proper, 
omitted.  He  said  nothing  at  the  time ; but, 
young,  ambitious,  and  tonscious  of  having 
done  all  in  his  humble  power  for  friendship’s 
cause,  he  could  not  forgive  so  marked  a 
slight.  He,  therefore,  from  that  time  ceased 
to  answer  Burns’s  letters.  When  the  poet 
was  next  at  Maybole,  he  asked  the  cause, 
and  Willie  answered  by  inquiring  if  he  could 
1.  )t  himself  divine  it.  He  said  he  thought 
h«  could,  and  adverted  to  the  changed 
name  in  the  poem.  Mr.  Robert  Aiken, 
writer  in  Ayr,  had  been,  he  said,  a useful 
friend  and  patron  to  him.  He  had  a son 
commencing  a commercial  life  in  Liverpool. 
I thought,  he  said,  that  a few  verses  ad- 
dressed' to  this  youth  would  gratify  the 
father,  and  be  aecepted  as  a mark  of  my 
gratitude.  But,  my  muse  being  lazy,  I 
could  not  well  make  them  out.  After  all, 
this  old  epistle  occurred  to  me,  and  by  put- 
ting his  name  into  it,  in  place  of  yours,  I 
made  it  answer  this  purpose.  Willie  told 
him  in  reply,  that  he  had  just  exchanged 
his  friendship  for  that  of  Mr.  Aiken,  and 
requested  that  their  respective  letters  might 
be  burnt — a duty  which  he  scrupulously 
performed  on  his  own  part.  The  two  dis- 
putants of  Kirkoswald  never  saw  or  cor- 
responded with  each  other  again.” 

Page  29,  Note  40. — “Therefore  are  they 
before  the  throne  of  God,  and  serve  him  day 
and  night  in  his  temple : and  he  that  sitteth 
on  the  throne  shall  dwell  among  them. 
They  shall  hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst 
any  more;  neither  shall  the  sun  light  on 
them,  nor  any  heat.  For  the  Lamb  which 
is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  shall  feed 
them,  and  shall  lead  them  unto  the  living 
fountains  of  waters:  and  God  shall  wipe 
away  all  tears  from  their  eyes.” 

Page  29,  Note  41. — We  have  had  several 
occasions  to  notice  the  narrowness  of  Burns’s 
means,  and  the  straits  to  which  he  was 
often  reduced;  and  the  account  which  we 
have  of  the  closing  scene  of  his  father’s  life, 
sufficiently  explains  how  this  extremity  of 
distress  should  have  failed  to  be  relieved  by 
his  relatives.  To  those  to  whom  such  a cir- 
cumstance, however,  may  appear  somewhat 
extraordinary,  the  subjoined  particulars  may 
be  interesting : — “ It  is  no  uncommon  case 
for  a small  farmer,  or  even  cotter,  in  Scot- 
land, to  have  a son  placed  at  some  distant 
seminary  of  learning,  or  serving  an  appren- 
ticeship to  some  metropolitan  writer  or 
tradesman;  in  which  case,  the  yout})  is 


almost  invariably  supplied  with  oatmeal,  the 
staple  of  the  poor  Scotsman’s  life — cheese, 
perhaps — oaten  or  barley  bread,  &c.,  from 
the  home  stores,  by  the  intervention  of  the 
weekly  or  fortnightly  carrier.  The  above 
passage  recals  to  the  Editor  an  anecdote 
which  is  related  of  a gentleman,  now  high  in 
consideration  at  the  Scottish  bar,  whose 
fathei , a poor  villager  in  the  upper  ward  of 
Lanai  kshi  re,  having  contrived  to  get  him 
placed  at  Glasgow  University,  supported  him 
there  chiefly  by  a weekly  bag  of  oatmeal. 
On  one  occasion,  the  supply  was  stopped  for 
nearly  three  weeks  by  a snow-storm.  The 
young  man’s  meal,  like  Burns’s,  was  out; 
but  his  pride,  or  his  having  no  intimate  ac- 
quaintance, prevented  him  from  borrowing. 
And  this  remarkable  and  powerful-minded 
man  had  all  but  perished,  before  the  dissolving 
snow  allowed  a new  stock  of  provisions  to 
reach  him.” 

Page  29,  Note  42. — In  his  letter  to  Dr. 
Moore,  Burns  gives  the  following  account 
of  the  consequences  of  this  calamity  to 
himself : — “ This  was  an  unlucky  affair ; as 
we  were  giving  a welcome  carousal  to  the 
new  year  the  shop  took  fire,  and  burnt  to 
ashes,  and  / was  left , like  a true  'poet,  not 
worth  a sixpence .”  “ One  who  had  known 

Burns  at  Irvine  thus  reported  his  recollec- 
tion of  the  poet’s  appearance  and  demeanour. 
He  looked  older  than  he  was — was  of  a very 
dark  complexion,  and  had  a strong  dark  eye; 
his  ordinary  look,  while  in  company,  was 
thoughtful,  amounting  to  what  might  be 
called  a gloomy  attentiveness.  When  not 
interested  in  the  conversation,  he  might 
sometimes  be  seen,  for  a considerable  space, 
leaning  down  on  his  palm,  with  his  elbow 
resting  on  his  knee — perhaps  the  most  mel- 
ancholy of  all  postures  short  of  the  prostra- 
tion of  despair.  He  was  in  common  silent 
and  reserved ; but  when  he  found  a man  to 
his  mind,  he  made  a point  of  attaching  him- 
self to  the  company  of  that  person,  and 
endeavouriug  to  bring  out  hi3  powers. 
Among  women  he  never  failed  to  exert  him- : 
self,  and  always  shone.  People  remarked, 
even  then,  that  when  Robert  Burns  did 
speak,  he  always  spoke  to  the  point,  and  in 
general  with  a sententious  brevity.  From 
auother  source  we  learn  that  Burns  at  this 
time  loved  to  debate  theological  topict 
amongst  the  rustic  groups  which  met  in  the 
churchyard  after  service.” 

Page  30,  Note  43. — Sillar  was  a brother 
rhymster  of  Burns’s,  and  it  was  to  him  tha» 
the  Epistle  to  Davie  was  addressed.  Mr. 
Sillar  subsequently  became  a wealthy  magi*, 
trate  in  Irvine,  by  inheriting,  very  unes*‘ 


i56 


NOTES  TO  THE 


peutedly..  a large  fortune  from  a distant  rela- 
tive. He  had,  however,  before  this,  settled 
as  a teacher  in  the  same  place,  and  lived  in 
competent  circumstances.  He  has  only  been 
dead  a few  years. 

Page  31,  Note  44. — At  the  period  at 
which  Dr.  Currie  wrote  his  biographical 
account  of  Burns,  these  societies  were  com- 
paratively scarce,  and  it  was  worthy  of  some 
remark  that  works  of  this  particular  character 
were  held  in  preference.  The  Scotch,  besides, 
being  an  imaginative  people,  are,  however, 
essentially  a scientific  nation,  and  in  these 
days  a great  variety  of  literary  material  has 
become  popularised  amongst  them.  Indeed, 
“ book  societies  and  village  libraries  have 
greatly  increased  in  number,  and  means,  for- 
merly undreamt  of,  have  been  taken  for  fur- 
nishing intellectual  food  to  the  people.  It 
may,  at  the  same  time,  be  mentioned  that  no 
evil  result  of  any  kind  is  known  to  have 
arisen  from  the  alleged  predilection  of  the 
Scottish  peasantry  for  books  of  elegant  lite- 
rature. We  think  it  likely  that  this  predi- 
lection is  greatly  overstated  in  the  text. 
One  great  change  has,  however,  taken  place 
in  the  tastes  of  the  rural  people  of  Scotland. 
Their  book-shelves  or  window-soles,  which 
formerly  contained  only  a few  books  of 
divinity,  with  perhaps  Blind  Harry’s  Wallace 
and  Ramsay’s  Gentle  Shepherd,  or  some 
specimens  of  secular  literature,  now  exhibit, 
in  many  instances,  a considerable  store  of 
productions  in  the  belles  lettres,  and  of  valu- 
able books  of  information.  The  individuals 
who  sell  books  in  numbers,  or  small  parts, 
speak  strongly  of  the  change  which  has  taken 
place  amongst  them,  during  the  last  thirty 
years,  from  an  exclusively  theoolgical  to  a 
general  taste.” 

Page  35,  Note  45. — In  Cobbett’s  Maga- 
zine. 

Page  35,  Note  46. — The  female  infant 
continued  to  be  nursed  by  its  mother,  but 
unable  to  provide  any  better  attention  for 
the  boy,  the  family  entrusted  him  to  the  care 
of  some  good  people  at  Mossgiel,  where  he 
was  reared  by  hand,  being  fed  upon  cow’s  milk. 

Page  36,  Note  47. — Miss  Alexander, 
who  had  become  the  purchaser  of  the  estate 
in  the  scenery  of  which  Burns  delighted  to 
revel.  Wilhelmina  Alexander  was  the  sister 
of  Mr.  Claude  Alexander,  tvho  has  served  as 
paymaster  to  the  troops  in  India. 

Page  36,  Note  48. — This  letter  is  pre- 
served As  a great  treasure  at  Ballochmyle. 
At  the  close.  Burns  requests,  as  a favour, 
the  permission  to  include  the  poem  which 
accompanied  it  in  the  forthcoming  second 
edition  of  his  woi  ks. 


Page  36,  Note  49. — This  is  correct  Iis 
Scottish  phraseology ; in  strictly  grammati- 
cal English,  we  should  have  used  the  word 

hung  for  hang. 

Page  36,  Note  50. — These  lines  origi- 
nally stood  thus : — 

“ The  lily’s  hue  and  roses’  dye 

Bespoke  the  lass  o’  Ballochmyle.** 

Page  37,  Note  51. — The  individual  ah 
luded  to  was  a modest  and  amiable  girl, named 
Mary  Campbell,  whose  parents  resided  at 
Campbelltown  in  Argyleshire.  It  can  never 
detract  from  the  pathos  of  her  history,  to 
relate  that  she  was  a servant — we  believe, 
the  dairy-woman — at  Coilsfield  House,  the 
seat  of  Colonel  Montgomery,  afterwards 
twelfth  earl  of  Eghnton.  Burns  partly 
narrates  the  tale  of  his  affection  for  this 
young  woman.  “ After  ft  pretty  long  trial/' 
he  says,  “of  the  most  ardent  reciprocal  affeo* 
tion,  we  met,  by  appointment,  on  the  second 
Sunday  of  May,  in  a sequestered  spot  by  the 
banks  of  Ayr,  wher^  we  spent  a day  in  taking 
a farewell  before  she  should  embark  for  the 
West  Highlands,  to  arrange  matters  among 
her  friends  for  our  projected  change  of  life. 
At  the  close  of  the  autumn  following,  she 
crossed  the  sea  to  meet  me  at  Greenock, 
where  she  had  scarce  landed  when  she  was 
seized  with  a malignant  fever,  which  hurried 
my  dear  girl  to  her  grave  in  a few  days, 
before  I could  even  hear  of  her  illness.’* 
Mr.  Cromek  further  informs  us,  that  this 
adieu  was  performed  with  all  those  simple 
and  striking  ceremonials,  which  rustic  senti- 
ment has  devised  to  prolong  tender  emotions 
and  to  impose  awe.  The  lovers  stood  on 
each  side  of  a small  purling  brook — they 
laved  their  hands  in  the  limpid  stream — and, 
bolding  a Bible  between  them,  pronounced 
their  vows  to  be  faithful  to  each  other. 
They  parted — never  to  meet  again.”  It  is 
proper  to  add,”  says  Mr.  Lockhart,  “ that 
Mr.  Cromek’s  story  has  recently  been  con- 
firmed very  strongly  by  the  accidental  dis- 
covery of  a Bible,  presented  by  Burns  to 
Mary  Campbell,  in  the  possession  of  her 
still  surviving  sister  at  Ardrossan.  Upon 
the  boards  of  the  first  volume  is  inscribed,  in 
Burns’s  handwriting — ‘ And  ye  shall  not 
swear  by  my  name  falsely,  I am  the  Lord.’ — 
Levit.  chap.  xix.  v.  12/  On  the  second 
volume — ‘Thou  shalt  not  forswear  thyself, 
but  shalt  perform  unto  the  Lord  thine  oaths.* 
— St.  Matth.  chap.  v.  33.  And,  on  a blank 
leaf  of  either — ‘ Robert  Burns,  Mossgiel’— 
with  his  mason-mark.”  The  fine  lyrica^ 
Highland  Mary,  and  To  Mary  in  Heaven 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


457 


with  the  note9  attached  to  them,  tell  the  I 
remainder  of  this  sorrowful  tale. 

Page  37,  Note  52. — Gilbert  Burns,  in  a 
letter  addressed  to  the  Editor  [Dr.  Currie], 
has  given  the  following  account  of  the  friends 
which  Robert’s  talents  procured  him  before 
he  left  Ayrshire,  or  attracted  the  notice  of 
the  world  : — 

“ The  farm  of  Mossgiel,  at  the  time  of  our 
coming  to  it  (Martinmas,  1783),  was  the  pro- 
perty of  the  Earl  of  Loudon,  but  was  held 
in  tack  by  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton,  writer,  in 
Mauchline,  from  whom  we  had  our  bargain  ; 
who  had  thus  an  opportunity  of  knowing, 
and  showing  a sincereregard  for  my  brother, 
before  he  knew  that  he  was  a poet.  The 
poet’s  estimation  of  him,  and  the  strong  out- 
lines of  his  character,  may  be  collected  from 
the  dedication  to  this  gentleman.  When 
the  publication  was  begun,  Mr.  Hamilton 
entered  very  warmly  into  its  interests,  and 
promoted  the  subscription  very  extensively. 
Mr.  Robert  Aiken,  writer  in  Ayr,  is  a man 
of  worth  and  taste,  of  warm  affections,  and 
connected  with  a most  respectable  circle  of 
friends  and  relations.  It  is  to  this  gentleman 
The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night  is  inscribed. 
The  poems  of  my  brother,  which  I have  for- 
merly mentioned,  no  sooner  came  into  his 
hands,  than  they  were  quickly  known,  and 
well  received  in  the  extensive  circle  of  Mr. 
Aiken’s  friends,  which  gave  them  a sort  of 
currency,  necessary  in  this  wise  world,  even 
for  the  good  reception  of  things  valuable  in 
themselves.  But  Mr.  Aiken  not  only  ad- 
mired the  poet ; as  soon  as  he  became 
acquainted  with  him,  he  showed  the  warmest 
regard  for  the  man,  and  did  everything  in 
his  power  to  forward  his  interest  and  re- 
spectability. The  Epistle  to  a Young  Friend 
was  addressed  to  this  gentleman’s  son,  Mr. 
A.  H.  Aiken,  now  of  Liverpool.  He  was 
the  oldest  of  a young  family,  who  were 
taught  to  receive  my  brother  with  respect, 
as  a man  of  genius,  and  their  father’s  friend. 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr  is  inscribed  to  John 
Ballantine,  Esq.,  banker,  in  Ayr;  one  of  those 
gentlemen  to  whom  my  brother  was  intro- 
duced by  Mr.  Aiken.  He  interested  himself 
very  warmly  in  my  brother’s  concerns,  and 
constantly  showed  the  greatest  friendship 
and  attachment  to  him.  When  the  Kilmar- 
nock edition  was  all  sold  off,  and  a consider- 
able demand  pointed  out  the  propriety  of 
publishing  a second  edition,  Mr.  Wilson,  who 
had  printed  the  first,  was  asked  if  he 
would  print  the  second,  and  take  his  chance 
tf  being  paid  from  the  first  sale.  This  he 
declined,  and  when  this  came  to  Mr.  Ballan- 
iine’s  knowledge,  he  generously  offered  to 


I accommodate  Robert  with  whaf  money  he 
might  need  for  that  purpose ; but  advised 
him  to  go  to  Edinburgh,  as  the  fittest  place 
for  publishing.  When  he  did  go  to  Edin- 
burgh, his  friends  advised  him  to  publish 
again  by  subscription,  so  that  he  did  not 
need  to  accept  this  offer.  Mr.  William 
Parker,  merchant  in  Kilmarnock,  was  a sub- 
, scriber  for  thirty-five  copies  of  the  Kilmar- 
nock edition.  This  may,  perhaps,  appear 
not  deserving  of  notice  here;  but  if  the 
comparative  obscurity  of  the  poet  at  this 
period,  be  taken  into  consideration,  it  appears 
to  me  a greater  effort  of  generosity  than 
many  things  which  appear  more  brilliant  in 
my  brother’s  future  history. 

“ Mr.  Robert  Muir,  merchant  in  Kilmar- 
nock, was  one  of  those  friends  Robert’s 
poetry  had  procured  him,  and  one  who  waa 
dear  to  his  heart.  This  gentleman  had  no 
very  great  fortune,  or  long  line  of  dignified 
ancestry ; but  what  Robert  says  of  Captain 
Matthew  Henderson,  might  be  said  of  him 
with  great  propriety,  that  he  held  the  patent 
of  his  honours  immediately  from  Almighty 
God.  Nature  had,  indeed,  marked  him  a 
gentleman  in  the  most  legible  characters. 
He  died  while  yet  a young  man,  soon  after 
the  publication  of  my  brother’s  first  Edin- 
burgh edition.  Sir  William  Cunningham  of 
Robertland,  paid  a very  flattering  attention, 
and  showed  a good  deal  of  friendship  for  the 
poet.  Before  his  going  to  Edinburgh,  as 
well  as  after,  Robert  seemed  peculiarly 
pleased  with  Professor  Stewart’s  friendship 
and  conversation. 

“ But  of  all  the  friendships  which  Robert 
acquired  in  Ayrshire  and  elsewhere,  none 
seemed  more  agreeable  to  him  than  that  of 
Mrs.  Dunlop  of  Dunlop ; nor  any  which  has 
been  more  uniformly  and  constantly  exerted 
in  behalf  of  him  and  his  family,  of  which, 
were  it  proper,  I could  give  many  instances. 
Robert  was  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for 
Edinburgh  before  Mrs.  Dunlop  had  heard  of 
him.  About  the  time  of  my  brother’s  pub- 
lishing in  Kilmarnock,  she  had  been  afflicted 
with  a long  and  severe  illness,  which  had 
reduced  her  mind  to  the  most  distressing 
state  of  depression.  In  this  situation,  a copy 
of  the  printed  poems  was  laid  on  her  table 
by  a friend;  and,  happening  to  open  on 
The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,  she  read  it 
over  with  the  greatest  pleasure  and  surprise; 
the  poet’s  description  of  the  simple  cottagers 
operating  on  her  mind  like  the  charm  of  a 
jjowerful  exorcist,  expelling  the  demon  ennui, 
*nd  restoring  her  to  her  wonted  inward  har- 
mony and  satisfaction.  Mrs.  Dunlop  sent 
i>lf  a person  express  to  Mossgiel,  distant 


438 


NOTES  TO  THE 


fifteen  or  sixteen  miles,  with  a very  obliging 
letter  to  my  brother,  desiring  him  to  send 
her  half  a dozen  copies  of  his  poems,  if  he 
had  them  to  spare,  and  begging  he  would  do 
her  the  pleasure  of  calling  at  Dunlop  House 
as  soon  as  convenient.  This  was  the  begin- 
ning of  a correspondence  which  ended  only 
with  the  poet’s  life.  The  last  use  he  made 
of  his  pen,  was  writing  a short  letter  to  this 
lady  a few  days  before  his  death. 

Colonel  Fullarton,  who  afterwards  paid  a 
very  particular  attention  to  the  poet,  was  not 
in  the  country  at  the  time  of  his  first  com- 
mencing author.  At  thi»  distance  of  time, 
and  in  the  hurry  of  a wet  day,  snatched  from 
laborious  occupations,  I may  have  forgot 
some  persons  who  ought  to  have  been  men- 
tioned on  this  occasion;  for  which,  if  it 
Come  to  my  knowledge,  I shall  be  heartily 
sorry.” 

The  friendship  of  Mrs.  Dunlop  was  of 
particular  value  to  Burns.  This  lady, 
daughter  and  eole  heiress  to  Sir  Thomas 
Wallace  of  Craigie,  and  lineal  descendant  of 
the  illustrious  Wallace,  the  first  of  Scottish 
warriors,  possesses  the  qualities  of  mind 
suited  to  her  high  lineage.  Preserving,  in 
the  decline  of  life,  the  generous  affections  of 
youth,  her  admiration  of  the  poet  was  soon 
accompanied  by  a sincere  friendship  for  the 
man,  which  pursued  him  in  after-life  through 
good  and  evil  report — in  poverty,  in  sickness, 
and  in  sorrow — and  which  is  continued  to 
his  infant  family,  now  deprived  of  their 
parent.  [Mrs.  Dunlop  was  the  lineal  de- 
scendant, not  of  Sir  William  Wallace,  but  of 
his  father’s  elder  brother.  This  amiable  and 
enlightened  person  died  May  24,  1815, 
Bt  an  advanced  age,] 

Page  38, Note  53. — "Thomas  Blacklock, 
p.d.  (born  at  Arman,  Nov.  10,  1721,  died  at 
Edinburgh,  July  7,  1791),  though  blind 
from  the  age  of  six  months,  acquired  the 
education  suitable  for  the  clerical  profession, 
and  wrote  poetry  considerably  above  medi- 
ocrity. It  was  a fortunate  circumstance  that 
the  person  whom  Dr.  Laurie  applied  to, 
merely  because  he  was  the  only  one  of  his 
literary  acquaintances  with  whom  he  chose 
to  use  that  freedom,  happened  also  to  be  the 
person  best  qualified  to  render  the  applica- 
tion successful.  Dr.  Blacklock  was  an  en- 
thusiast in  his  admiration  of  an  art  which  he 
had  practised  himself  with  applause.  He 
felt  the  claims  of  a poet  with  a paternal 
sympathy,  and  he  had  in  his  constitution  a 
tenderness  and  sensibility  that  would  have 
engaged  his  beneficence  for  a youth  in  the 
circumstances  of  Burns,  even  though  he  had 
not  been  indebted  to  him,  for  the  delight 


which  he  received  from  his  work9 ; for  if  the 
young  men  were  enumerated  whom  he  dreir 
from  obscurity,  and  enabled  by  education  to 
advance  themselves  in  life,  the  catalogue 
would  naturally  excite  surprise.  * * * He 
was  not  of  a disposition  to  discourage  with 
feeble  praise,  and  to  shift  off  the  trouble  of 
future  patronage,  by  bidding  him  relinquish 
poetry,  and  mind  his  plough.” — Professor 
Walker. 

The  following  is  the  letter  of  Dr.  Black- 
lock to.  Dr.  Laurie,  by  which  the  poet  was 
prevented  from  going  to  Jamaica,  and  had 
his  steps  turned  towards  Edinburgh  : — 

"I  ought  to  have  acknowledged  your 
favour  long  ago,  not  only  as  a testimony  of 
your  kind  remembrance,  but  as  it  gave  me 
an  opportunity  of  sharing  one  of  the  finest, 
and  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  genuine  enter- 
tainments of  which  the  human  mind  is 
susceptible.  A number  of  avocations  retarded 
my  progress  in  reading  the  poems ; at  last, 
however;  I have  finished  that  pleasing  perusal. 
Many  instances  have  I seen  of  Nature’s 
force  or  beneficence  exerted  under  numerous 
and  formidable  disadvantages;  but  none 
equal  to  that  with  which  you  have  been  kind 
enough  to  present  me.  There  is  a pathos 
and  delicacy  in  his  serious  poems,  a vein  of 
wit  and  humour  in  those  of  a more  festive 
turn,  which  cannot  be  too  much  admired, 
nor  too  warmly  approved;  and  I think  I 
shall  never  open  the  book  without  feeling 
my  astonishment  renewed  and  increased.  It 
was  my  wish  to  have  expressed  my  approba- 
tion in  verse;  but  whether  from  declining 
life,  or  a temporary  depression  of  spirits,  it 
is  at  present  out  of  my  power  to  accomplish 
that  intention. 

" Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of  Morals  in  this 
university,  had  formerly  read  me  three  of  the 
poems,  and  I had  desired  him  to  get  my 
name  inserted  among  the  subscribers;  but 
w hether  this  was  done  or  not,  I never  could 
learn.  I have  little  intercourse  with  Dr. 
Blair,  but  will  take  care  to  have  the  poems 
communicated  to  him  by  the  intervention  of 
some  mutual  friend.  It  has  been  told  me 
by  a gentleman,  to  whom  I showed  the  per- 
formances, and  who  sought  a copy  with 
diligence  and  ardour,  that  the  whole  impres- 
sion is  already  exhausted.  It  wrcre,  therefore, 
much  to  be  wished,  for  the  sake  of  the  young 
man,  that  a second  edition,  more  numerous 
than  the  former,  could  immediately  be 
printed;  as  it  appears  certain  that  its  in- 
trinsic merit,  and  the  exertion  of  the 
author’s  friends,  might  give  it  a more  uni- 
versal circulation  than  anything  of  the  kind 
which  has  been  published  in  eur  memory  * 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


451 


Page  38,  Note  54. — Mr.  Dalziel  was 
employed  by  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  in  the 
capacity  of  steward  to  his  estates,  and  was 
located  in  Ayrshire,  in  the  estate  called 
Finlayston,  belonging  to  that  nobleman. 

Page  38,  Note  55. — Mr.  Cunningham, 
in  his  account  of  this  period,  in  the  poet’s 
career,  has  given  the  following  por'  raiture  of 
him  : — “ After  his  return  to  Edinburgh,  he 
seemed  for  some  days,  as  in  earlie  < life,  un- 
fitted with  an  aim,  and  wandered  about, 
looking  down  from  Arthur’s  seat  surveying 
the  palace,  gazing  at  the  castle,  or  contem- 
plating the  windows  of  the  bookseller’s 
shops,  wherein  he  saw  all  works  save  the 
poems  of  the  ploughman  of  Ayrshire.  He 
picked  his  way  to  the  solitary  tomb  of  Fer- 
gusson,  and  kissed  the  sod  as  he  knelt  down ; 
he  sought  out  the  house  of  Allan  Ramsay, 
and  on  entering  it,  took  off  his  hat ; and 
when,  subsequently,  he  was  introduced  to 
Creech,  the  bibliopole  remembered  that  he 
had  before  heard  of  his  inquiring  whether 
this  had  been  the  shop  of  the  author  of  the 
Gentle  Shepherd. 

Page  38,  Note  56. — The  following  are 
the  lines  in  question  : — 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concern*, 

I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 

A ne’er-to-be-forgotten  day, 

Sae  far  I sprackled  up  the  br&e, 

I dinner’d  wi’  a lord. 

I’ve  been  at  drunken  writer’s  feasts. 

Nay,  been  bitch-fou’d  ’mang  gadly  priests, 
Wi’  rev’rence  be  it  spoken: — 

I’ve  even  joined  the  honour’d  jorum. 
When  mighty  squireships  of  the  quorum, 
Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

But  wi’  a Lord  ! stand  out  my  shin ! 

A Lord  ! a Peer ! a true  Earl’s  son ! 

Up  higher  yet  my  bonnet ! 

And  sic  a Lord — lang  Scotch  ells  twa. 

Our  Peerage  he  o’erlooks  them  a*. 

As  I look  o’er  my  sonnet. 

But,  oh ! for  Hogarth’s  magic  pow’r ! 

To  show  Sir  Bardy’s  willyart  glovr’r, 

And  how  he  star’d  and  stammer’d, 
When  goavan,  as  if  led  wi’  branks. 

And  stumpin’  on  his  ploughman  shanks. 
He  in  the  parlour  hammer’d. 

I gliding  shelter’d  in  a nook. 

And  at  his  Lordship  steal ’t  a look. 

Like  some  portentous  omen  : 
Except  good  sense  and  social  glee. 

And  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 

I marked  nought  uncommon. 


I watch’d  the  symptoms  o’  the  great. 

The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state. 

The  arrogi.it  assuming: 

The  fient  a pride,  nae  pride  had  he. 

Nor  sauce,  nor  state,  that  I could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 

Then  from  his  Lordship  I shall  learn. 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 
One  rank  as  well’s  another; 

Nae  honest  worthy  man  need  care. 

To  meet  with  noble  youthful  Daeb* 

For  he  but  meets  a brother. 

The  nobleman  alluded  to  in  these  lines,  was,  as 
has  been  noticed,  Basil  Lord  Daer,  the  eldest 
son  and  heir  of  Dunbar  Earl  of  Selkirk. 
Imbued  with  the  equalising  notions  of  the 
French  Revolution,  from  the  seat  of  which 
he  had  but  very  recently  returned,  he  was 
free  from  all  the  absurd  affectation  of  sim- 
plicity and  hypocritical  pretence  of  equality, 
and  was  as  truly  simple  in  his  manners  and 
appearance,  as  genuinely  courteous  to  his 
inferiors  in  rank,  and  as  unostentatiously 
benevolent,  as  his  heart  was  sound,  and  his 
judgment  untainted  and  unbiassed.  His 
early  death,  on  the  5th  of  November,  1794, 
was  sincerely  lamented  by  the  many  of  the 
humble,  yet  meritorious  associates  whom  he 
had  rescued  from  undeserved  obscurity. 
Lord  Daer  was  only  31  years  of  age  when 
he  died. 

Page  39,  Note  57. — Dr.  Currie  had  seen 
and  conversed  with  Burns. 

Page  — , Note  58. — Refer  to  note  59, 
the  number  58  having  been  omitted  in  the 
corrections. 

Page  41,  Note  59. — There  is  some  want  of 
preciseness  about  this  date.  Gilbert  Burns 
seems  to  have  been  under  the  impression 
that  the  real  date  should  have  been  rendered 
1789-90,  whilst  others  amongst  the  biogra- 
phers, &c.,  who  furnish  us  with  material  re- 
lating to  the  poet,  prefer  to  render  the  date 
as  1787-88.  I believe,  from  other  documents, 
that  the  date  is  correctly  rendered  in  the  text, 
and  from  some  scraps  of  memoranda  derived 
originally  from  Dr.  Mackenzie  through  Mr. 
Bland,  I should  say  that  the  matter  was 
beyond  a doubt. — [Ed.] 

Page  41,  Note  60. — The  reader  is  re- 
ferred from  this  quotation  to  the  **  General 
Correspondence  of  Burns”  in  the  foregoing 
part  of  this  volume,  under  the  date  of  Feb. 
14,  1791.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  context 
furnished  by.  other  letters  of  an  approximate 
date,  throw  much  light  on  this  period  in 
his  life. 

Page  41,  Note  61. — The  recollection! 
of  Mr.  John  Richmond  writei  ii  Mauch* 

40* 


*60 


NOTES  Td  THE 


line,  respecting  Burns’s  arrival,  and  the 
earlier  period  of  his  residence,  in  Edinburgh, 
are  curious.  Mr.  Richmond,  who  had  been, 
brought  up  in  the  office  of  a country  writer, 
and  was  now  perfecting  his  studies  in  that 
of  a metropolitan  practitioner, . occupied  a 
room  in  the  house  of  a Mrs.  Carfrae,  in 
Baxter’s  Close,  Lawnmarket,  at  the  rent  of 
three  shillings  a-week.  Hrs  circumstances 
as  a youth  just  entering  the  world  made 
him  willing  to  share  his  apartment  and  bed 
with  any  agreeable  companion,  who  might 
be  disposed  to  take  part  in  the  expense. 
These  terms  suited  his  old  Mauchline  ac- 
quaintance, Burns,  who  accordingly  lived 
with  him  in  Mrs.  Carfrae’s  from  his  arrival 
in  November  till  his  leaving  town  in  May, 
on  his  southern  excursions.  Mr.  Richmond 
mentions  that  the  poet  was  so  knocked  up 
by  his  walk  from  Mauchline  to  Edinburgh, 
that  he  could  not  leave  his  room  for  the 
next  two  days.  During  the  whole  time  of 
his  residence  there,  his  habits  were  tempe- 
rate and  regular.  Much  of  his  time  was 
necessarily  occupied  in  preparing  his  poems 
for  the  press — a task  in  which,  as  far  as 
transcription  was  concerned,  Mr.  Richmond 
aided  him,  when  not  engaged  in  his  own 
office  duties.  Burns,  though  frequently 
invited  out  into  company,  usually  returned 
at  good  hours,  and  went  soberly  to  bed, 
where  he  would  prevail  upon  his  companion, 
by  little  bribes,  to  read  to  him  till  he  fell 
asleep.  Mr.  Lockhart  draws  an  unfavour- 
able inference  from  hi3  afterwards  removing 
to  the  house  of  his  friend  Nicol ; but  for 
this  removal  Mr.  Richmond  supplies  a 
reason  which  exculpates  the  bard.  During 
Burns’s  absence  in  the  south  and  at  Mauch- 
line, Mr.  Richmond  took  in  another  fellow- 
lodger  ; so  that,  when  the  poet  came  back, 
and  applied  for  re-admission  to  Mrs. 
Carfrae’s  humble  menage,  he  found  his 
place  filled  up,  and  was  compelled  to  go 
jslsewhere. 

The  exterior  of  Burns  for  some  time  after 
his  arrival  in  Edinburgh,  was  little  superior 
to  that  of  his  rustic  compeers.  “What  a 
clod-hopper  ! ” was  the  descriptive  exclama- 
tion of  a lady,  to  whom  he  was  abruptly 
pointed  out  one  day  in  the  Lawnmarket.  In 
the  course  of  a few  weeks  he  got  into  com- 
paratively fashionable  attire — a blue  coat 
with  metal  buttons,  a yellow  and  blue 
stripped  vest  (being  the  livery  of  Mr.  Fox), 
a pan  of  buckskins,  so  tight  thSit  he  seemed 
to  have  grown  into  them,  and  top-boots, 
meeting  the  buckskins  under  the  knee. 
His  neckcloth  of  white  cambric,  was  neatly 
arranged,  and  his  whole  appearance  was 


clean  and  respectable,  though  the  taste  in 
which  he  was  dressed  was  still  obviously  * 
rustic  taste. 

Though  his  habits  during  the  winter  of 
1786  -7  were,  upon  the  whole,  good,  he  was 
not  altogether  exempt  from  the  baccha- 
nalianism  which  at  this  period  reigned  in 
Edinburgh.  Mr..  William  Nicol  of  the 
High  School,  and  Mr.  John  Gray,  city-clerk, 
were  amongst  his  most  intimate  convivial 
friends.  Nicol  lived  in  the  top  of  a house 
over  what  is  called  Buccleuch  Pend,  in  the 
lowest  floor  of  which  there  was  a tavern, 
kept  by  a certain  Lucky  Pringle,  having  & 
back  entry  from  the  pend,  through  which 
visitors  could  be  admitted,  unwotted  of  by  a 
censorious  world.  There  Burns  was  much 
with  Nicol,  both  before  and  after  his  taking 
up  his  abode  in  that  gentleman’s  house. 
He  also  attended  pretty  frequently  the 
meetings  of  the  Crochallan  Fencibles,  at  their 
howff  in  the  Anchor  Close;  and  of  Johnnie 
Dowie’s  tavern,  in  Libberton’s  Wynd,  he 
was  a frequent  visitor.  Mr.  Alexander 
Cunningham,  jeweller,  and  Mr.  Robert 
Cleghorn,  farmer  at  Saughton  Mills,  may  be 
said  to  complete  the  list  of  Rurns’s  convivial 
acquaintance  in  Edinburgh.  The  intimacy 
he  formed  with  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie,  then  a 
young  writer’s  apprentice,  appears  to  have 
been  of  a different  character. 

Page  41,  Note  62. — Mr.  Dalrymple  of 
Orangefield,  and  the  Honourable  Henry 
Erskine,  may  be  mentioned  as  individuals 
who  exerted  themselves  in  behalf  of  Burns, 
immediately  after  his  arrival  in  Edinburgh. 
Dr.  Adam  Fergusson,  author  of  the  History 
of  the  Roman  Republic,  may  also  be  added 
to  Dr.  Currie’s  list  of  his  literary  and 
philosophical  patrons.  At  the  house  of  the 
latter  gentleman.  Sir  Walter  Scott  met  with 
Burns,  of  whom  he  has  given  his  recollec- 
tions in  the  following  letter  to  Mr. 
Lockhart : — 

“As  for  Burns,  I may  truly  say,  Fir- 
gilium  vidi  tantum.  I was  a lad  of  fifteen  in 
1786-7,  when  he  came  first  to  Edinburgh, 
but  had  sense  and  feeling  enough  to  be 
much  interested  in  his  poetry,  and  would 
have  given  the  world  to  know  him ; but  I 
had  very  little  acquaintance  with  any  literary 
people,  and  still  less  with  the  gentry  of  the 
west  country,  the  two  sets  whom  he  most 
frequented.  Mr.  T.  Grierson  was  at  that 
time  a clerk  of  my  father’s.  He  knew 
Burns,  and  promised  to  ask  him  to  his 
lodgings  to  dinner,  but  had  no  opportunity 
to  keep  his  word ; otherwise  I might  have 
seen  more  of  this  distinguished  man.  As  it 
waa,  I saw  him  one  ’ay  at  the  late  ven®« 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


46! 


rable  Professor  Fergusson’s,  where  there  were 
several  gentlemen  x>f  literary  reputation, 
among  whom  I remember  the  celebrated 
Mr.  Dugald  Stewart.  Of  course  we  young- 
sters sat  silent,  looked  and  listened.  The 
only  thing  I remember  which  was  remark- 
able in  Burns’s  manner,  was  the  effect 
produced  upon  him  by  a print  of  Bunbury’s, 
representing  a soldier  lying  dead  on  the  snow, 
his  dog  sitting  in  misery  on  one  side 
— on  the  other,  his  widow,  with  a child  in 
her  arm3.  These  lines  were  written  be- 
neath : — 

* Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Minden’s  plain, 
Perhaps  that  parent  wept  her  soldier  slain — 
Bent  o’er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew. 
The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he 
drew. 

Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years. 

The  child  of  misery  baptised  in  tears.* 

Burns  seemed  much  affected  by  the  print,  or 
rather  the  ideas  which  it  suggested  to  his 
mind.  He  actually  shed  tears.  He  asked 
whose  the  lines  were,  and  it  chanced  that 
nobody  but  myself  remembered  that  they 
occur  in  a half-forgotten  poem  of  Langhorne’s, 
called  by  the  unpromising  title  of  ‘The 
Justice  of  Peace.*  I whispered  my  informa- 
tion to  a friend  present,  who  mentioned  it  to 
Burns,  who  rewarded  me  with  a look  and  a 
word,  which,  though  in  mere  civility,  I then 
received,  and  still  recollect,  with  great  plea- 
sure. His  person  wras  strong  and  robust; 
his  manners  rustic,  not  clownish ; a sort  of 
dignified  plainness  and  simplicity,  which 
received  part  of  its  effect,  perhaps,  from  one’s 
knowledge  of  his  extraordinary  talents.  His 
features  are  represented  in  Mr.  Nasmyth’s 
picture ; but  to  me  it  conveys  the  idea  that 
they  are  diminished,  as  if  seen  in  perspective 
I think  his  countenance  was  more  massive 
than  it  looks  in  any  of  the  portraits.  I would 
have  taken  the  poet,  had  I not  known  what 
he  was,  for  a very  sagacious  ..country  farmer 
of  the  old  Scotch  school ; that  is.  none  of 
your  modern  agriculturists,  who  keep 
labourers  for  their  drudgery,  but  the  douce 
guidman  who  held  his  own  plough.  There 
was  a strong  expression  of  sense  and  shrewd- 
ness in  all  his  lineaments;  the  eye  alone,  I 
think,  indicated  the  poetical  character  and 
temperament.  It  was  large,  and  of  a cast, 
which  glowed  (I  say  literally  glowed ) when 
he  spoke  with  feeling  or  interest.  I never 
saw  such  another  eye  in  a human  head, 
though  I have  seen  the  most  distinguished 
men  of  my  time.  His  conversation  expressed 
perfect  self-confidence,  without  the  slightest 
presumption.  Among  the  men  who  were 


the  most  learned  of  their  time  and  country, 
he  expressed  himself  with  perfect  firmness* 
but  without  the  least  intrusive  forwardness ; 
and  when  he  differed  in  opinion,  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  express  it  firmly,  yet,  at  the  same 
time,  with  modesty.  I do  not  remember 
any  part  of  his  conversation  distinctly  enough 
to  quote  it ; nor  did  I ever  see  him  again, 
except  in  the  street,  where  he  did  not  recog- 
nise me,  as  I could  not  expect  he  should. 
He  was  much  caressed  in  Edinburgh,  but 
(considering  what  literary  emoluments  have 
been  raised  since  his  day)  the  efforts  made 
for  his  relief  were  extremely  trifling.  I 
remember,  on  this  occasion  I mention,  I 
thought  Burns’s  acquaintance  with  English 
poetry  was  rather  limited,  and  also,  that 
having  twenty  times  the  abilities  of  Allan 
Ramsay  and  of  Fergusson,  he  talked  of  them 
with  too  much  humility  as  his  models  : there 
was,  doubtless,  national  predilection  in  his 
estimate.  This  is  all  I can  tell  you  about 
Burns.  I have  only  to  add,  that  his  dress 
corresponded  with  his  manner.  He  was  like 
a farmer  dressed  in  his  best  to  dine  with  the 
laird.  I do  not  speak  in  malam  partem , 
when  I say  I never  saw  a man  in  company 
with  his  superiors  in  station  and  information, 
more  perfectly  free  from  either  the  reality  or 
the  affectation  of  embarrassment.  I was 
told,  but  did  not  observe  it,  that  his  address 
to  females  was  extremely  deferential,  and 
always  with  a turn  either  to  the  pathetic  or 
humorous,  which  engaged  their  attention 
particularly.  I have  heard  the  late  Duchess 
of  Gordon  remark  this.  I do  not  know  any* 
thing  I can  add  to  these  recollections  of  forty 
years  since.” 

Page  41,  Note  63. — Jane  Duchess  of 
Gordon,  so  remarkable  in  her  time,  was  one 
amongst  the  most  striking  personages  of  his 
acquaintance. 

Page  42,  Note  64. — It  was  by  the  Earl 
of  Glencairn,  or  through  his  instrumentality, 
that  Mr.  W.  Creech,  the  bookseller,  was 
introduced  to  Burns.  Mi  Creech  had 
traveled  on  the  continent,  in  the  character 
oFuitor  and  companion  to  the  young  noble- 
man, and  the  latter  had  in  view  the  produc- 
tion of  a new  edition  of  Burns’s  works  when 
he  effected  the  introduction.  The  Earl  did 
not  long  survive.  He  died  in  the  prime  of 
life  (at  the  age  of  42  years),  on  the  30th  of 
January,  1791,  at  Falmouth. 

Page  44,  Note  65. — The  second  edition 
of  the  poems  came  out  in  April,  1787 — a 
handsome  octavo,  price  five  shillings  to  sub- 
scribers, and  one  shilling  more  to  others. 
Above  2,800  copies  had  been  bespoke  by 
rather  more  than  1,500  subscribers,*  tha 


462 


NOTES  TO  THE 


Caledonian  Hunt  taki.tg  100  copies,  Creech 
500,  the  Earl  of  Eglinton  42,  the  Duchess 
of  Gordon,  21,  the  Earl  of  Glencairn  and  his 
Countess  24,  while  many  other  individuals 
subscribed  for  numbers  ranging  between  two 
and  twelve.  The  number  of  names  of  nobility 
and  gentry  is  very  surprising,  the  rest  being 
chiefly  persons  in  the  middle  walks  of  life, 
from  all  districts,  however,  of  Scotland.  The 
list  has  now  some  historical  value,  as  a 
chronicle  of  the  society  of  the  day. 

The  new  edition  of  his  poems  was  embel- 
lished by  a portrait  of  himself,  engraved  by 
Beugo,  from  a painting  by  Alexander  Na- 
smyth. The  engraver,  who,  to  his  honour 
be  it  said,  did  his  work  gratuitously,  improved 
upon  the  original  portrait  by  a few  sittings 
Irorn  the  bard ; and  his  production  is  allowed 
to  be  the  most  faithful  likeness  of  Burns  in 
existence. 

Page  45,  Note  66. — After  seeing  this 
remark  in  print.  Dr.  Somerville  never  punned 
more.  He  was  the  author  of  two  substan- 
tial works  on  the  history  of  England  between 
the  Restoration  and  the  accession  of  the 
Brunswick  dynasty,  fie  died,  May  16, 1830, 
at  the  age  of  ninety  years,  sixty-four  of 
which  had  been  passed  in  the  clerical  pro- 
fession. A son  of  Dr.  Somerville  is  husband 
to  a lady  distinguished  in  the  scientific  world. 

Page  46,  Note  67. — “Burns  returned  to 
Mauchline  on  the  8th  of  June.  It  is  pleasing 
to  imagine  the  delight  with  which  he  must 
have  been  received  by  his  family  after  an 
absence  of  six  months,  in  which  his  fortunes 
and  prospects  had  undergone  so  wonderful  a 
change.  He  left  them  comparatively  un- 
known, his  ten  derest  feelings  torn  and 
wounded  by  the  conduct  of  the  Armours, 
and  in  such  a wretched  state  of  utter  indi- 
gence, as  to  be  compelled  to  lurk  about  from 
hiding-place  to  hiding-place  to  escape  the 
officers,  whose  pursuit  was  unabated,  and  on 
account  of  a very  inconsiderable  claim  against 
him.  He  returned ; his  poetical  fame  esta- 
blished ; the  whole  country  ringing  with  his 
praises,  from  a capital  in  which  he  was  k^own 
to  have  formed  the  wonder  and  delig  hi  fcf 
the  polite  and  learned ; if  not  rich,  yet  with 
more  money  already  than  any  of  his  kindred 
had  ever  hoped  to  see  him  possess,  and  with 
prospects  of  future  patronage  and  permanent 
elevation  in  the  scale  of  society,  which  might 
have  dazzled  steadier  eyes  than  those  of  ma- 
ternal and  fraternal  affection.  The  prophet 
had  at  last  honour  in  his  own  country,  but 
the  haughty  spirit  which  had  preserved  its 
balance  at  Edinburgh  was  not  likely  to  lose 
it  at  Mauchline ; and  we  have  him  writing 

“avid  clay  biggie,”  oe  the  18th  of  July, 


in  terms  as  strongly  expressive  as  any  that 
ever  emanated  from  his  pen;  ol  that  jealous 
pride  which  formed  the  groundwork  of  his 
character,  the  dark  suspiciousness  of  fortune 
which  the  subsequent  course  of  his  history  too 
well  justified;  that  nervous  intolerance  of 
condescension,  and  consummate  scorn  of 
meanness,  which  attended  and  characterised 
him  through  life,  and  made  the  study  of  his 
species,  for  which  nature  had  endowed  him 
with  such  peculiar  qualifications,  the  source 
of  more  pain  than  was  ever  counterbalanced 
by  the  requisite  capacity  for  enjoyment  with 
which  he  was  also  endowed.  There  are  few 
of  his  letters  in  which  more  of  the  dark 
abodes  and  secret  lurking  places  of  his  spirit 
are  made  manifest : — “ I never,”  says  he., 
“my  friend,  dreamt  that  mankind  were  capa- 
ble of  anything  very  lofty  or  generous  ; but 
the  stateliness  of  the  patricians  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  the  servility  of  my  own  plebeian 
brethren  (who,  perhaps,  formerly  eyed  me 
askance),  since  I returned  home,  have  almost 
put  me  out  of  conceit  altogether  of  my 
species.  I have  bought  a pocket-Milton, 
which  I carry  continually  about  me,  in  order 
to  study  the  sentiments,  the  dauntless  mag- 
nanimity, the  intrepid,  unyielding  independ- 
ence, the  desperate  daring,  and  noble  defiance 
of  hardship  in  that  great  personage,  Satan. 
The  many  ties  of  acquaintance  or  friendship 
I have,  or  think  I have  in  life,  I have  felt 
along  the  lines,  and,  damn  them;  they  are 
almost  all  of  them  of  such  frail  texture,  that 
I am  sure  they  would  not  stand  the  breath 
of  the  least  adverse  breeze  of  fortune.”— 
Lockhart. 

Page  46,  Note  68. — This  person  was 
Mr.  James  Smith,  a former  resident  ct 
Mauchline,  but  who,  at  the  period  in  que»« 
tion,  had  removed  to  Linlithgow. 

Page  46,  Note  69. — All  three  of  these 
are  the  titles  of  popular  Scottish  songs. 
They  were  all  collated  with  the  assistance  of 
Burns,  and  published  in  the  shape  of  a 
monthly  periodical.  Burns  used  to  delight 
in  reverting  to  the  praise  of  Tullochgorum, 
as  a most  genuine  specimen  of  Scottish 
minstrelsy;  and  this  song  had  been  attributed 
to  various  authors,  but  was  the  work  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Skinner. 

Page  47,  Note  70. — Here  would  be  suffi- 
cient evidence  that  up  to  this  time  Burna 
was  legally,  and  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
an  unmarried  man,  although  much  against 
his  own  inclination,  and  his  repeated  entrea- 
ts ^ to  the  inexorable  Armours.  The  penance 
to  vliich  he  had  submitted,  of  itself  entitled 
him  to  a certificate  of  single  blessedness ; 
which,  indeed,  was  offered  by  the  officiating 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


403 


minister.  But  hexe  have  we  in  a letter  ad- 
dressed to  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton,  and  bearing 
date  from  Edinburgh,  January  7th,  1787, 
some  additional  and  conclusive  evidence  on 
the  subject. 

“To  tell  the  truth,”  says  Burns,  “amongst 
friends,  I feel  a miserable  blank  in  my  heart 
with  the  want  of  her  (that  is  Jean  Armour), 
and  I don’t  think  I shall  ever  meet  with  so 
delicious  an  armful  again.  She  has  her 
faults ; but  so  have  you  and  I,  and  so  has 
everybody  else. 

* Their  tricks  and  craft  have  put  me  daft: — 
They’ve  taen  me  in  and  a’  that ; 

But  clear  the  decks,  and  here’s  the  sex, 

I loe  the  jads  for  a’  that! 

For  a’  that  and^a’  that. 

And  twice  as  muckle’s  a’  that.* 

[Part  wanting.'] 

“I  have  met,”  he  proceeds,  with  a very 
pretty  lass,  a Lothian  farmer’s  daughter, 
whom  I have  almost  persuaded  to  accompany 
me  to  the  west  country,  should  I ever  return 
to  settle  there.  By  the  bye,  a Lothian  far- 
mer is  about  an  Ayrshire  squire  of  the  lower 
kind  ; and  I had  a most  exquisite  ride  from 
Leith  to  her  house  yesternight,  in  a hackney 
coach,  with  her  brother  and  two  sisters,  and 
brother’s  wife.  We  had  dined  altogether  at 
a common  friend’s  house  in  Leith,  and  drank, 
danced,  and  sang,  till  late  enough.  The 
night  was  dark,  the  claret  had  been  good, 

and  I thirsty  .”  Hence,  at  all  events, 

it  is  not  only  evident  that  Burns  considered 
himself  free,  but  that  he  did  so  much  against 
his  own  inclination.  The  supposition  that 
the  Armours  could,  according  to  Scotch  law, 
which  recognised  a promise  as  an  actual 
marriage,  have  enforced  the  legal  observation 
of  all  the  duties  incumbent  upon  a husband, 
is  completely  refuted  by  the  performance  of 
the  public  penance  at  their  own  instance, 
and  by  which  all  contract  between  the  parties 
was  as  legally  annulled,  and  by  the  persecu- 
tion which  Jean  Armour’s  friends  instituted 
against  Burns,  to  render  the  alienation  irre- 
vocable. At  any  rate,  at  this  period  there 
there  was  a tacit  consent  of  all  parties  that 
either  or  both  should  be  considered  free. 

Page  47,  Note  71. — Hr.  Adair  has  been 
dead  many  years. 

Page  47,  N<T!rE  72. — A reference  to 
Burns’s  own  account  of  his  wanderings, 
which  may  be  gathered  from  the  letters  of 
this  period,  will  serve  to  explain  the  matter 
more  fully.  The  Jacobitism  of  Burns  was 
the  offspring  of  pure  national  pride  and 
national  tradition.  The  Stuarts  were  Scots, 
<uk1  Scots  who,  in  the  earlier  days  of  their 


dynasty,  had  reflected  some  glory  upor  tbn 
land  of  their  birth,  and  contributed  some, 
share  to  her  songs,  above  all.  Their  degene- 
racy was,  by  the  way ; — the  degradation  of 
more  recent  Stuarts  could  not  obliterate  the 
charm  which  the  patriotic  enthusiasm  wsa 
apt  to  fling  about  their  very  weaknesses.  It 
is,  however,  well  known  that  the  same  senti- 
ment of  opposition  which  fed  upon  the  name 
of  Stuart,  in  Burns,  gradually  verged  to  the 
greater  extreme  of  republicanism,  as  this 
charm  faded  before  his  imagination.  The 
following  remarks,  quoted  as  they  are  from 
the  memoranda  of  a former  editor,  will  serve 
to  furnish  some  additional  elucidation.  “It 
was  probably  at  this  time  that  certain  ob- 
noxious stanzas  of  notoriety  were  written  on 
a pane  of  glass  in  the  apartment  occupied 
by  the  poet  *nd  his  friend : — 

‘Here  Stuarts  once  in  triumph  reigned. 

And  laws  for  Scotia’s  weal  ordained ; 

But  now  unroofed  their  palace  stands. 

Their  sceptre’s  swayed  by  other  hands. 

The  injured  Stuart  line  is  gone, 

A race  outlandish  fills  the  throne— 

An  idiot  race,  to  honour  lost : 

Who  know  them  best,  despise  them  most.* 

These  lines  have  usually  been  attributed  to 
Burns,  notwithstanding  an  obvious  want  of 
that  peculiar  concentration  and  emphasis 
which  he  gave  to  all  his  effusions.  A writer 
in  the  Paisley  Magazine,  December,  1828, 
gives  the  following  more  satisfactory  ac- 
count of  them,  involving  circumstances 
which  reflect  the  brightest  lustre  on  the 
character  of  the  Ayrshire  poet  : — ‘ They 
were  not,’  says  this  writer,  ‘the  composi- 
tion of  Burns,  but  of  his  friend  Nicol.  This 
we  state,’  he  continues,  ‘ from  the  testimony 
of  those  who  themselves  knew  the  fact  as  it 
truly  stood,  and  who  were  well  acquainted 
with  the  high-wrought  feelings  of  honour 
and  friendship  which  induced  Burns  to  re- 
main silent  under  the  obloquy  which  their 
affiliation  entailed  upon  him.  * * * The  in- 
dividual whose  attention  they  first  attracted 
was  a clerk  in  the  employment  of  the  Carron 
Iron  Company,  then  travelling  through  the 
country  collecting  accounts,  or  receiving 
orders,  who  happened  to  arrive  immediately 
after  the  departure  of  the  poet  and  his 
friend.  * * * On  inquiry  he  learned  that 
the  last  occupant  of  the  apartment  was  the 
far-famed  Burns,  and  on  this  discovery 
he  immediately  transferred  a copy  of  them 
to  hi3  memorandum-book  of  orders,  made 
every  person  as  wise  as  himself  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  penned  an  answer  to  them,  which, 
with  the  lines  themselves,  soon  spread 


464 


NOTES  TO  THE 


over  the  country,  and  found  a place  in 
tvery  periodical  of  the  day.  To  this  poetic 
ertic  of  the  Carron  Works  do  we  owe  the 
first  hint  of  Burns  being  the  author  of  this 
tavern  effusion.  They  who  saw  the  writing 
on  the  glass  know  that  it  was  not  the  hand- 
writing of  the  poet ; but  this  critic,  who 
knew  neither  his  autograph  nor  his  person, 
chose  to  consider  it  as  such,  and  so  an- 
nounced it  to  the  world.  On  his  return  to 
Stirling,  Burns  was  both  irritated  and 
grieved  to  find  that  this  idle  and  mischiev- 
ous tale  had  been  so  widely  spread  and  so 
generally  believed.  The  reason  of  the  cold 
and  constrained  reception  he  met  with  from 
some  distinguished  friends,  which  at  the  time 
he  6ould  not  occount  for,  was  now  explained, 
and  he  felt  in  all  its  bitterness  the  misery 
of  being  innocently  blamed  with  a thing 
which  he  despised  as  unworthy  of  his  head 
and  heart.  To  disavow  the  authorship  was 
to  draw  down  popular  indignation  on  the 
head  of  Nicol — a storm  which  would  have 
anihilated  him.  Rather  than  ruin  the 
interests  of  that  friend,  he  generously  and 
magnanimously,  or,  as  some  less  fervent 
mind  may  think,  foolishly,  devoted  him- 
self to  unmerited  obloquy,  by  remaining 
silent,  and  suffering  the  story  to  circulate 
uncontradicted.  The  friend  who  was  with 
Burns  when  he  indignantly  smashed  the 
obnoxious  pane  with  the  butt  end  of  his 
whip,  and  who  was  perfectly  aware  of  the 
whole  circumstances  as  they  really  stood, 
long  and  earnestly  pleaded  with  him  to  con- 
tradict the  story  that  had  got  wind,  and 
iujured  him  so  much  in  public  estimation. 
* * * It  was  with  a smile  of  peculiar 

melancholy  that  Burns  made  this  noble  and 

characteristic  reply.  ‘ I know, , I am 

not  the  author;  but  I’ll  be  damned  ere  I 
betray  the  author.  It  would  ruin  him — he 
is  my  friend.’  It  is  unnecessary  to  add, 
that  to  this  resolution  he  ever  after  remained 
firm.  ” 

Page  47,  Note  73. — The  Mrs.  Hamilton 
here  alluded  to,  was  the  mother  of  Mr. 
Gavin  Hamilton,  of  Mauchline,  the  constant 
correspondent  of  Burns. 

Page  48,  Note  74. — Mrs.  Bruce  was 
somewhat  mistaken  about  her  family  dignity; 
as  the  common  ancestor  of  all  the  Bruces  of 
Stirlingshire,  Clackmannanshire,  and  Fife,  is 
only  known  to  have  been  a relation  of  David 
II.,  and  has  never  been  supposed  to  stand 
higher  in  genealogy  than  as  a descendant  of  a 
younger  brother  of  the  father  of  K ing  Robert. 
The  main  line  of  the  Clackmannan  family,  the 
head  of  the  name  in  Scotland,  became  extinct 
in  the  person  of  Henry  Bruce,  the  husband 


of  this  old  lady,  and  is  now  represented  by 
the  Earl  of  Elgin,  in  whose  house  of  Broom- 
"Hall  the  sword  and  helmet  of  the  heroic  king 
are  yet  preserved.  Mrs.  Katherine  Bruce, 
daughter  of  Mr.  Bruce  of  Newton,  and 
widow  of  Henry  Bruce  of  Clackmannan,  died 
November  4,  1791,  at  the  age  of  ninety-five. 
There  is  an  interesting  portrait  of  her,  taken 
in  1777,  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  R.  Scott 
Moncrieff,  of  Edinburgh. 

Page  48,  Note  75. — The  bard  Broca 
was  no  longer  living  at  this  period : he  died 
a few  years  before  at  an  early  age. 

Page  48,  Note  76. — To  Dr.  Currie  alone 
we  are  indebted  for  this  contribution ; it  ia 
extracted  from  a letter  addressed  to  himself 
by  Dr.  Adair. 

Page  49,  Note  77. — This  reasoning 
might  be  extended,  with  some  modification, 
to  objects  of  sight  of  every  kind.  To  have 
formed  beforehand  a distinct  picture  in  the 
mind,  of  any  interesting  person  or  thing, 
generally  lessens  the  pleasure  of  the  first 
meeting  with  them.  Though  this  picture  be 
not  superior,  or  even  equal  to  the  reality, 
still  it  can  never  be  expected  to  be  an  exact 
resemblance;  and  the  disappointment  felt  at 
finding  the  object  something  different  from 
what  was  expected,  interrupts  and  diminishea 
the  emotions  that  would  otherwise  be  pro- 
duced. In  such  cases,  the  second  or  third 
interview  gives  more  pleasure  than  the  first. 
— See  the  Elements  of  the  Philosophy  of  the 
Human  Mind,  by  Mr.  Stewart , p.  484.  Such 
publications  as  The  Guide  to  the  Lakes, 
where  every  scene  is  described  in  the  most 
minute  manner,  and  sometimes  with  consi- 
derable exaggeration  of  language,  are  in  thi9 
point  of  view  objectionable. 

Page  49,  Note  78. — This  young  lady, 
subsequently  married  to  Dr.  Adair,  was  Misa 
Katherine  Hamilton,  sister  to  the  poet’a 
intimate  friend,  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton. 

Page  49,  Note  79. — Amongst  others,  in 
the  lines  entitled  “Lines  on  scaring  some 
water-fowl  in  Loch  Turit ; ” of  the  date  of 
these,  however,  there  is  some  doubt,  for 
there  is  more  reason  to  attribute  them  to  a 
previous  visit  to  the  Highlands.  If  this 
conjecture  be  correct,  they  were  probably 
written  on  the  occasion  of  the  poet’s  visit  to 
Ochtertyre,  in  Perthshire,  (as  it  is  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity  of  this  place  that  Loch- 
Turit  is  situated),  in  the  month  of  June. 
Allusions  and  descriptions  of  a similar  nature 
are  to  be  found  in  the  “lines  written  with  a 
pencil,  standing  by  the  Fall  of  Fyers,”  and 
in  those  “ Written  at  an  Inn  at  Kenmore.” 

Page  50,  Note  80. — Such  an  account 
would  have  been  most  applicable,  as  regardi 


LIFE  OF  .BURNS. 


the  first  introduction  of  the  poet  into  high 
socitty.  But  in  the  winter  which  preceded 
this  period,  he  had  been  the  lion  of  the  best 
•ociety  of  Edinburgh. 

Page  50,  Note  81. — The  humble  petition 
of  Bruar  Water. 

Page  50,  Note  82. — This  account  is 
derived  from  a letter  addressed  by  Mr. 
Walker  to  Mr.  Cunningham  ; and  it  is  to 
the  latter  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  this, 
as  well  as  for  so  many  other  interesting  par- 
ticulars relating  to  Burns,  The  letter  in 
question  is  dated  from  Perth,  October  24th, 
1797. 

Page  50,  Note  83. — This  gentleman,  as 
is  well  known,  held  an  important  office  in 
the  administration  of  William  Pitt,  and  was 
subsequently  raised  to  the  peerage  by  the 
title  of  Lord  Melville.  At  this  time  he  was 
better  known  as  the  Rt.  Hon.  Henry  Dundas. 

Page  51,  Note  84. — Such  is  the  pur- 
port of  a letter  addressed  to  Dr.  Currie,  by 
Dr.  Couper  of  Focahbers ; and  it  is  to  the 
former  that  we  are  immediately  indebted  for 
this  contribution. 

Page  51,  Note  85. — The  measure  in 
which  these  lines  are  composed,  was  intended 
to  accomodate  them  to  Burns’  very  favourite 
Scotch  air  of  Morag. 

Page  51,  Note  86. — The  subjoined  par- 
ticulars, published  by  Mr.  Lockhart,  may  be 
of  some  interest  in  respect  of  this  period  of 
our  Biography.  “ At  this  time  the  publica- 
tion called  Johnson's  Musical  Museum  was 
conducted  at  Edinburgh,  and  the  Editor 
appears  to  have  early  prevailed  upon  Burns  to 
afford  him  his  assistance  in  the  arrangement 
of  his  material.”  [This,  indeed,  is  evident 
from  the  letters  addressed  by  Burns  himself 
to  his  different  friends,  which  will  be  found 
amongst  his  correspondence  of  this  period, 
and  in  which  he  mentions  the  earnest  interest 
which  he  was  taking  in  the  publication,  and 
the  request  of  its  editor  that  he  should 
do  so.]  “ Though  Green  grow  the  Rashes  O ! 
is  the  only  song  which  is  entirely  his  (Burns), 
and  which  appears  in  the  first  volume,  pub- 
lished in  1787,  many  of  the  old  ballads 
included  in  that  volume  bear  traces  of  his 
hand.”  [Had  Mr.  Lockhart  exanined  a 
little  more  closely,  or,  had  he  possessed  the 
material  which  has  since  fallen  into  our 
hands,  he  would  have  discovered  that  there 
are,  at  least,  three  more  of  which  no  earthly 
trace  could  be  found,  save  in  the  handiwork 
of  the  Ayrshire  Bard;  and  that  the  majority, 
even  the  work  of  his  favourite  Skinner,  had 
received  additions  and  touches  from  his  hand. 
At  any  rate,  it  was  a very  pardonable  mis- 
representation; tor,  it  must  be  confessed, 
H H 


469 

that  the  collection  is,  perhaps,  onh  the  more 
meritorious  for  his  contributions.]  “ But  in 
the  second  volume,”  continues  Mr.  Lockhart, 
“ which  appeared  in  March  1788,  we  find 
no  fewer  than  five  songs  by  Burns : — two 
that  have  been  already  mentioned  ( Clarinda , 
and  How  pleasant  the  Banks  of  the  clear 
winding  Devon),  and  three  far  better  than 
them,  namely,  Theniel  Menzie's  Bonny 
Mary,  that  grand  lyric  which  runs  as 
follows : — 

Farewell  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong. 
The  wretch’s  destiny ; — 

Macpherson’s  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows’  tree, — 

both  of  which  performances  bespeak  the 
recent  impressions  of  his  highland  visit,— 
and,  lastly.  Whistle,  and  I will  come  to  thee , 
my  lad.  Burns  had  been,  from  his  youth 
upwards,  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  the  old 
minstrelsy  and  music  of  his  country;  but 
he  now  studied  both  subjects  with  far  better 
opportunities  and  appliances  than  he  could 
have  commanded  previously  ; and  it  is  from 
this  time  that  we  may  date  his  ambition  to 
transmit  his  own  poetry  to  posterity,  in 
eternal  association  with  those  exquisite  airs, 
which  had  hitherto,  in  far  too  many  in- 
stances, been  coupled  to  verses  which  did 
not  deserve  to  be  immortal.  It  is  very  well 
known  that  from  this  time  Burns  com- 
posed very  few  pieces  but  songs ; and 
whether  we  ought  or  ought  not,  to  regret 
that  such  was  the  case,  must  wholly  depend 
upon  the  estimate  which  we  make  of  his 
songs  as  compared  with  his  other  poems  :— 
a point  on  which  critics  are  to  this  hour 
divided,  and  on  which  neither  they,  nor 
their  descendants  or  successors,  are  very 
likely  to  agree.  Mr.  Walker,  who  is  one  of 
those  who  lament  Burns’s  comparative 
dereliction  of  the  species  of  composition 
which  he  most  cultivated  in  the  early  days 
of  his  inspiration,  suggests,  very  sensibly, 
that  if  Burns  had  not  taken  to  song- writing, 
he  would  probably  have  written  little  or 
nothing,  amidst  the  various  temptations  to 
company  and  dissipation  which  now,  and 
from  this  time  forward  surrounded  him,— 
to  say  nothing  of  the  active  duties  of  life 
in  which  he  was  at  length  about  to  be 
engaged  ” — Lockhart.  To  this  Mr.  Lock- 
hart might  have  added,  or  Mr.  Walker 
might  have  suggested,  the  peculiarly  i sstless 
and  desultory  nature  of  his  disposition,  which 
having  been  harrassed  and  rendered  more 
constantly  unsettled  by  a series  of  succes- 
I sive  disappointments,  vexations,  embarras 
' ments,  &c.,  forbad  the  'engthened  pursuit  of 


466 


NOTES  TO  THE 


any  large  subject,  And  which  rendered  verse 
a kind  of  safety  valve  wheieby  the  ebulli- 
tion of  vexation,  sorrow,  or  excitement  of 
any  kind  found  vent,  and  in  which  the 
brilliancy  of  a momentary  flash  of  imagery 
found  life  and  light  like  a passing  meteor. 
[Ed] 

Page  51,  Note  87. — Burns  was  occupy- 
ing apartments  in  the  house,  or  rather 
chambers  of  Mr.  William  Cruikshanks,  one 
of  the  masters  of  the  high  school.  The 
portion  in  which  Burns  resided  overlooked 
the  enclosure  in  the  rear  of  the  Register 
House.  The  house  was  at  that  time  called 
No.  2,  St.  James’s  Square,  (since  No.  30,) 
and  it  was  the  top  story  which  was  in  the 
occupation  of  Mr.  C.  It  was  in  the  month 
of  December  of  this  year  (1787)  that  Burns 
first  met  and  became  acquainted  with  the 
celebrated  Clarinda  (Mrs.  Mac  Lehose)  at 
a tea  party  in  the  house  of  Miss  Nimno 
(of  some  literary  celebrity)  in  Allison’s 
Square,  Potter  Row.  Mrs.  Mac  Lehose, 
whose  personal  beauty,  amiable  disposition, 
and  remarkable  taste  and  intelligence  made 
to  deep  an  impression  upon  the  poet,  was 
at  this  time  (and  had  so  been  since  the  deser- 
tion of  her  husband,  who  had  betaken  him- 
self to  the  West  Indies  in  quest  of  fortune), 
residing  with  her  young  children  in  Edin- 
burgh upon  very  limited  means,  chiefly 
supplied  by  the  friends  or  members  of  her 
own  family.  The  charms  of  her  person 
and  conversation,  added  to  the  peculiar 
interest  of  her  story,  which  involved  the 
tender  chord  of  unhappy  attachment,  at 
once  wrought  upon  Burns,  and  one  of  those 
peculiar  intimacies  sprung  up  between  them, 
which  could  only  be  understood  by  persons 
of  equally  refined  sensibilities  and  purity  ol 
principle.  The  correspondence  between  them 
was  thenceforward  almost  as  ardent  as  it 
was  constant  and  innocent,  as  may  be 
gathered  from  the  letters  included  in  the 
correspondence  of  the  poet.  It  has  been 
said  that  the  publication  of  Mrs.  Mac 
Lehose’s  letters  to  Burns,  and  of  those  of 
Burns  to  her,  was  to  be  regretted,  and  was 
to  be  attributed  to  the  indiscretion  of  her 
friends.  It  does  not  at  all  appear  that  she 
was  opposed  to  their  publication  after  her 
death,  nor  could  any  thing  serve  to  reflect 
higher  honour  upon  her  than  the  contents 
of  this  reciprocal  correspondence. 

Page  52,  Note  88. — The  commencement 
of  this  lyric  piece  was  subsequently  intro- 
duced into  the  Chevallier's  Lament,  and  the 
lines  so  introduced  are  remarkable  for  the 
magnificence  of  their  imagery. 

FjlGE  52,  Note  89. — Mr.  Raraaay  vas 


an  enthusiastic  student  of  the  classics,  and 
had  his  house  and  grounds  garnished 
thickly  with  passages  of  ancient  wisdom.  It 
is  necessary  to  distinguish  his  house,  situated 
near  Stirling,  from  Ochteryre  near  Crieff, 
the  seat  of  Sir  William  Munay,  where  Burns 
was  also  entertained.  Mi.  Ramsay  died 
at  his  house  of  Ochtertyre,  March  2,  1814. 

Page  52,  Note  90. — Extract  of  a letter 
from  Mr.  Ramsay  to  Dr.  Currie.  This 
incorrigibility  of  Burns  extended,  however, 
only  to  his  poems  printed  before  he  arrived 
in  Edinburgh;  for,  in  regard  to  his  un- 
published poems,  he  was  amenable  to  criti- 
cism, of  which  many  proofs  might  be 
given. 

Page  52,  Note  91. — Patrick  Miller, 
Esq.,  had  realised,  as  a banker  in  Edinburgh, 
the  means  of  purchasing  the  estate  of  Dals- 
winton  on  the  Nith.  He  was  a man  of 
enlightened  mind,  and  much  mechanical  inge- 
nuity, the  latter  of  which  qualities  he  dis- 
played in  the  invention  of  a vessel  propelled 
by  paddled  wheels,  to  which,  at  the  sugges- 
tion of  his  children’s  preceptor,  Mr.  Taylor, 
the  steam  engine  was  afterwards  applied,  so 
that  he  was  enabled  to  make  the  first  ascer- 
tained exemplification  of  steam  navigation 
upon  a small  lake  near  his  house,  in  October 
1788.  Some  discouraging  circumstances, 
unconnected  with  the  invention,  were  the 
sole  means  of  preventing  him  from  bringing 
it  into  practical  operation — an  honour 
which  was  reserved  for  the  American 
Fulton.  Mr.  Miller  died,  December  9th, 
1815. 

Page  52,  Note  92. — Mr.  Heron  state® 
that  the  peet’s  appointment  to  the  excise 
was  owing  to  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Alexander 
Wood,  surgeon,  (affectionately  remembered 
in  Edinburgh  by  the  appellation  of  Sandy 
Wood),  who  having,  while  in  attendance 
on  Burns  for  his  bruised  limb,  heard  him 
express  his  wishes,  waited  on  Mr.  Graham, 
of  Fintry,  one  of  the  commissioners,  by 
whom  the  name  of  the  poet  was  immediatly 
put  upon  the  roll. 

Page  53,  Note  93. — The  Edinburgh 
Magazine  for  June  1799,  contains  the  follow- 
ing statement,  apparently  from  authority 
“ Sir.  Miller  offered  Mr.  Burns  the  choice 
of  several  farms  on  the  estate  of  Dalswinton, 
which  were  at  that  time  out  of  lease.  Mr. 
Burns  gave  the  preference  to  the  farm  of 
Ellisland,  most  charmingly  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nith,  containing  upwards  of  a 
hundred  acres  of  most  excellent  land”  (this 
must  be  taken  with  a deduction),  “then 
worth  a rent  of  from  eighty  to  a hundred 
pound*.  M.\  Miller,  liter  showing  Mr. 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


457 


Bums  what  the  farm  cost  him  to  a farthing, 
allowed  him  to  fix  the  rental  himself,  and 
the  endurance  of  the  lease.  A lease  was 
accordingly  given  to  the  poet  on  his  own 
terms,  namely,  for  fifty-seven  years,  at  the 
very  low  rent  of  fifty  pounds.  And,  in  addi- 
tion to  this,  when  Mr.  Burns  signed  the  tack, 
Mr.  Miller  presented  him  with  two  hundred 
pounds,  to  enable  him  to  enclose  and  im- 
prove his  farm.  It  is  usual  to  allow  tenants 
a year’s  rent  for  this  purpose,  but  the  sum 
Mr.  Miller  gave  him  was  at  least  four  years’ 
rent.  Mr.  Miller  has  since  sold  the  farm  to 
John  M’Morrine,  Esq.,  at  nineteen  hundred 
pounds,  leaving  to  himself  seven  acres  on 
the  Dalswinton  side  of  the  river.”  Mr. 
Lockhart,  on  the  other  hand,  states  that  the 
lease  was  for  four  successive  terms,  of  nine- 
teen years  each,  at  fifty  pounds  for  the 
first  three  years’  crops,  and  seventy  for  all 
the  rest;  Mr.  Miller  giving  three  hundred 
pounds  to  renew  the  farm-house  and  offices, 
and  agreeing  to  defray  the  expense  of  any 
plantations  which  Burns  might  make  oil  the 
banks  of  the  river. 

Page  54,  Note  94. — In  apposite  illus- 
tration of  the  feelings  roused  by  this  cir- 
cumstance, we  have  the  following  lines 
which  celebrate  the  moment. 

I hae  a wife  o’  my  ain. 

I’ll  partake  wi’  nae-body; 

I’ll  tak  cuckold  frae  nane. 

I’ll  gie  cuckold  to  nae-body. 

I hae  a penny  to  spend. 

There ! — thanks  to  nae-body ; 

I hae  nae-thing  to  lend. 

I’ll  borrow  frae  nae-body. 

I am  nae-body’s  lord. 

I’ll  be  slave  to  nae-body ; 

I hae  a guid  braid  sword. 

I’ll  tak  dunts  frae  nae-body. 

I’ll  be  merry  and  free. 

I’ll  be  sad  for  nae-body; 

If  nae-body  care  for  me. 

I’ll  care  for  nae-body. 

Page  54,  Note  95. — The  poem  of  The 
Whistle  celebrates  a bacchanalian  contest 
among  three  gentlemen  of  Nithsdale,  where 
Burns  appears  as  umpire.  Mr.  Riddel  died 
before  our  bard,  who  wrote  some  elegiac 
verses  to  his  memory,  entitled.  Sonnet  on 
the  Death  of  Robert  Riddel.  From  him, 
and  from  all  the  members  of  his  family. 
Burns  received  not  kindness  only,  but  friend- 
■hip ; and  the  society  he  met  in  general  at 
Friar’s  Carse  was  calculated  to  improve  his 
habits  as  well  as  his  manners.  Mr.  Fergus- 


son,  of  Craigdarroch,  so  w ell  known  f<  n*  his 
eloquence  and  social  talen  ts,  fell  a victim  to 
an  accidental  injury  occasioned  by  a fall  from 
his  chaise,  according  to  some,  after  the  death 
of  Burns,  but  more  authentically,  three 
months  before  that  event,  viz.,  in  the  month 
of  March,  1796.  Sir  Robert  Laurie,  the 
third  person  in  the  drama,  has  since  been 
engaged  in  contests  of  a bloodier  nature, 
and  outlived  the  last  century. 

Page  54,  Note  96. — Respecting  Burns’s 
appointment  to  the  Excise,  Mr.  W.  Nicol 
wrote  in  the  following  terms  to  Mr.  R. 
Ainslie,  from  Edinburgh,  August  13,  1790: 
— “ As  to  Burns,  poor  folks,  like  you  and  I, 
must  resign  all  thoughts  of  future  corres- 
pondence with  him.  To  the  priJe  of  ap- 
plauded genius  is  now  superadded  ihe  pride 
of  office.  He  was  lately  raised  to  the  dignity 
of  an  Examiner  of  Excise,  which  is  a step 
preparative  to  attaining  that  of  a Supervisor. 
Therefore,  we  can  expect  no  less  than  that 
his  language  will  become  perfectly  Horatian 
— ‘ odi  profauum  vulgus  et  arceo.’  However, 
I will  see  him  in  a fortnight  hence,  and  if  I 
find  that  Beelzebub  has  inflated  his  heart, 
like  a bladder,  with  pride,  and  given  it  the 
fullest  distension  that  vanity  can  eftect,  you 
and  I will  burn  him  in  effigy,  and  write  a 
satire,  as  bitter  as  gall  and  wormwood 
against  government  for  employing  its  enemies , 
like  Lord  North,  to  effect  its  purposes. 
This  will  be  taking  all  the  revenge  in  our 
power.” 

Page  55,  Note  97. — Some  misapprehen- 
sion, perhaps,  exists  with  respect  to  Burns’9 
qualifications  for  ordinary  business.  The 
real  state  of  the  case  we  take  to  have  been 
this:  that  Burns  disliked  the  drudgery  of 
common  worldly  affairs,  but  was  by  no  means 
deficient  in  the  sagacity,  observation,  and 
perseverance  required  from  a man  of  the 
world.  Colonel  Fullerton  has  paid  him  a 
compliment  on  a farmer-like  piece  of  acumen 
in  a note  to  his  View  of  Agriculture  in 
Ayrshire,  1793  : — “In  order,”  he  says,  “to 
prevent  the  danger  arising  from  horned 
cattle  in  studs  and  straw-yards,  the  best 
mode  is  to  cut  out  the  budding  knob,  or 
root  of  the  horn,  while  the  calf  is  very  young 
This  was  suggested  to  me  by  Mr.  Robert 
Burns,  whose  general  talents  are  no  less 
conspicuous  than  the  poetic  powers  which 
have  done  so  much  honour  to  the  county 
where  he  was  born.” 

Page  55,  Note  98. — This  bowl  waa 
made  of  the  stone  of  which  Inverary  Housa 
is  built,  the  mansion  of  the  family  of  Argyle* 
The  stone  is  the  lapis  ollaris.  The  punch- 
bowl passed  through  the  bands  of  Ml 


NOTES  TO  THE 


468 

Alexander  Cunningham,  jeweller,  in  Edin- 
burgh, to  those  of  Mr.  Hastie,  present 
representative  of  Paisley  in  parliament,  who 
is  said  to  have  refused  three  hundred  guineas 
for  it — a sum  that  would  have  set  the  poet 
on  his  legs  for  ever. 

Page  56,  Note  99. — This  ballad  begins 
with  the  following  well  penned  lines  : — 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill 
Which  rises  o’er  the  source  of  Dee, 

And  from  the  eastern  summit  shed 
Its  silver  light  on  tower  and  tree. 

Page  56,  Note  100. — Mr.  Gordon  has 
Bince  become  Lord  Viscount  Kenmure. 

Page  56,  Note  101. — A very  expressive 
Scotch  term,  which,  as  will  be  seen  in  the 
glossary,  signifies  the  brink  or  margin  of 
flowing  water. 

Page  57,  Note  102. — The  identical  Lord 
Selkirk,  of  whom  Sir  Walter  Scott  has 
furnished  us  with  a smart  and  interesting 
anecdote. 

Page  58,  Note  103. — Mr.  Chambers’s 
valuable  contributions  to  the  anecdotes  and 
traditions  relating  to  Burns,  furnish  us  with 
the  following  collectanea : — 

wMr.  Ladyman,  an  English  commercial 
traveller,  alighting  one  afternoon,  in  the  year 
1794,  at  Brownhill,  a stage  about  thirteen 
miles  from  Dumfries,  was  informed  by  the 
landlord  that  Mr.  Bums,  the  celebrated  poet, 
was  in  the  house,  arid  that  he  had  now  the 
best  possible  opportunity  of  being  introduced 
to  the  company  of  the  cleverest  man  in 
Scotland.  Mr.  Ladyman  immediately  re- 
quested the  honour  of  an  introduction,  and 
was  forthwith  shown  into  the  room  in  which 
the  bard  was  sitting  with  two  other  gentle- 
men of  the  road.  The  landlord,  who  was  a 
forward  sort  of  a man,  and  stood  upon  no 
ceremony  with  Burns,  presented  Mr.  Lady- 
man ; and  while  the  poet  rose  and  received 
the  stranger  traveller  with  that  courtesy 
which  always  marked  his  conduct  towards 
strangers,  sat  down  himself  along  with  his 
guests,  and  mixed  in  the  conversation. 

When  Mr.  Ladyman  entered  the  inn,  it 
was  about  two  o’clock.  The  poet  had  been 
drinking  since  mid-day  with  the  two  gentle- 
men, and  was  slightly  elevated  with  liquor, 
but  not  to  such  a degree  as  to  make  any 
particular  alteration  upon  his  voice  or  manner. 
He  did  not  speak  much,  or  take  any  eager 
share  in  the  conversation.  He  frequently 
leant  down  his  head  upon  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  was  silent  for  a considerable  time, 
as  if  he  had  been  suffering  bodily  pain. 
However,  when  opportunity  occurred,  he 
Vould  start  up,  and  say  something  shrewd 


or  decisive  upon  the  subject  in  agit» 
tion. 

About  an  hour  after  Mr.  Ladyman  arrived, 
dinner  was  presented,  consisting  of  beans 
and  bacon,  &c.,  of  which  the  landlord  partook, 
like  the  rest  of  the  company,  evidently  to 
the  displeasure  of  the  poet.  During  the 
course  of  the  subsequent  toddy,  Mr.  Lady- 
man ventured  to  request  of  Burns  to  let  the 
company  have  a small  specimen  of  his  poetry 
upon  any  subject  he  liked  to  think  of— ‘just 
anything,  in  short — whatever  might  come 
uppermost — doggrel  or  not/  Burns  was 
never  offended  by  any  solicitation  of  this 
sort,  when  it  was  made  in  a polite  manner, 
and  with  proper  deference  to  his  own  good 
pleasure.  In  the  present  case,  he  granted 
the  request  so  readily,  that,  almost  imme- 
diately after  Mr.  Ladyman  had  done  speaking, 
he  deliberately  uttered  the  following  lines : — 

At  Brownhill  we  always  get  dainty  good 
cheer. 

And  plenty  of  Bacon,  each  day  in  the  year ; 
We’ve  all  things  that’s  noat,  and  mostly  in 
season — 

But  why  always  Bacon  ?^-come,  give  me  a 
reason ! 

It  must  be  understood  that  Bacon  was  the 
name  of  the  landlord,  whose  habit  of  intruding 
into  all  companies  was  thus  cleverly  ridiculed. 

As  far  as  Mr.  Ladyman  can  recollect, 
Burns  pronounced  the  lines  without  the 
least  hesitation  of  voice,  and  apparently 
without  finding  any  difficulty  in  embodying 
the  thought  in  rhyme.  No  effort  seemed 
necessary.  He  happened  to  have  the  glass 
in  his  hand  at  the  time  the  request  was 
made,  and  so  trifling  was  the  exertion  of 
intellect  apparently  required,  that  he  did 
not  put  it  down  upon  the  table,  but  waited 
till  he  concluded  the  epigram,  and  then 
drank  off  his  liquor  amidst  the  roar  of  ap- 
plause that  ensued.  The  landlord  had  retired 
some  little  time  before,  otherwise  Burns 
would  not,  perhaps,  have  chosen  him  as  the 
subject  of  his  satire.  There  is  no  doubt, 
however,  that  he  would  see  and  hear  enough 
of  it  afterwards  : for  Burns,  at  the  earnest 
entreaties  of  the  company,  immediately  com- 
mitted it  to  the  breath  of  Fame,  by  writing 
it  upon  one  of  the  panes  in  the  window 
behind  his  chair. — Extract  from  an  early 
M.S.  note-book. 

The  acquaintance  which  Burns  maintained 
with  a considerable  number  of  the  gentry  of 
his  neighbourhood,  was  not  favourable  to 
him.  They  frequently  sec  t him  game  from 
their  estates,  and  disdained  not  to  come  to 
his  house  to  partake  of  it.  The  large  quan« 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


469 


Cities  of  rum  which  flowed  into  his  stores 
gratuitously,  in  consequence  of  seizures,  as 
was  then  the  custom,  were  also  injurious. 
Yet,  as  far  as  circumstances  left  him  to  his 
own  inclinations,  he  was  a man  of  simple,  as 
well  as  kindly  domestic  habits.  As  he  was 
often  detained  by  company  irorn  tne  dinner  i 
provided  for  him  by  his  wife,  she  sometimes, 
on  a conjecture  of  his  probable  absence, 
w ould  not  prepare  that  meal  for  him.  When 
he  chanced  to  come  home  and  find  no  dinner 
ready,  he  was  never  in  the  least  troubled  or 
irritated,  but  would  address  himself  with 
the  greatest  cheerfulness  to  any  succeda- 
neum  that  could  be  readily  set  before  him. 
They  generally  had  abundance  of  good  Dun- 
lop cheese,  sent  to  them  by  their  Ayrshire 
friends.  The  poet  would  sit  down  to  that 
wholesome  fare,  with  bread  and  butter,  and 
his  book  by  his  side,  aud  seem,  to  any  casual 
visitor,  such  as  Miss  Lewars,  as  happy  as  a 
courtier  at  the  feast  of  kings. 

He  was  always  anxious  that  his  wife 
should  have  a neat  and  genteel  appearance. 
In  consequence,  as  she  alleged,  of  the  duties 
of  nursing  and  attending  to  her  infants,  she 
could  not  help  being  sometimes  a little  slo- 
venly. Burns  disliked  this,  and  not  only 
remonstrated  against  it  in  a gentle  way,  but 
did  the  utmost  that  in  him  lay  to  counteract 
it,  by  buying  for  her  the  best  clothes  he 
could  afford.  Any  little  novelty  in  female 
dress  was  almost  sure  to  meet  with  patronage 
from  Burns — all  with  the  aim  of  keeping  up 

• spirit  for  neat  dressing  in  his  wife.  She 
was,  for  instance,  one  of  the  first  persons  in 
Dumfries  who  appeared  in  a dress  of  ging- 
ham— a stuff  now  common  to  all,  but,  at  its 
first  introduction,  rather  costly,  and  almost 
exclusively  used  by  persons  of  superior  con- 
dition.” 

Page  58,  Note  104. — Mr.  Lockhart 
enters  into  a long  discussion  of  the  poet’s 
political  sentiments,  and  the  nature  of  the 
circumstances  here  alluded  to.  He  leaves 
the  whole  matter  in  a state  of  doubt,  for 
which,  we  think,  there  is  no  just  occasion. 
Burns  unquestionably  felt  as  a zealous  par- 
tisan of  the  French  Revolution.  A mind  so 
generous  and  upright  as  his  could  have  taken 
no  other  course.  That  such  was  the  case, 
his  " Vision”  at  Lincluden  College,  his  In- 
scription for  an  altar  of  Independence,  ami 
his  Tree  of  Liberty,  introduced  into  the  pre- 
sent edition  of  his  poems,  are  sufficient  proof  : 
more  may  be  found  in  some  specimens  of  an 
unpublished  poem  given  by  Mr.  Cunning- 
ha  vn  ; — 

* Why  should  we  idly  waste  our  prime 

Repeating  cur  oppressions  ? 


Come,  rouse  to  arms,  ’tis  now  the  time 
To  punish  past  transgressions. 

’Tis  said  that  kings  can  do  no  wrong — • 

Their  murderous  deeds  deny  it ; 

And,  since  from  us  their  power  is  sprung. 
We  have  a right  to  try  it. 
i i\ow  eacn  true,  patriot’s  song  shall  be, 
Welcome  death  or  libertie. 

* * • 

Proud  bishops  next  we  will  translate, 

Among  priest-crafted  martyrs ; 

The  guillotine  on  peers  shall  wait. 

And  knights  shall  hang  in  garters ; 

Those  despots  long  have  trod  us  down*, 

And  judges  are  their  engines — 

Such  wretched  minions  of  a crown 
Demand  the  people’s  vengeance. 

* * * 

The  golden  age  we’ll  then  revive, 

Each  man  will  be  a brother; 

In  harmony  we  all  shall  live, 
i And  share  the  earth  together. 

In  virtue  trained,  enlightened  youth 
Will  love  each  fellow-creature; 

And  future  years  shall  prove  the  truth 
That  man  is  good  by  nature. 

Then  let  us  toast,  with  three  times  three. 
The  reign  of  peace  aud  libertie.” 

A lady  with  whom  a recent  editor  of 
Burns’s  works,  once  conversed,  remembered 
being  present  in  the  theatre  of  Dumfries, 
during  the  heat  of  the  French  Revolution, 
on  which  occasion,  the  poet,  somewhat  heated 
with  liquor,  entered  the  pit.  Upon  the 
orchestra,  striking  up  the  national  anthem, 
the  company,  and  audience  of  the  theatre 
rose,  with  the  single  exception  of  Burns, 
who  loudly  shouted  ga  ira.  An  uproar 
ensued,  and  the  poet  was  obliged  to  leave 
the  theatre.  The  apologists  of  the  govern- 
ment who,  say  what  they  will,  neglected 
and  slighted  the  purest  genius  of  his  age, 
make  escapades  of  this  nature  their  excuse. 
They  attempt,  however,  to  adduce  the 
testimony  of  Mr.  Alexander  Findlater,  the 
officer  under  whom"  Burns  served  in  the 
Excise,  to  show  that  the  most  harmless  re- 
buke only,  was  levelled  at  the  unruly  and 
independent  spirit  of  the  bard.  However 
this  may  be,  his  promotion  was  very  much 
retarded,  although  it  is  admitted  that 
ultimately  it  was  not  prevented. 

Page  59,  Note  105. — Mr.  Lockhart  has 
favoured  us  with  a most  interesting  anecdote 
respecting  the  elfect  of  the  political  opinions 
of  Burns  upon  his  social  position.  To  the 
shame  of  the  Scottish  Whiggism  he  it  re- 
corded. “ Mr.  David  Maculloch,  a son  of 
the  Laird  of  Ardweli,  has  told  me  that  hi 


470 


HOTES  TO  THE 


was  seldom  more  grieved,  than  when  riding 
into  Dumfries  one  fine  summer’s  evening,  to 
attend  a county  ball,  he  saw  Burns  walking 
alone,  on  the  shady  side  of  the  principal 
street  of  the  town,  while  the  opposite  part 
was  gay  with  successive  groups  of  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  all  drawn  together  for  the  festi- 
vities of  the  night,  not  one  of  whom  appeared 
willing  to  recognise  him.  The  horseman 
dismounted  and  joined  Burns,  who,  on  his 
proposing  to  him  to  cross  the  street,  said, 
‘Nay,  nay,  my  young  friend — that’s  all  over 
bow;’  and  quoted,  after  a pause,  some  verses 
of  Lady  Grizzel  Bailiie’s  pathetic  ballad : — 

‘His  bonnet  stood  mice  fu’  fair  on  his  brow, 

His  auld  ane  look’d  better  than  mony 
ane’s  new ; 

But  now  he  lets’t  wear  ony  way  it  will  hing, 

And  casts  himsel  dowie  upon  the  corn-bing. 

Oh  were  we  young,  as  we  ance  hae  been. 

We  should  hue  been  galloping  doun  on  yon 
green. 

And  linking  it  ower  the  lily-white  lea — 

And  werena  my  heart  light  I wad  die  * 

It  was  little  in  Burns’s  character  to  let 
his  feelings  on  certain  subjects  escape  in  this 
fashion.  He  immediately,  after  citmg  these 
verses,  assumed  the  sprightliness  of  his  most 
pleasing  manner;  and,  taking  his  young 
friend  home  with  him,  entertained  him  very 
agreeably  until  the  hour  of  the  ball  arrived, 
with  a bowl  of  his  usual  potation,  and  bon- 
n ie  Jean’s  singing  of  some  verses  which  he 
had  recently  composed.” — Lockhart. 

Page  59,  Note  106. — See  the  poem  enti- 
tled The  Dumfries  Volunteers. — Currie. 
Previous  to  one  of  the  public  meetings  of 
this  body — a regular  field-day,  which  was  to 
terminate  in  a grand  dinner — it  was  hinted  to 
the  bard  that  something  would  be  expected 
from  him  in  the  shape  of  a song  or  speech- 
tome  glowing  tribute  in  honour  of  the  patrio- 
tic cause  that  had  linked  them  together,  and 
eke  in  honour  of  the  martial  glory  of  old 
Scotland.  The  poet  said  nothing,  but  as 
silence  gives  consent, it  was  generally  expected 
that  he  would  share  them  on  the  occasion  of 
ehe  approaching  festival  with  another  lyric 
or  energetic  oration.  The  day  at  length 
arrived ; dinner  came  and  passed,  and  the 
usual  loyal  toasts  were  drunk  with  all  the 
honours.  Now  came  the  poet’s  turn  ; every 
eye  wa3  fixed  upon  him,  and,  slowly  lifting 
his  glass,  he  stood  up  and  looked  around 
him  with  an  arch,  indescribable  expression  of 
countenance,  ‘ Gentlemen,’  said  he,  ' may 
we  never  see  the  French,  nor  the  French  see 
wtl’  The  toast  fell  like  a 'wet  blanket,*  as 


Moore  says,  on  the  hopes  of  the  Yokra 
teers. 

' Is  that  a’?’  they  muttered  one  to  anothar 
dropping  down  to  their  seats — to  use  the 
words  of  my  informant,  who  was  present^- 
'like  so  many  old  wives  at  a field- preaching; 

' Is  that  the  grand  speech  or  fine  poem  that 
we  were  to  have  from  him  ? — but  we  could 
hae  expected  nae  better !’  Not  a few,  how- 
ever, 'raxed  their  jaw 3,’  as  the  Ettrick  Shep- 
herd says,  at  the  homely  truth  and  humour 
of  the  poet’s  sentiment,  heightened  by  the 
first  rueful  aspect  cf  the  company  > and,  long 
after,  in  his  jovial  moments.  Burns  used  to 
delight  in  telling  how  he  had  cheated  the 
volunteers  of  Dumfries.” — R.  Carruthers, 
in  the  Edinburgh  Literary  Journal. 

Page  59,  Note  107. — These  lines  were 
published  in  the  periodical  collection  of  Scot- 
tish songs  produced  under  the  title  of  John- 
sons Musical  Museum.  They  bear  date  about 
1791,  and,  as  the  text  is  given  above,  they 
bear  the  latest  corrections  of  the  poet.  It 
is  one  of  the  best  of  Burns’s  productions, 
but  its  merit  failed  to  be  strongly  or  popu- 
larly observed  until  the  first  few  years  of  the 
present  century,  when  the  martial  glory  of 
Great  Britain  had  grown  of  more  general 
admiration,  and  had  enlisted  a more  univer- 
sal enthusiasm,  such  as  to  overwhelm  all 
minor  political  predilections.  It  is,  perhaps, 
on  account  of  this  tardy  popularity  that 
Burns  wras  readily  dissuaded  at  the  time 
from  reprinting  it  separately,  in  extenso,  with 
a new  and  appropriate  air. 

Page  61,  Note  108. — According  to  the 
current  story  which  is  generally  received  at 
Dumfries,  it  was  in  this  condition  of  intoxi- 
cation that  he  sat  down  on  the  door  step  of 
a house  on  his  way  homeward,  and  fell  fast 
asleep.  Exposed  to  the  inclemency  of  the 
season  and  night  air,  and  doubly  susceptible, 
owing  to  the  exhausted  condition  of  his  ner- 
vous system,,  and  to  the  deleterious  effect  o# 
liquor,  he  became  so  chilled  as  to  induce  a 
fatal  disorder. 

Page  61,  Note  109. — This  was  Mrs. 
Riddel,  of  Woodlee  Park. 

Page  62,  Note  110. — According  to  Mr. 
Cunningham,  Burns  expired  after  a violent 
and  convulsive  struggle,  “ rising  at  the  last 
moment,  and  springing  to  the  bottom  of  the 
bed.”  Mr.  Cunningham,  however,  it  is  ad- 
mitted, supplies  us  with  this  information  on 
hearsay.  Another  biographer  denies  the 
possibility  of  such  an  effort,  stating  that 
Burns  was  in  “ no  condition  ” (i.  e.  too  ex- 
hausted), to  have  made  such  a movement. 
Were  the  question  of  any  importance,  and 
no  better  refuted  than  by  the  possibility 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


471 


being  silled  in  question,  Mr.  Cunningham 
might  certainly  overthrow  the  denial  of  his 
statement.  But  there  is  an  account  for 
which  we  are  indebted  to  Dr.  Maxwell,  the 
medical  attendant,  who  was  at  the  bedside 
of  the  poet,  in  which  it  is  averred  that  poor 
Burns  expired  with  perfect  calmness  and  in 
apparent  consciousness,  after  some  hou*s  of 
low  muttering  delirium. 

Page  63,  Note  111. — Mr.  Whyte  is  the 
author  of  a poem  entitled  St.  Guerdon’s 
Well , and  of  the  piece  entitled  a tribute  to 
the  memory  of  Burns. 

Page  63,  Note  112. — Dr.  Currie  men- 
tions that  Burns  died  free  of  debt.  Accord- 
ing to  another  biographer,  however,  “ the 
strict  fact  that  he  owed  but  £7.  4s.  at  that 
period,  serves,  like  the  exception  with  the 
rule,  to  confirm  the  report  of  the  biogra- 
pher. It  is  also  worthy  of  notice  that  he 
left  a collection  of  books,  estimated  as  worth 
ninety-two  pounds.  The  terror  of  a jail, 
which  haunted  him  a short  while  before  his 
death,  and  afterwards  recurred  in  delirium, 
was  excited  by  a pressing  note  for  payment 
of  his  regimentals,  which  had  been  sent  to 
him  by  Mr.  David  Williamson,  a Dumfries 
shopkeeper — a person,  we  have  been  assured, 
who  never  could  have  resorted  to  any  ex- 
treme measure  with  his  illustrious  debtor. 
Five  pounds,  requested  from  and  promptly 
sent  by  Mr.  Thomson  a few  days  before  his 
death,  removed  the  cause  of  the  terror,  but 
unfortunately  did  not  obliterate  the  feeling 
which  it  had  raised.” 

Page  63,  Note  113. — This  Mr.  Stobie 
was  in  the  ordinary  service  of  the  Excise  as 
late  as  1818,  at  Pinkie  Salt  Pans.  He  is 
said  to  have  spoken  of  Burns’s  musical  ac- 
complishments in  the  following  terms : — 
“ He  sang  like  a nightingale ; but  he  had 
the  voice  of  a boar.”  The  expression  ap- 
pears contradictory ; but,  by  the  complimen- 
tary part  of  it,  he  only  understood,  in  all 
probability,  the  readiness  with  which  the 
poet  would  attune  his  voice  when  requested 
to  do  so.  [This  anecdote  has  been  told  by 
some  one  else  of  two  different  persons,  who, 
although,  they  affected  to  shun  Burns  as  a 
reprobate  whilst  living  (though  God  wot,  the 
poet  would  certainly  not  have  sought  their 
company),  were  prone  to  boast  of  him  as  an 
acquaintance  when  his  reputation  alone  re- 
mained to  hallow  and  endear  popular  recol- 
lections. I am,  therefore,  much  inclined  to 
exonerate  Mr.  Stobie  from  an  ill-natured 
remark,  which  seems  scarcely  in  accordance 
With  the  tenor  of  his  conduct.] 

Page  63,  Note  114. — The  death  of 
Burns  occurred  on  the  21st  of  July,  and  he 


lost  consciousness  as  early  as  the  16th,  from 
which  time  he  continued  almost  continually 
unconscious  and  rambling.  The  letter  from 
Mr.  Graham  could  not,  in  all  probability,  as 
cross  country  posts  went  at  that  time,  have 
been  delivered  until  the  15th,  for  it  was  only 
dated  on  the  13th. 

Page  64,  Note  115. — "During  his  resi- 
dence in  Glasgow,  a characteristic  instance 
occurred  of  the  way  in  which  he  would  re- 
press petulance  and  presumption.  A young 
man  of  some  literary  pretensions,  who  had 
newly  commenced  business  as  a bookseller, 
had  been  in  the  practice  of  writing  notices 
of  Burns’s  Poems  in  a style  so  flippant,  and 
withal  so  patronising,  as  to  excite  feelings  in 
the  poet  towards  him  ^ery  different  from 
what  he  counted  upon.  Reckoning,  however, 
upon  a very  grateful  reception  from  Burns, 
he  was  particularly  anxious  for  an  early  in- 
troduction to  his  company,  and,  as  his  friends 
knew,  had  been  at  some  pains  to  prepare 
himself  for  making  dazzling  impressions 
upon  the  Ayrshire  ploughman — as  it  was 
then  the  fashion,  anfengst  a certain  kind  of 
literary  folks,  to  call  the  poet.  At  the 
moment  the  introduction  took  place.  Burns 
was  engaged  in  one  of  his  happiest  and  most 
playful  veins  with  my  friend  and  another 
intimate  or  two ; but,  upon  the  gentleman’s 
presentation,  who  advanced  in  a manner 
sufficiently  affable,  the  'ploughman’  assumed 
an  air  of  such  dignified  coldness,  as  froze 
him  into  complete  silence  during  the  time 
he  remained  in  his  company.” — Correspond- 
ent of  the  Scotsman,  1828. 

Page  65,  Note  116. — Smellie’s  Philo- 
sophy of  Natural  History. 

Page  65,  Note  117. — The  subjoined 
passage  quoted  from  Quintilian,  Inst.  Orat. 
ii,  9,  is  appositely  parallel  to  the  sense  of 
this  observation : — An  vero  Isocrates  cum 
de  Ephoro  atque  Theopompo  sic  judicaret, 
Ut  ALTERI  FRENIS,  ALTERI  CALCARIBUS 
opus  esse  diceret ; aut  in  illo  lentiore  tar- 
ditatem,  aut  in  illo  pene  prsecipiti  con- 
citationem  adjuvandum  docendo  existimavit, 
cum  alterum  alterius  natura  miscendum 
arbitraretur?  Imbeciliis  tamen  ingeniis  sane 
sic  obsequendum  sit,  ut  tantum  in  id  quo 
vocat  natura,  ducantur.  Ita  enim,  quod 
solum  possunt,  melius  efficient.” 

Page  66,  Note  118. — The  reader  must 
not  suppose  it  is  contended,  that  the  same 
individual  could  have  excelled  in  all  these 
directions.  A certain  degree  of  instruction 
and  practice,  is  necessary  to  excellence  in 
every  one,  and  life  is  too  short  to  admit 
of  one  man,  however  great  his  talents, 
acquiring  this  i»  all  of  them.  It  is  only 


472 


NOTES  TO  THE 


« asserted,  that  the  same  talents,  differently 
applied,  might  have  succeeded  in  any  one, 
though,  perhaps,  not  equally  welt  in  each. 
And,  after  all,  this  position  requires  certain 
limitations,  which  the  reader’s  candour 
and  judgment  will  supply.  In  supposing 
that  a great  poet  might  have  made  a great 
orator,  the  physical  qualities  necessary 
to  oratory  are  pre-supposed.  Iu  supposing 
that  a great  orator  might  have  made  a great 
poet,  it  is  a necessary  condition,  that  he 
should  have  devoted  himself  to  poetry,  and 
that  he  should  have  acquired  a proficiency 
in  metrical  numbers,  which  by  patience  and 
attention  may  be  acquired,  though  the 
W'ant  of  it  has  embarrassed  and  chilled  many 
of  the  first  efforts  of  true  poetical  genius. 
In  supposing  that  Homer  might  have  led 
armies  to  victory,  more,  indeed,  is  assumed 
than  the  physical  qualities  of  a general.  To 
these  must  be  added  that  hardihood  of 
mind,  that  coolness  in  the  midst  of  difficulty 
tmd  danger,  which  great  poets  and  orators 
are  found  sometimes,  but  not  always,  to 
possess.  The  nature  of  the  institutions  of 
Greece  and  Rome  produced  more  instances 
of  single  individuals  who  excelled  in  various 
departments  of  active  and  speculative  life, 
than  occur  in  modern  Europe,  wrhere  the 
employments  of  men  are  more  subdivided. 
Many  of  the  greatest  warriors  of  antiquity 
txcelled  in  literature  and  in  oratory.  That 
they  had  the  minds  of  great  poets  also,  will 
be  admitted,  when  the  qualities  are  justly 
appreciated  which  are  necessary  to  excite, 
combine,  and  command  the  active  energies 
sf  a great  body  of  men ; to  rouse  that  en- 
thusiasm which  sustains  fatigue,  hunger,  and 
*he  inclemencies  of  the  elements,  and  which 
iriumphs  over  the  fear  of  death,  the  most 
powerful  instinct  of  our  nature. 

The  authority  of  Cicero  may  be  appealed 
to,  in  favour  of  the  close  connection  between 
the  poet  and  the  orator.  “ Est  enim 
finitimus  oratori  poeta,  numeris  adstrict'or 
paulo,  verborum  autum  licentia  liberior,” 
&c. — De  Orator,  lib.  i.  c.  16.  See  also 
hb.  iii.  c.  7.  It  is  true,  the  example  of 
Cicero  may  be  quoted  against  his  opinion. 
His  attempts  in  verse,  which  are  praised 
by  Plutarch,  do  not  seem  to  have  met  the 
approbation  of  Juvenal,  or  of  some  others. 
Cicero  probably  did  not  take  sufficient 
time  to  learn  the  art  of  the  poet ; but  that 
he  had  the  afflatus  necessary  to  poetical 
excellence,  may  be  abundantly  proved  from 
his  compositions  in  prose.  On  the  other  hand, 
nothing  is  more  clear,  than  that,  in  the 
character  of  a great  poet,  all  the  mental 
^pahties  of  an  orator  are  included.  It  is 


said  by  Quintilian,  of  Homer,  “Omr.ibiu 
eloquentiae  partibus  exemplum  et  ortum  de. 
dit.” — Lib.  i.  47.  The  study  of  Homer  is 
therefore  recommended  to  the  orator,  as  ol 
the  first  importance.  Of  the  two  sublime 
poets  in  our  own  language,  who  are  hardly 
inferior  to  Homer,  Shakspeare  and  Milton, 
a similar  recommendation  may  be  given. 
It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  mention  how 
much  an  acquaintance  with  them  has 
availed  the  great  orator  who  is  now  the 
pride  and  ornament  of  the  English  bar,  a 
character  that  may  be  appealed  to  with 
singular  propriety,  when  we  are  contending 
for  the  universality  of  genius. 

The  identity,  or  at  least  the  great  simi- 
larity, of  the  talents  necessary  to  excellence 
in  poetry,  oratory,  painting,  and  war,  will 
be  admitted  by  some  who  will  be  inclined 
to  dispute  the  extension  of  the  position 
to  science  or  natural  knowledge.  On  thig 
occasion,  I may  quote  the  following  obser- 
vations of  Sir  William  Jones,  whose  own 
example  will,  however,  far  exceed  in  weight 
the  authority  of  his  precepts  : — “ Abul  Ola 
had  so  flourishing  a reputation,  that  several 
persons  of  uncommon  genius  were  ambi- 
tious of  learning  the  art  of  poetry  from  so 
able  an  instructor.  His  most  illustrious 
scholars  were  Feleki  and  Khakani,  who  were 
no  less  eminent  for  their  Persian  composi- 
tions than  for  their  skill  in  every  branch  of 
pure  and  mixed  mathematics,  and  particu- 
larly in  astronomy — a striking  proof  that  a 
sublime  poet  may  become  master  of  any 
kind  of  learning  which  he  chooses  to 
profess ; since  a fine  imagination,  a lively 
wit,  an  easy  and  copious  style,  cannot 
possibly  obstruct  the  acquisition  of  any 
science  whatever,  but  must  necessarily 
assist  him  in  his  studies,  and  shorten  his 
labour.” — Sir  William  Jones's  Works , vol.  ii. 
p.  317. 

Page  67,  Note  119. — These  strictures 
may,  however,  be  very  considerably  extended. 
Cobbett  is  not  the  only  philosopher  who  has 
revealed  the  deleterious  properties  of  other 
stimulants,  or  of  other  productions,  which 
are,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  employed  as 
such.  There  are  a great  number  of  other 
substances  which  may  be  considered  under 
this  point  of  view — tobacco,  tea,  aud  coffee, 
are  of  the  number.  These  substances  essen- 
tially differ  from  each  other  in  their  qualities ; 
and  an  inquiry  into  the  particular  effects  of 
each  on  the  health,  morals,  and  happiness  of 
those  who  use  them,  would  be  curious  and 
useful.  The  effects  of  wine  and  of  opium  on 
the  temperament  of  sensibility,  the  editor 
intended  to  have  discussed  in  this  place  at 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


474 


some  length ; but  he  found  the  subject  too 
extensile  and  too  professional  to  be  intro- 
duced with  propriety.  The  difficulty  of 
abandoning  any  of  these  narcotics  (if  we  may 
so  term  them),  when  inclination  is  strength- 
ened by  habit,  is  well  known.  Johnson,  in 
his  distresses,  had  experienced  the  cheering 
but  treacherous  influence  of  wine,  and,  by  a 
powerful  effort,  abandoned  it.  He  was 
obliged,  however,  to  use  tea  as  a substitute, 
and  this  was  the  solace  to  which  he  con- 
stantly had  recourse  under  his  habitual 
melancholy.  The  praises  of  wine  form 
many  of  the  most  beautiful  lyrics  of  the' 
poets  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  of  modern 
Europe.  Whether  opium,  which  produces 
visions  still  more  ecstatic,  has  been  the 
theme  of  the  eastern  poets,  I do  not  know. 

Wine  is  drunk  in  small  quantities  at  a 
time,  in  company,  where,  for  a time,  it  pro- 
motes harmony  and  social  affection.  Opium 
is  swallowed  by  the  Asiatics  in  full  doses  at 
once,  and  the  inebriate  retires  to  the  solitary 
indulgence  of  his  delirious  imaginations. 
Hence,  the  wine  drinker  appears  in  a supe- 
rior light  to  the  imbiber  of  opium,  a dis- 
tinction which  he  owes  more  to  th e form 
than  to  the  quality  of  his  liquor. 

Page  68,  Note  120. — Mrs.  Riddel  of 
Woodlee  Park. 

Page  72,  Note  121. — Take,  for  instance, 
the  authors  or  collaters  of  the  Delicice  Poet- 
arum  Scotorum,  and  others. 

Page  73,  Note  122. — Lord  Karnes. 

Page  74,  Note  123. — A few  Scottish 
ballads,  attributable  to  the  last  century,  have 
been  got  together  in  the  Pepys  collection, 
but  without  clue  to  the  authorships. 

Page  74,  Note  124. — Some  strong  rea- 
sons are  assigned  by  a contributor  signing 
himself  J.  Runcole,  who  addresses  Mr. 
Ramsay  in  the  second  volume  of  The  Bee , for 
doubting  the  authenticity  of  a great  number 
of  Scottish  Songs  of  professedly  remote 
antiquity,  and  of  much  celebrity.  The  quo- 
tation cited  above,  is  extracted  from  a letter 
addressed  by  Mr.  Ramsay,  of  Ochtertyre,  to 
Dr.  Currie,  and  dated  Sept.  11th,  1799. 

Page  175,  Note  25 — Allan  Ramsay,  it 
is  said,  was  employed  in  the  capacity  of  a 
washer  of -ore,  in  the  lead  mines,  at  Lead 
Hills,  belonging  to  the  Earl  of  Hopetown. 
His  father  was,  and  had  from  his  youth, 
also  been  a workman  in  the  same  mines. 
But  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  the  limited 
hours  of  mine-labour  (only  six  per  diem,  or, 
according  to  some,  only  four),  together  with 
the  general  good  character,  sobriety,  and 
intelligence  of  the  people,  and  the  con- 
venience of  a good  library  containing  some 


thousands  of  volumes,  in  common  amongst 
| them,  contributed  to  afford  these  men  very 
; superior  opportunities  of  intellectual  im* 

1 proveraent. 

Page  75,  Note  126. — Mr.  Ramsay  of 
Ochtertyre,  writing  to  one  of  Burns’s  Bio- 
graphers, gives  the  following  account  of 
Allan  Ramsay: — “He  was  coeval  with 
Joseph  Mitchell,  and  his  club  of  small  wits, 
who,  about  1719,  published  a very  poor 
miscellany,  to  which,  Dr.  Young,  the  author 
of  Night  Thoughts,  prefixed  a copy  of 
verses.” 

Page  75,  Note  127. — The  first  line  of 
this  piece  runs  thus  : — 

“ What  beauties  does  Flora  disclose !” 

Page  75,  Note  128. — The  first  line  of 
this  piece  runs  thus 

“1  have  heard  a lilting  at  our  ewe’s  milking.* 

Page  76,  Note  129 — This  Mrs.  Cock 
burn  died  before  the  poet ; that  is,  on  th| 
22nd  of  November,  1794. 

Page  76,  Note  130. — See  the  Intro • 
duction  to  the  History  of  Po**~y  in  Scotland , 
by  T.  Campbell,  and  an  article  affording  a 
Biographical  Sketch  of  this  writer  in  the 
Supplement  to  the  Encyclopcedia  Britannica. 

Page  77,  Note  131. — Critics  and  Anti- 
quarians are  equally  divided  on  this  point. 
Mr.  Tytler  has  struggled  very  hard  to 
establish  the  genuineness  of  authorship  for 
this  piece,  whilst  Sir  D.  Dalrymple  most 
unaccountably  attributes  it  to  James  VI 
Pray,  Sir  David,  where  did  you  discover  that 
the  fifth  James  was  either  a wit  or  a poet  ? 
That  he  was  an  arrant  pedant  is  undoubtedly 
true.  But  the  first  Jame3  was  certainly  one 
of  the  best  of  poets  whom  Scotland  has  pro- 
duced. There  is  ample  evidence  of  his 
having  fathered  verses,  and  verses  of  very 
great  merit,  and  of  his  peculiar  love  of  music 
and  minstrelsy. 

Page  78,  Note  132. — This  is  the  title  of 
the  poem  selected  as  an  instance;  and  being 
rendered  into  English,  would  mean  The 
Farmer's  Fireside. 

Page  78,  Note  133. — Why  the  acute 
observation,  and  true  portraiture,  afforded  in 
this  surprising  production,  should,  upon  its 
first  appearance,  have  struck  the  higher 
orders  of  society  with  astonishment,  ia 
readily  to  be  understood.  The  circumstances 
and  position  of  the  poet,  which  effectually 
excluded  him  from  ever  having  had  an 
opportunity  of  mingling  with  any  but  the 
society  of  peasants,  seemed  to  add  the  charm 
of  inspiration,  or  of  intuitive  perception,  to 
the  accurate  delineation  of  character,  cir 


474 


NOTES  TO  THE 


curustanee,  &c.,  in  the  upper  walks  of  life. 
But,  like  all  true  and  natural  philosophers. 
Burns  saw  in  human  nature  nothing  but 
human  nature,  and  that  same  nature  bearing 
the  indelible  stamp  of  its  constitution 
identical  and  unerased,  notwithstanding  the 
small  differences  of  condition  and  circum- 
stance. The  poem,  therefore,  is  merely  a 
testimony  to  the  natural  sagacity  of  the 
poet. 

Page  79,  Note  134. — The  poet’s  “Ear- 
nest Cry  and  Prayer  to  the  Scottish  Repre- 
sentatives in  Parliament.” 

Page  79,  Note  135. — By  a “Highland 
gill,”  is  meant  a gill  of  the  native  Highland 
beverage,  namely,  whisky. 

Page  79,  Note  136. — In  English,  we 
should  express  these  terms  by  the  para- 
phrase— “ the  middle  of  the  street,  and  the 
footway.” 

Page  79,  Note  137. — In  the  piece  en- 
titled the  “ Brigs  of  Ayr.” 

Page  79,  Note  138. — As  will  be  seen  in 
the  glossary,  this  term  signifies  a messenger. 

Page  79,  Notes  139  and  140. — The 
u Dungeon  Clock”  (or  Tower  Clock)  and  the 
“Wallace  Tower,”  are  the  names  of  the 
Steeples  of  Ayr. 

Page  80,  Note  141. — This  festival  is 
still  very  popularly  observed  (or  rather,  was 
bo,  until  the  political  and  religious  agitations 
had  been  revived  of  late  years)  in  some  parts 
of  Ireland.  In  the  remote  and  aboriginal 
districts  of  North  Wales  also,  we  have 
many  instances  of  its  constant  observance. 

Page  80,  Note  142. — For  truth  and 
exactness  of  pencilling,  for  the  brightness  of 
colour,  and  for  the  delicacy  and  gentleness 
of  description,  this  passage  is  almost  un- 
rivalled. In  its  own  melting,  soft,  impressive 
monosyllabic  diction,  it  is  inimitable.  The 
bold  descriptions  of  Thomson  here  compared 
with  this  passage,  have  a ruggedness,  almost 
a harshness,  which  destroys  all  parallel;  and 
the  beautiful  lines  of  Lord  Byron,  which 
run  on  a similar  vein  of  description,  are 
wanting  in  the  naif,  inexpressible  sim- 
pl  city  of  this  passage,  as  for  instance : — 

“ ’Tis  sweet  to  hear 

At  midnight  o’er  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep 
The  song  and  oar  of  Adria’s  gondolier,”  &c. 

Page  81,  Note  143. — The  word  owrie, 
used  as  it  is  in  this  instance,  may  have  two 
interpretations,  or  may  be  saddled  with  both 
constructions  simultaneously.  Refer  also  to 
the  glossary.  In  general,  as  applied  to  cattle, 
or  to  domestic  animals,  it  signifies  such 
ns  are  left  abroad  during  the  winter  instead 
of  being  brought  home  to  the  pens,  or  sheds 


of  the  homestead.  Added  to  this,  the  word 
owrie  is  also  used  in  the  sense  of  that 
'pinched,  wretched,  shivering , drooping,  ap- 
pearance which  cattle  sometimes  present  in 
wet  and  cold  weather. 

Page  81,  Note  144. — The  word  silly  is 
not  here  to  be  understood  in  its  offensive 
sense.  It  is  very  commonly  used  by  the 
Scotch,  and  occurs  very  frequently  in  the 
poems  of  Burns,  as  a term  of  affection  and 
pity. 

Page  82,  Note  145. — It  must  be  borne 
in  mind,  that  throughout  the  portraiture  of 
the  Cotter,  there  is  an  evident  affectionate 
tracing  of  the  character,  situation,  &c.,  of 
the  poet’s  own  father — an  acceptation  which 
adds  much  poignancy  to  many  of  its 
passages. 

Page  83,  Note  146. — It  is  a peculiar 
feature  of  the  Scottish  minstrelsy  that  it 
abounds  in  dialogues  between  man  and  wife. 
To  the  labours  of  Mr.  Pinkerton,  in  his 
earnest  and  successful  pursuit  of  remote 
Scottish  literary  productions,  we  are  in- 
debted for  a multiplicity  of  parallel  passages 
in  the  songs,  as  well  as  amongst  the  un- 
polished attempts  at  comic  dramatic  writing. 
The  salient  point  of  these  pieces,  is  the  in- 
variable triumph  of  the  “ better  half  ’ in 
the  contest,  in  the  course  of  which  as  many 
caustic  things  have  been  said,  as  may  con- 
veniently be  crammed  into  a brief  conver- 
sation. 

Page  83,  Note  147. — The  subjoined  ex- 
tracts may  be  cited  as  illustrations  of  the 
question.  First  let  us  detail  the  romance  of 
a Scottish  song  of  the  early  part  of  the 
eighteenth  Century.  We  have  a Highland 
lad  wooing  a Lowland  lass  to  fly  with  him  to 
the  Highlands,  and  share  his  fare  and  fortune. 
The  scene  is  on  the  banks  of  a most  beauti- 
ful stream  (Ettric  banks),  in  the  calm  and 
stillness  of  a summer’s  evening,  and  the  ex- 
ordium of  the  tale  runs  as  follows  : — 

“ On  Ettrick  banks,  one  summer’s  night 
At  gloaming  when  the  sheep  drove  hame, 

I met  my  lassie,  braw  and  tight, 

Come  wading  barefoot  a’  her  lane  t 
My  heart  grew  light,  I ran,  I flang 
My  arms  about  her  lily  neck  ; 

And  kissed  and  clasped  her  here  fu’  lang;«— 
My  words  they  were  na  mony  feck.” 

In  another  of  these  pieces  we  have  the 
heroine  lamenting  o’er  the  sweet  recollections 
of  the  trysting  place,  and  raptured  hour. 
The  comparison  of  the  love  scene  with  the 
present,  which  quickens  the  vivid  recollection, 
is  most  apparent  in  the  contrast  between  th« 
two  subjoined  stanzas : — > 


LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


47* 


How  blytlie,  each  morn,  was  I to  a«s 
My  swain  come  o’er  the  hill ; 

He  skipt  the  burn,  and  flew  to  me : — 

I met  him  wi’  guid  will. 

• « * « 

Oh  ! the  broom, — the  bonnie,  bormie  broom. 
The  Broom  of  Cowderi-Knowes  S 
I wish  I were  with  my  dear  Swain, 

With  his  pipe,  and  my  ewes. 

Page  83,  Note  148. — That  the  dramatic 
form  of  writing  characterises  the  productions 
of  an  early,  or,  what  amounts  to  the  same 
thing,  of  a rude  stage  of  society,  may  be 
illustrated  by  a reference  to  the  most  ancient 
compositions  that  we  know  of,  the  Hebrew 
Scriptures,  and  the  writings  of  Homer.  The 
form  of  dialogue  is  adopted  in  the  old 
Scottish  ballads,  even  in  narration,  whenever 
the  situations  described  become  interesting. 
This  sometimes  produces  a very  striking 
effect,  of  which  an  instance  may  be  given 
from  the  ballad  of  Edom  o’  Gordon,  a com- 
position, apparently,  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  story  of  the  ballad  is  shortly  this : — The 
Castle  of  Rhodes,  in  the  absence  of  its  lord, 
is  attacked  by  the  robber  Edom  o’  Gordon, 
The  lady  stands  on  her  defence,  beats  off  the 
assailants,  and  wounds  Gordon,  who,  in  his 
rage,  orders  the  castle  to  be  set  on  fire. 
That  his  orders  are  carried  into  effect,  we 
learn  from  the  expostulation  of  the  lady,  who 
is  represented  as  standing  on  the  battlements, 
and  remonstrating  on  this  barbarity.  Slip  is 
interrupted : — 

“ Oh  then  bespake  her  little  son. 

Sate  on  his  nourice  knee ; 

Says,  ‘ Mither  dear,  gi’  owre  this  house. 
For  the  reek  it  smithers  me.* 

#I  wad  gie  a’  my  gowd,  my  childs, 

Sae  wad  I a’  my  fee. 

For  ane  blast  o’  the  westlin  wind. 

To  blaw  the  reek  frae  thee/  ” 

The  circumstantiality  of  the  Scottish  love- 
tongs,  and  the  dramatic  form  which  prevails 
so  generally  in  them,  probably  arises  from 
their  being  the  descendants  and  successors 
of  the  ancient  ballads.  In  the  beautiful 
modern  song  of  Mary  of  Castle-Cary,  the 
dramatic  form  has  a very  happy  effect.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  Donald  and  Flora,  and 
Come  under  my  Pladdie,  by  the  same  author. 
Mr.  MacnieL. 

Page  84,  Note  149— Mrs.  Barbauld 
has  fallen  into  an  error  in  this  respect.  In 
her  prefatory  address  to  the  works  of  Collins, 
speaking  of  the  natural  objects  that  may  be 
employed  to  give  interest  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  passion,  she  observes: — “They 
present  an  inexhaustible  variety,  from  the 


Song  of  Solomon,  breathing  of  cassia,  myrrh, 
and  cinnamon,  to  the  Gentle  Shepherd  of 
Ramsay,  whose  damsels  carry  their  milking- 
pails  through  the  frosts  and  snows  of  their 
less  genial,  but  not  less  pastoral  country.” 
The  damsels  of  Ramsay  do  not  walk  in  the 
midst  of  frost  and  snow.  Almost  all  the 
scenes  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd  are  laid  in 
the  open  air,  amidst  beautiful  natural 
objects,  and  at  the  most  genial  season  of  the 
year.  Ramsay  introduces  all  his  acts  with 
a prefatory  description  to  assure  us  of  this. 
The  fault  of  the  climate  of  Britain  is 
not,  that  it  does  not  afford  us  the  beauties 
of  summer,  but  that  the  season  of  such 
beauties  is  comparatively  short,  and  even 
uncertain.  There  are  days  and  nights,  even 
in  the  northern  division  of  the  island, 
which  equal,  or  perhaps  surpass,  what  are  to 
be  found  in  the  latitude  of  Sicily,  or  of 
Greece.  Buchanan,  when  he  wrote  his  ex- 
quisite Ode  to  May,  felt  the  charm  as  well 
as  the  transientness  of  these  happy  days 

“ Salve  fngacis  gloria  seculi. 

Salve  secunda  digna  dies  nota, 

Salve  vetustse  vitae  imago, 

Et  specimen  venientis  iEvi! 

Page  86,  Note  150. — Those  who,  primed 
with  the  statistics  of  Sir  Join.  Sinclair,  at- 
tribute the  expatriation  of  the  Scotch  to  ft 
disproportion  between  the  numerical  aggre- 
gates of  the  sexes,  seem  to  consider  the 
number  stated  in  round  figures  above,  as 
inadequate.  The  latter  proposition  is  easily 
granted,  but  the  current  joke  against 
Sawney,  seems  to  allege  some  more  probable 
and  prevailing  cause  for  the  spontaneous 
expatriation  in  question.  He  has  en- 
terprise, and  requires  a broader  field* 
and,  above  all,  more  ample  resources ; and 
those  of  his  own  country  would  be  limited 
but  for  the  adjunct  of  the  sister  realm. 
Whether,  or  not,  the  beautiful  song  of 
Burns : — 

“ Their  groves  of  sweet  myrtle,” 
be  addressed  to  these  wandering  fellow 
countrymen,  I am  fully  prepared  to 
admit  its  excellence,  and  the  probability 
that  it  will  be  read  with  as  much  admiratioa 
by  others. 

Page  89,  Note  151.— This  was  in  reply 
to  a report  which  had  come  to  the  ears  of  Dr. 
Currie,  to  the  effect  that  a violent  hurricane, 
which  actually  levelled  a portion  of  the 
cottage,  occurred  simultaneously  with  the 
birth  of  Burns. 

Page  90,  Note  152.— This  was  Mr 
Peter  Ewart,  of  Manchester,  a friend  of  Dr, 
Currie’s. 


4t& 


ADDITIONAL  NOTH  TO  TED 


Page  95,  Note  153. — The  household 
tffeets  of  Mrs.  Burns  were  sold  by  public 
Ruction  oe  the  10th  and  11th  of  April,  and 
from  the  anxiety  of  the  public  to  possess 
relics' of  this  interesting  household,  brought 
uncommonly  high  sums.  According  to  the 
Dumfries  Courier,  “ the  auctioneer  com- 
menced wjth  small  articles,  and  when  he 
came  to  a broken  copper  coffee-pot,  there  were 
so  many  bidders,  that  the  price  paid  exceeded 
twenty-fold  the  intrinsic  value.  A tea-kettle 
of  the  same  metal  succeeded,  and  reached 
£2  sterling.  Of  the  linens,  a table-cloth, 
marked  1792,  which,  speaking  commercially, 
may  be  worth  half-a-crown  or  five  shillings, 
was  knocked  down  at  £5,  7s.  Many  other 
articles  commanded  haudsome  prices,  and 
the  older  and  plainer  the  furniture,  the  better 
it  sold.  The  rusty  iron  top  of  a shower- 
bath,  which  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of  Dunlop,  sent 
to  the  poet  when  afflicted  with  rheumatism, 
wap  bought  by  a Carlisle  gentleman  for 


I £1.  8s.;  and  a low  wooden  kitchen  chair,  on 
| which  the  late  Mrs.  Burns  sat  when  nursing 
j her  children,  was  run  up  to  £3.  7s.  The 
crystal  and  china  were  much  coveted,  and 
brought,  in  most  cases,  splendid  prices. 
Even  an  old  fender  reached  a figure  which 
would  go  far  to  buy  half-a-dozen  new  ones, 
and  everything  towards  the  close  attracted 
notice,  down  to  grey-beards,  bottles,  and  a 
half-worn  pair  of  bellows.  The  poet’s  eight- 
day  clock,  made  by  a Mauchline  artist,  at- 
tracted great  attention,  from  the  circumstance 
that  it  had  frequently  been  wound  up  by  his 
own  hand.  In  a few  seconds  it  was  bid  up 
to  fifteen  pounds  or  guineas,  and  was  finally 
disposed  of  for  £35.  The  purchaser  had  a 
hard  battle  to  fight;  but  his  spirit  was  good, 
and  his  purse  obviously  not  a light  one,  and 
the  story  ran  that  he  had  instructed  Mr. 
Richardson  to  secure  a preference  at  pny 
sum  uuder  £60.” 


StftWfianiil  Jlofe, 

RELATING  TO  THE  BACHELOR’S  CLUB,  AT  TARBOLTON. 


EULES  AND  REGULATIONS. 

1st.  The  club  shall  meet  at  Tarbolton 
tvery  fourth  Monday  night,  when  a question 
on  any  subject  shall  be  proposed,  disputed 
points  of  religion  only  excepted,  in  the 
manner  hereafter  directed ; which  question 
is  to  be  debated  in  the  club,  each  member 
taking  whatever  side  he  thinks  proper. 

2nd.  When  the  club  is  met,  the  president, 
or,  he  failing,  some  one  of  the  members,  till 
he  come,  shall  take  his  seat ; then  the  other 
members  shall  seat  themselves ; those  who 
are  for  one  side  of  the  question,  on  the  pre- 
sident’s right  hand  ; and  those  who  are  for 
the  other  side,  on  his  left — which  of  them 
shall  have  the  right  hand,  is  to  be  determined 
by  the  president.  The  president  and  four 
of  the  members  being  present,  shall  have 
power  to  transact  any  ordinary  part  of  the 
society’s  business. 

3rd.  The  club  met  and  seated,  the  presi- 
dent shall  read  tie  question  out  of  the  club’s 
book  of  records  (which  book  is  always  to  be 


kept  by  the  president) ; then  the  two  mem- 
bers nearest  the  president  shall  cast  lots  who 
of  them  shall  speak  first,  and,  according  as 
the  lot  shall  determine,  the  member  nearest 
the  president  on  that  side  shall  deliver  his 
opinion,  and  the  member  nearest  on  the  other 
side  shall  reply  to  him;  then  the  second 
member  of  the  side  that  spoke  first ; then 
the  second  member  of  the  side  that  spoke 
second — and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  com- 
pany ; but  if  there  be  fewer  members  on  the 
one  side  than  on  the  other,  when  all  the 
members  of  the  least  side  have  spoken  ac- 
cording to  their  places,  any  of  them,  as  they 
please  among  themselves,  may  reply  to  the 
remaining  members  of  the  opposite  side ; 
when  both  sides  have  spoken,  the  president 
shall  give  his  opinion,  after  which,  they  may 
go  over  it  a second  or  more  times,  and  so 
continue  the  question. 

4th.  The  club  shall  then  proceed  to  the 
choice  of  a question  for  the  subject  of  the 
next  night’s  meeting.  The  president  shall  # 
first  propose  one^aud  any  other  member  wba 


LIFE  OF  BURNS.  477 


chooses  may  propose  more  questions;  and 
whatever  one  of  them  is  most  agreeable  to 
the  majority  of  the  members,  shall  be  the 
subject  of  debate  next  club-night. 

5th.  The  club  shall,  lastly,  elect  a new 
president  for  the  next  meeting;  the  president 
shall  first  name  one,  then  any  of  the  club 
may  name  another,  and  whoever  of  them 
has  the  majority  of  votes  shall  be  duly  elected 
• — allowing  the  president  the  first  vote,  and 
the  casting  vote  upon  a par,  but  none  other. 
Then,  after  a general  toast  to  the  mistresses 
of  the  club,  they  shall  dismiss. 

6th.  There  shall  be  no  private  conversa- 
tion carried  on  during  the  time  of  debate, 
nor  shall  any  member  interrupt  another 
while  he  is  speaking,  under  the  penalty  of  a 
reprimand  from  the  president  for  the  first 
fault,  doubling  hi3  share  of  the  reckoning 
for  the  second,  trebling  it  for  the  third,  and 
bo  on  in  proportion  for  every  other  fault ; 
provided  always,  however,  that  any  member 
may  speak  at  any  time  after  leave  asked  and 
given  by  the  president.  All  swearing  and 
profane  language,  and  particularly  all  obscene 
and  indecent  conversation,  is  strictly  pro- 
hibited, under  the  same  penalty,  as  aforesaid, 
in  the  first  clause  of  this  article. 

7th.  No  member,  on  any  pretence  what- 
ever, shall  mention  any  of  the  club’s  affairs 
to  any  other  person  but  a brother  member, 
under  the  pain  of  being  excluded ; and,  par- 
ticularly,, if  any  member  shall  reveal  any  of  i 
the  speeches  or  affairs  of  the  club,  with  a 
view  to  ridicule  or  laugh  at  any  ®f  the  rest 
of  the  members,  he  shall  be  for  ever  excom- 
municated from  the  society ; and  the  rest  of 
the  member*  ire  desired,  as  much  as  possible. 


to  avoid  and  have  no  coramun.^atka  w&h 
him  as  a friend  or  comrade. 

8th.  Every  member  shall  attend  at  the 
meetings,  without  he  can  give  a proper 
excuse  for  not  attending  ; and  it  is  desired 
that  every  one  who  cannot  attend,  will  send 
his  excuse  with  some  other  member;  and  he 
who  shall  be  absent  throe  meetings,  without 
sending  such  excuse,  shall  be  summoned  to 
the  club-night,  when,  if  he  fail  to  appear,  or 
send  an  excuse,  he  shall  be  excluded. 

9th.  The  club  shall  not  consist  of  mora 
than  sixteen  members,  all  bachelors,  belong* 
ing  to  the  parish  of  Tarbolton ; except  a 
brother-member  marry,  and  in  that  case  he 
may  be  continued,  if  the  majority  of  the 
club  think  proper.  No  person  shall  be  ad- 
mitted a member  of  this  society,  without 
the  unanimous  consent  of  the  club;  and  any 
member  may  withdraw  from  the  club  alto- 
gether, by  giving  a notice  to  the  president 
in  writing  of  his  departure. 

10th.  Every  man  proper  for  a member  of 
this  society,  must  have  a frank,  honest,  open 
heart ; above  any  thing  dirty  or  mean ; and 
must  be  a professed  lover  of  one  or  more  of 
the  female  sex.  No  haughty,  self-conceited 
person,  who  looks  upon  himself  as  superior 
to  the  rest  of  the  club,  and  especially  no 
mean-spirited,  worldly  mortal,  whose  only 
will  is  to  heap  up  money,  shall  upon  any 
pretence  whatever,  be  admitted.  In  short, 
the  proper  person  for  this  society  is,  a cheer- 
ful, honest-hearted  lad,  who,  if  he  has  a 
friend  that  is  true,  and  a mistress  that  is 
kind,  and  as  much  weallh  as  genteelly  to 
make  both  ends  meet,  is  just  as  happy  aa 
this  world  can  make  mm 


I fobs  fa  flit  'jfetta  af  28uras. 


Pagb  101,  Note  1. — According  to  Gil- 
bert Burns,  this  poem  may  be  dated  an- 
teriorly to  1784.  The  subjoined  is  his 
account  of  the  circumstance  of  which  these 
lines  are  a faithful  record : — 

“ Robert  had,  partly  by  way  of  frolic, 
bought  an  ewe  and  two  lambs  from  a neigh- 
bour, and  she  was  tethered  in  a field  ad- 
joining the  house  at  Lochlee.  He  and  I 
were  going  out  with  our  teams,  and  our  two 
younger  brothers  to  drive  for  us,  at  midday, 
when  Hugh  Wilson  (the  Hughoc  of  the 
poem,  who  was  a neighbouring  farmer’s 
herd-mate),  a curious  looking,  awkward  boy, 
clad  in  plaiding,  came  to  us,  with  much 
anxiety  in  his  face,  with  the  information  that 
the  ewe  had  entangled  herself  in  the  tether, 
and  was  lying  in  the  ditch.  Robert  was 
much  tickled  with  Hughoc’s  appearance  and 
postures  on  the  occasion.  Poor  Mailie  was 
set  to  rights,  and  when  we  returned  from  the 
plough,  in  the  evening,  he  repeated  to  me 
her  death  and  dying  words,  pretty  much  in 
the  way  they  now  stand.” 

Page  102,  Note  2. — This  Davie  was  Mr. 
David  Sillar,  of  whgm  we  have  had  occasion 
to  speak  as  a brother  rhymester  of  Burns’s. 
He  was  one  of  the  intimates  of  the  Batche- 
lour’s  Club,  at  Tarbolton,  to  which  he  had 
been  introduced  in  1781.  In  his  subsequent 
career  he  became  connected  with  the  borough 
of  Irvine,  first  as  a teacher,  and  afterwards 
as  a bailie  ; and  he  survived  to  the  advanced 
age  of  seventy  years.  He  died  on  the  2nd 
of  May,  1830. 

Page  102,  Note  3. — A quotation  from 
Allan  Ramsay. 


Page  102,  Note  4. — The  tolerated 
beggar  was  a species  of  travelling  historian, 
traditionist,  bard,  or  jester,  according  to  the 
humour  o.  his  respective  audiences,  and  he 
was  expected  to  earn  the  bounty  of  hia 
hearers  by  entertaining  them. 

Page  103,  Note  5. — Meg  (or  more 
properly,  Margaret  Orr,  of  whom  Burns 
speaks  so  familiarly)  was  nursery  maid  in  the 
establishment  of  Mrs  Stewart,  of  Stair.  In 
Sillar’s  visits  to  his  Meg,  he  was  not  un- 
frequently  accompanied  by  Burns,  who 
would  supply  verses  for  the  songs  of  other 
female  servants  ; some  of  these  accidentally 
fell,  in  manuscript,  into  the  hands  of  Mrs. 
Stewart,  who  was  so  struck  with  their 
beauty,  that  she  desired  that,  upon  his  next 
visit,  the  author  should  be  presented  to  her. 
He  was  accordingly  introduced,  and  Mrs. 
Stewart  is  numbered  amongst  the  first 
friends  whom  Burns’s  genius  had  secured 
amongst  those  of  superior  rank. 

Page  103,  Note  6. — This  poem  may 
be  dated,  according  to  Gilbert  Burns,  to 
whom  it  was  first  repeated,  in  the  winter  of 
1784-5. 

Page  104,  Note  7. — The  original  manu- 
script affords  the  subjoined  version  of  these 
lines 

“Lang  syne  in  Eden’s  happy  scene. 

When  strapping  Adam’s  days  were  green, 

And  Eve  was  like  my  bonnie  Jean, 

My  dearest  part, 

A dancin’,  sweet,  y oung,  handsome  quean, 
O’  guiless  h eart.” 

Page  106,  Note  8.— The  a ithor’s  owa 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


479 


r'Mes  have  been  appended  to  the  references 
throughout  this  poem,  not  but  that  the 
spells  of  this  characteristic  festival  are  now- 
very  generally  understood. — “ It  is  thought 
to  he  a night  when  all  the  superhuman 
beings  who  people  space,  and  earth  and  air, 
in  search  of  mischief,  revel  at  midnight — 
and  it  is  also  a grand  anniversary  of  the 
more  beneficent  tribe  of  fairies,  whose  occu- 
pation is  to  baffle  each  evil  genius  in  his 
wicked  pursuit. — R.  B. 

Page  106,  Note  9. — Certain  little,  ro- 
mantic, rocky,  green  hills  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Earl  of 
Cassilis. — R.  B. 

Page  106,  Note  10. — A noted  cavern 
near  Colean  House,  called  the  Cave  of 
Colean,  which,  as  well  as  Cassilis  Downans, 
is  famed  in  country  story  as  the  haunt  of 
fairies. — R.  B. 

Page  106,  Note  11. — The  heads  of  the 
race  of  Bruce  were  Earls  of  Carrick. — R.  B. 

Page  106,  Note  12 — The  first  cere- 
mony of  Halloween  is,  pulling  each  a stock 
or  plant  of  kail.  They  must  go  out  hand 
in  hand  with  eyes  shut,  arid  pull  the  first 
they  meet  with : its  being  big  or  little, 
straight  or  crooked,  is  prophetic  of  the  size 
and  shape  of  the  grand  object  of  all  their 
spells — the  husband  or  wife.  If  any  yird, 
or  earth,  stick  to  the  root,  that  is  tocher , 
or  fortune ; and  the  taste  of  the  custoc,  or 
heart  of  the  stem,  is  indicative  of  the 
natural  temper  or  disposition.  Lastly,  the 
stems,  or  as  they  are  called,  the  runts, 
are  placed  above  the  cornice  of  the  door ; 
and  the  Christian  names  of  those  whom 
chance  brings  into  the  house,  are,  according 
to  the  order  in  which  the  runts  were  placed, 
the  names  in  question. — R.  B. 

Page  106,  Note  13. — They  go  to  the 
barn  yard,  and  pull  each,  at  three  several 
times,  a stalk  of  oats.  If  the  third  stalk 
wants  a top  pickle , or  grain  at  the  top  of  the 
stalk,  the  lady  will  be  wedded,  but  not  a 
maid. — R.  B. 

Page  106,  Note  14. — When  the  corn 
ia  in  a doubtful  state,  by  being  too  green  or  | 
wet,  the  stackbuilder,  by  means  of  old  tim- 
ber, &c.,  makes  a large  apartment  in  his 
stack,  with  an  opening,  in  the  side  which  js 
fairest  exposed  to  the  wind  : this  he  calls  a 
fause-house. — R.  B. 

Page  106,  Note  15. — Burning  the  nuts 
is  a famous  charm.  They  name  the  lad 
and  lass  to  each  particular  nut,  as  they  lay 
them  in  the  fire,  and  accordingly  as  they 
burn  quietly  together,  or  start  from  beside 
one  another,  the  course  and  issue  of  the 
courtship  will  be. — R.  B. 


Page  106,  Note  16. — Whoever  would, 
with  success,  try  this  spell,  must  strictly 
observe  these  directions : — Steal  out,  all 
alone,  to  the  kiln,  and,  darkling,  throw  into 
the  pot  a clue  of  blue  yam ; wind  it  in  a 
clue  off  the  old  one,  and,  towards  the  latter 
end  something  will  hold  the  thread ; de- 
mand “wha  hauds?”  that  is,  who  holds? 
An  answer  will  be  returned  from  the  kiln- 
pot,  by  naming  the  Christian  and  sur- 
name of  your  future  spouse. — R.  B. 

Page  106,  Note  17. — Take  a candle, 
and  go  alone  to  a looking-glass ; eat  an  apple 
before  it,  and  some  traditions  say,  you 
should  comb  your  hair  all  the  time;  the 
face  of  your  conjugal  companion,  to  be,  will 
be  seen  in  the  glass,  as  if  jpeeping  over  ycur 
shoulder. 

Page  107,  Note  28. — Steal  out,  unper- 
ceived, and  sow  a handful  of  hemp-seed, 
harrowing  it  with  any  thing  you  can  con- 
veniently draw  after  you.  Repeat,  now  and 
then,  “ Hemp  seed  I saw  thee ; hemp-seed 
I saw  thee ; and  him  (or  her)  that  is  to  be 
my  true  love,  come  after  me  and  pou  thee.” 
Look  over  your  left  shoulder,  and  you  will 
see  the  appearance  of  the  person  invoked, 
in  the  attitude  of  pulling  hemp.  Some 
traditions  say,  “ Come  after  me,  and  sha  w 
thee,”  that  is,  show  thyself : in  which  case 
it  simply  appears.  Others  omit  the  harrow- 
ing, and  say,  “ Come  after  me,  and  harrow 
thee.” — R.  B. 

Page  107,  Note  19. — This  charm  must 
likewise  be  performed  unperceived  and 
alone.  You  go  to  the  barn,  and  open  both 
doors,  taking  them  off  the  hinges,  if  possi- 
ble ; for  there  is  danger  that  the  being  about 
to  appear  may  shut  the  doors,  and  do  you 
some  mischief.  Then  take  that  instrument 
used  in  winnowing  the  corn,  which,  in  our 
country  dialect,  we  call  a wecht;  and  go 
through  all  the  attitudes  of  letting  down 
corn  against  the  wind.  Repeat  it  three 
times,  and  the  third  time,  an  apparition  will 
pass  through  the  barn,  in  at  the  windy 
door,  and  out  at  the  other,  having  both  the 
figure  in  question,  and  the  appearance  or 
retinue,  marking  the  employment  or  station 
in  life. — R.  B. 

Page  107,  Note  20. — Take  an  oppor- 
tunity of  going,  unnoticed,  to  a bean-stack, 
and  fathom  it  three  times  round.  The  last 
fathom  of  the  last  time,  you  will  catch  in 
your  arms  the  appearance  of  your  future 
conjugal  yoke-fellow. — R.  B. 

Page  107.  Note  21. — You  go  out,  out 
or  more,  for  this  is  a social  spell,  to  a south 
running  spring  or  rivulet,  where  “three 
laird’s  lands  meet,”  and  dip  your  left  shirt* 


42 


480 


NOTES  TO  THE 


sleeve.  Go  to  bed  in  sight  of  a fire,  and 
hang  your  wet  sleeve  before  it  to  dry. 
Lie  awake  : and  some  time  near  midnight, 
an  apparition,  having  the  exact  figure  of  the 
grand  object  in  question,  will  come  and  turn 
the  sleeve,  as  if  to  dry  the  other  side  of 
it. — R.  B. 

Page  108,  Note  22. — Take  three  dishes: 
put  clean  water  in  one,  foul  water  in  an- 
other, leave  the  third  empty : blindfold  a 
person,  and  lead  him  to  the  hearth  where 
the  dishes  are  ranged ; he  (or  she)  dips  the 
left  hand — if  by  chance  in  the  clean  water, 
the  future  husband  or  wife  will  come  to  the 
bar  of  matrimony  a maid ; if  in  the  foul, 
a widow ; if  in  the  empty  dish,  it  fortells 
with  equal  certainty,  no  marriage  at 
all.  It  is  repeated  three  times,  and 

every  time  the  arrangement  of  the  dishes 
is  altered. — R.  B. 

Page  108,  Note  23. — Sowens,  with 
butter  instead  of  milk  to  them,  is  always 
the  Halloween  supper. — R.  B. 

Page  108,  Note  24. — Burns  has  omitted, 
amongst  the  other  ceremonies  of  Halloween, 
that  of  ducking  for  apples  in  tubs  of  water. 
Few  of  those  of  which  the  poet  has  fur- 
nished particulars,  are  now  observed.  The 
lottery  of  dishes,  the  pulling  kail  stalks,  and 
the  ducking  for  apples,  comprising  the 
whole,  or  nearly  the  whole,  of  the  frolic- 
some enchantments  now  in  common  obser- 
vance. 

Page  109,  Note  25. — The  author  of  a 
song  beginning  thus,  (John  Lapraik,  of 
Dalfram,  near  Muir  kirk) : — 

u When  I upon  thy  bosom  lean. 

And  fondly  ca’  thee  a’  my  ain ; 

I glory  in  the  sacred  tie 

That  made  us  ane,  wha  ance  were  twain.” 

This  song  was  sung  at  one  of  those  merry 
meetings,  called  rockings,  from  the  rock,  or 
distaff,  which  was  the  invariable  accompani- 
ment of  the  female  guests. 

Page  110,  Note  26. — A festivity  which 
took  place  on  the  road  by  Burns’s  farm,  at 
Mossgiel. 

Page  111,  Note  27. — William  Simpson 
has  accomplished  some  very  passable  poetry, 
amongst  which  is  an  elegy  on  the  Emperor 
Paul.  He  was  first  the  teacher  at  Ochiltree, 
and  afterwards  engaged  in  the  same  capa- 
city at  New  Cumnock. 

Page  113,  Note  28. — Hornbook’s  career 
seems  to  havA  borne  out  his  claim  to  some 
more  elevated  occupation  than  the  ownership 
of  a shop  of  all  wares,  the  duties  of  an 
obscure  dispenser,  or  those  of  a wretched 
parish  schoolmaster.  Such  were  his  occupa- 


tions at  Tarbolton,  where  first  he  was  engage?! 
as  a teacher.  He  subsequently  stocked  s 
small  store  of  grocery  and  general  wares,  to 
which,  after  some  poring  over  medical  books, 
he  also  added  the  drugs  in  more  ordinary 
demand.  This  last  acquisition  was  of  the  more 
consequence,  as  there  was  no  medical  man  in 
thi  place;  and  Hornbook  having  started  up 
into  a medical  authority,  pompously  paraded 
his  knowledge  and  skill  at  a Mason  meeting 
at  Tarbolton,  in  the  presence  of  Burns,  and 
thus  suggested  this  poem.  Hornbook  sub- 
sequently settled  in  Glasgow,  and  outlived 
the  poet  nearly  half  a century. 

Page  113,  Note  29. — Willie’s  Mill  wts 
the  name  of  a mill  just  out  of  the  village  of 
Tarbolton,  on  the  road  to  Mossgiel,  and  on 
a small  stream  called  the  Fade.  It  was 
occupied  by  Mr.  William  Muir,  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  Burns’s,  and  one  of  the  sub- 
scribers to  the  first  Edinburgh  Edition  of 
Robert’s  Poems. 

Page  113,  Note  30. — Buchan’s  welb- 
known  work  on  Domestic  Medicine. 

Page  114,  Note  31. — The  Grave-digger. 

Page  114,  Note  32. — (Misprinted  ll.) 
This  poem  was  probably  suggested  by 
Fergusson’s  Hallow  Fair  of  Edinburgh , 
although  it  is  rather  constructed  after  the 
model  of  the  same  poet's  Leith  Races. 
The  ceremonial  of  rural  communion,  as 
it  has  been  till  very  recently,  or  still  is 
observed  in  some  parts  of  Scotland,  furnishes 
the  incidents  of  the  poem. 

Page  115,  Note  33. — The  popular  name 
of  a poor  crazy  girl,  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
running  for  wagers. 

Page  115,  Note  34. — This  was  an  exqui- 
site hit  at  the  preaching  of  Moodie,  who 
was  fond  of  holding  forth  the  terrors  of  the 
law.  In  the  first,  or  Kilmarnock  edition, 
this  word  was  printed  salvation,  which,  as 
applied  to  Moodie,  was  comparatively  tame. 
Dr.  Blair,  of  Edinburgh,  is  said  to  have 
suggested  the  correction.  Moodie  was  the 
minister  of  Riccarton. 

Page  115,  Note  35. — The  minister  of 
Galston,  who  also  figures  in  the  Kirk1 9 
Alarm,  under  the  name  of  Irvine-side.  This 
person  was  subsequently  better  known  as 
a preacher  by  the  name  of  Dr.  George 
Smith. 

Page  116,  Note  36.  — Dr.  William 
Peebles,  then  the  Rev.  Mr.  W.  Peebles,  who 
was  minister  of  Newton  upon- Ayr,  and  who 
also  figures  in  the  RirFs  Alarm,  as  having 
been  prominent  in  the  persecution  of  Dr. 
McGill. 

Page  116,  Note  37. — Dr  Mackenzie, 
afterwards  minister  at  Irvine,  but  at  thi» 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


451 


period  of  Mauchline,  who  Is  thus  intraduced 
in  allusion  to  a pamphlet,  iu  exposition  of 
eome  village  controversy  which  he  had  pro- 
mulgated under  the  title  of  Common  Sense. 

Page  116,  Note  38. — The  name  of  a 
street  at  Mauchline. 

Page  116,  Note  39. — This  Mr.  Miller 
was  subsequently  minister  at  Kilmaur’s,  and 
a little  portly  person  he  was. 

Page  116,  Note  40. — The  Rev.  John 
Russell,  who  also  figures  in  the  Two,  Herds. 
He  subsequently  became  minister  at  Stirling, 
but  was  at  this  period  attached  to  the  chapel 
of  ease  at  Kilmarnock. 

Page  116,  Note  41. — Expression  bor- 
rowed from  the  subjoined  passage  in 
Hamlet. 

“ I could  a tale  unfold — 

Would  harrow  up  thy  soul ; freeze  thy  young 

blood  ; 

Make  thine  eyes  like  stars  start  from  their 

spheres ; 

Thy  knotty  and  combined  locks  to  part ; 

A nd  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end. 
Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine.” 

Page  117  Note  42. — The  ultra  ortho- 
doxy of  the  newly-appointed  minister  of  the 
parochial  Kirk  of  Kilmarnock,  on  the  6th  of 
April,  1786,  and  the  consequent  triumph  of 
the  Auld  Lights  over  the  Moderates,  elicited 
the  bitter  irony  of  this  poem. 

Page  117,  Note  43. — An  allusion  to  the 
chief  occupation  of  the  people  of  Kilmar- 
nock, in  the  manufacture  of  leather  and 
woollen  goods,  carpets  and  articles  of  this 
nature. 

Page  117,  Note  44. — The  landlord  of  a 
tavern  near  the  parish  church. 

Page  117,  Note  45. — This  passage  refers 
to  a satirical  ballad,  circulated  upon  the  in- 
duction of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lindsay,  as  minister 
of  the  parochial  church. 

Page  117,  Note  46. — See  Genesis  chap, 
ix,  v.  22. 

Page  117,  Note  47. — See  Numbers 
chap,  xxv,  v.  8. 

Page  117,  Note  48. — See  Exodus 
chap,  iv,  v.  25. 

Page  117,  Note  49. — The  Rev.  Mr. 
Robertson  was  the  colleague  of  the  new 
minister;  bet  not  of  the  ultra-orthodox 
Kirk  party. 

Page  117,  Note  50. — Netherton  was 
the  name  of  a quarter  of  the  town  of  Kil- 
marnock. 

Page  117,  Note  51. — The  predecessor 
of  the  new  minister. 

Page  117,  Note  52. — The  person  here 
alluded  to  is  apparently  unknown  to  all 

IS 


those  who  have  made  local  researches 
respecting  Burns  and  his  poems.  Ona 
commentator  supposes  it  to  be  an  allusion 
to  the  author  of  the  Essay  on  Truth.  Tina, 
however,  is  mere  hypothesis. 

Page  118,  Note  53. — In  the  west  of 
Scotland,  the  term  New  Light  is  a popu- 
lar designation  of  the  opinions  promulgated 
by  Dr.  Taylor  and  his  partisans. 

Page  118,  Note  54. — James  Smith  was 
formerly  a shopkeeper  at  Mauchline  ; subse- 
quently, a calico  printer,  at  Avon,  near 
Linlithgow;  and  lastly,  an  emigrant  to  the 
West  Indies,  where  he  died. 

Page  119,  Note  55. — The  authenticity 
of  this  poem  has  been  very  erroneously 
doubted.  It  was  written  by  Burns  in  1785, 
but  was  not  published  in  his  own  editions, 
probably,  because  he  had  retained  no  copy  of 
it,  clearly  not  that  he  thought  it  unworthy 
of  him.  In  1801,  this  piece  appeared  in  a 
small  volume,  published  at  Glasgow,  by 
Messrs.  Brash  and  Reid,  under  the  unpre- 
tending title  of  Poems  ascribed  to  Robert 
Burns.  All  the  more  recent  authorities 
have  been  convinced  of  its  authenticity, 
which,  in  fact,  appears  to  be  incontestibly 
established  by  its  style ; and  Mr.  Chambers 
has  furnished  some  particulars  respecting 
the  incident  to  which  it  is  attributable.  The 
following  is  the  anecdote  : — 

“It  is  understood  to  have  been  founded 
on  the  poet’s  observation  of  an  actual  scene 
which  one  night  met  his  eye,  when,  in  com- 
pany with  his  friends  John  Richmond  and 
James  Smith,  he  dropped  accidentally,  at  a 
late  hour,  into  a very  humble  hostelry  in 
Mauchline,  the  landlady  of  which  was  a 
Mrs.  Gibson,  more  familiarly  named  Poosie 
Nancy.  After  witnessing  much  jollity 
amongst  a company,  who,  by  day,  appeared 
abroad  as  miserable  beggars,  the  three 
young  men  came  away,  Burns  professing  to 
have  been  greatly  delighted  with  the  scene, 
but,  particularly  with  the  gleesome  behaviour 
of  an  old  maimed  soldier.  In  the  course  of 
a few  days,  he  recited  a part  of  the  poem  to 
Richmond,  who  has  informed  the  present 
editor,  that,  to  the  best  of  his  recollection,  it 
contained,  in  its  original  complete  form, 
songs  by  a sweep  and  a sailor,  which  do  not 
now  appear.  The  landlady  of  the  house 
was  mother  to  Racer  Jess,  alluded  to  in  the 
Holy  Fair,  and  her  house  was  at  the  left  hand 
side  of  the  opening  of  the  Cowgate , mentioned 
in  the  same  poem,  and  opposite  to  the  church. 
An  account  of  the  house,  the  characters  who 
frequented  it,  and  the  scenes  which  used  to 
; take  place  in  it,  is  given  in  Chambers's  Edin* 
. burgh  Journal,  No  2.  A lithographic  fiw» 


482 


NOTES  TO  THE 


eiraile  of  the  original  manuscript  of  the  Jolly 
Beggars  has  been  published.” 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  with  some  taint  of  a 
prudery,  which  accasionally  exposed  him  to 
the  charge  of  affectation,  has,  however,  been 
liberal  enough  in  his  remarks  on  this  poem, 
to  attach  a defence  to  his  own  censure. 
Subjoined  is  his  own  criticism  totidem 
verbis 

“In  one  or  two  passages  of  the  Jolly 
Beggars,  the  muse  has  slightly  trespassed 
on  decorum,  where,  in  the  language  of  Scot- 
tish song, 

* High  kilted  was  she. 

As  she  gaed  ower  the  lea.* 

Something,  however,  is  to  be  allowed  to  the 
nature  of  the  subject,  and  something  to  the 
education  of  the  poet:  and  if  from  veneration 
to  the  names  of  Swift  and  Dryden,  we  tolerate 
the  grossness  of  the  one  and  the  indelicacy 
cf  the  other,  the  respect  due  to  that  of  Burns 
may  surely  claim  indulgence  for  a few  light 
strokes  of  broad  humour.” 

Page  119,  Note  56. — An  allusion  to  the 
large  wooden  dish  or  platter,  carried  by  men- 
dicants in  Scotland,  to  receive  any  contribu- 
tions of  broken  food. 

Page  120,  Note  57. — The  heights  of 
Abraham,  on  the  land  side  of  Quebec,  on 
which  the  English  army  under  General 
Wolfe,  succeeded  in  giving  battle  to  the 
enemy  ; and  where  the  general  fell,  mortally 
wounded,  at  the  moment  of  victory,  in  Sep- 
tember, 1759. 

Page,  120,  Note  58. — El  Morro,  the 
castle  which  defends  the  entrance  to  the 
harbour  of  Havannah,  in  the  island  of  Cuba. 
In  1762,  this  castle  was  stormed  and  taken 
toy  the  British,  after  which,  the  Havannah 
was  surrendered,  with  spoil  to  the  value  of 
three  millions. 

Page  120,  Note  59. — “The  destruction 
of  the  Spanish  floating  batteries  during  the 
famous  siege  of  Gibraltar,  in  1782 — on 
which  occasion  the  gallant  Captain  Curtis  ren- 
dered the  most  signal  service — is  the  heroic 
exploit  here  referred  to.” — Motherwell. 

Page  120,  Note  60. — George  Augustus 
Elliot,  created  Lord  Heatlifield  for  his  admi- 
rible  defence  of  Gibraltar,  during  a siege  of 
'hree  years.  Born  1717,  died  1790. 

Page  122,  Note  61. — The  whisky  made 
ftt  the  distillery  of  that  name  in  Clackmua. 
nanshire,  and  famous  throughout  the  country 
(or  its  superiority. 

Page  123,  Note  62. — Several  of  the 
oems  were  produced  for  the  purpose  of 
ringing  forward  some  favourite  sentiment 
Mi  the  author.  He  used  to  remark  to  me, 


that  he  could  not  well  conceive  a more  mor . 
tifying  picture  of  human  life,  than  a man 
seeking  work.  In  casting- about  in  his  mind 
how  this  sentiment  might  be  brought  for- 
ward, the  elegy,  Man  was  made  to  mournt 
was  composed. — Gilbert  Burns. 

The  metre  is  adopted  from  an  old  ballad 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Life  and  Age  of 
Man,  and  of  which  the  subjoined  are  tha 
initiatory  lines : — 

“Upon  the  sixteen  hunder  year. 

Of  God  and  fifty-three, 

Frae  Christ  was  born,  that  bought  us  deai^ 
As  writings  testifie ; 

On  January  the  sixteenth  day. 

As  I did  lie  alone. 

With  many  a sigh  and  sob  did  say. 

Ah ! Man  is  made  to  moan.” 

That  the  moral  of  this  ballad  had  made  ft 
deep  impression  upon  the  mind  of  Burns,  is 
evident  from  the  following  passage  extracted 
from  one  of  his  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  : — 

“ I had  an  old  grand-uncle  with  whom  my 
mother  lived  while  in  her  girlish  years  ; the 
good  old  man,  for  such  he  was,  was  long 
blind  ere  he  died;  during  which  time,  his 
happiest  moments  and  his  highest  enjoyment 
were,  when  he  sat  down  and  cried,  whilst 
my  mother  would  sit  down  and  sing  the 
simple  old  ballad,  The  Life  and  Age  of  Man. 

We  are  indebted  to  the  compiler  of  the 
Land  of  Burns,  for  the  following  interesting 
anecdote  in  illustration  of  this  poem  : — 
“Close  beside  the  end  of  Barskimming 
old  bridge,  stands  a neat,  small  house,  in- 
habited, at  the  time  to  which  this  anecdote 
relates,  by  an  old  man  named  Kemp,  and  his 
daughter.  The  old  man,  not  originally  pos- 
sessed of  the  best  of  tempers,  was  rendered 
peevish  and  querulous  by  disease,  and  in  con- 
sequence of  slight  paralysis,  generally  sup- 
ported himself  on  two  sticks.  His  daughter 
Kate,  however,  a trim  trig,  lass,  was  one  of  the 
leading  belles  of  the  district,  and,  as  such,  had 
attracted  a share  of  the  attentions  of  Robert 
Burns.  One  evening  the  poet  had  come 
from  Mauchline  to  see  Kate;  but,  on  arriving 
at  the  house,  he  found  the  old  man  at  the 
door  in  a more  than  usually  peevish  mood, 
and  was  informed  by  him  that  the  cow  wras 
lost,  and  that  Kate  had  gone  in  quest 
of  her,  but  she  had  been  so  long  away 
he  was  afraid  she  was  lost  too.  The  poet, 
leaving  the  old  man,  crossed  the  bridge, 
and  at  the  further  end  he  met  the  miller 
of  Barskimming  mill,  then  a young  man 
about  his  own  age,  whom  he  accosted  thus  : 
‘Weel,  miller  what  are  you  doing  here** 
* Na,  Robin,’  said  the  miller,  * I should  pm 


POEMS  OP  BURNS. 


m 


that  queation  t>  yon,  for  I am  at  hame 
and  ye’re  no.*  "Why/  said  Robin,  ‘I 
earn  doun  to  see  Kate  Hemp.’  ‘I  was 
just  gaun  the  same  gate,1  said  the  miller. 
* Then  ye  need  gang  nae  farther/  said 
Burns,  ‘for  baith  she  and  the  cow’s  lost, 
and  the  auld  man  is  perfectly  wud  at  the 
wan*  o’  them.  But  come,  we’ll  tak  a turn 
or  two  in  the  holm  till  we  see  if  she  cast  up/ 
They  accordingly  went  into  the  holm,  and 
during  the  first  two  rounds  they  made, 
the  poet  chatted  freely,  but  subsequently 
got  more  and  more  taciturn,  and,  during  the 
last  two  rounds,  spoke  not  a word.  On 
reaching  the  stile  that  led  from  the  place,  he 
abruptly  bade  the  miller  good  night,  and 
walked  rapidly  towards  Mauchline.  Next 
time  the  miller  and  he  met,  he  said,  ‘ Miller, 
I owe  you  an  apology  for  my  silence  during 
oui  last  walk  together,  and  for  leaving  you 
so  abruptly/  * Oh,  oh  ! * said  he,  ‘ Robin, 
there  is  no  occasion,  for  I supposed  some 
subject  had  occurred  to  you,  and  that  you 
were  thinking,  and  perhaps  composing  some- 
thing on  it.’  ‘You  were  quite  right,  miller/ 
said  Burns,  ‘ and  I will  now  read  you  what 
was  chiefly  the  work  of  that  evening.’  ” 

The  composition  he  read  was  Man  was 
made  to  Mourn  ! 

Page  124,  Note  63. — This  exquisite 
poem  was  actually  composed  at  the  plough- 
tail,  and  suggested  by  an  incident  which 
occurred  to  the  poet  whilst  at  work.  Burns 
was  handling  the  plough,  and  John  Blane, 
one  of  the  farm  servants  (who  many  years 
since  remembered  the  incident),  was  driving, 
fit  the  same  time  holding  in  his  hand  the 
pattle  or  pettle  (a  small  wooden  spud  with 
which  the  ploughshare  was  scraped  at  the 
Commencement  of  every  fresh  furrow),  when 
suddenly  a mouse  started  from  the  furrow, 
and  was  running  across  the  field,  closely 
pursued  by  Blane,  pattle  in  hand,  who  had 
started  in  chase.  Burns,  however,  called  his 
driver  back,  and  very  calmly  asked  him 
“ What  hurt  the  mouse  had  done  him,  that 
he  should  wish  to  kill  it.”  From  that 
moment  Burns  remained  moody  and  silent 
during  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  woke  Blane 
at  night  (for  they  were  bed-fellows),  to 
repeat  to  him  the  lines  which  the  incident  of 
the  day  had  suggested. 

Page  124,  Note  64.— Duan  is  the  term 
(analogous  to  strophe,  fytte,  &c.)  applied  by 
Ossian  to  the  divisions  of  rambling  poems. 

Page  124,  Note  65. — Curling  is  a very 
boisterous  game,  played  upon  the  ice,  when 
Bufficiently  strong,  and  which  consists  in  the 
trundling  of  flattened,  smoothed  round  stones. 
The  players  are  divided  into  sides. 


Page  124,  Note  66. — The  parlour  of  the 
farm-house  of  Mossgiel,  namely,  the  only 
apartment  besides  the  kitchen.  This  little 
apartment  still  exists  in  the  state  in  which 
it  was  when  the  poet  described  it  as  tha 
scene  of  his  vision  of  Coila.  “ Though  in 
every  respect  humble,  and  partly  occupied  by 
fixed  beds,  it  does  not  appear  uncomfortable. 
Every  consideration,  however,  sinks  beneath 
the  one  intense  feeling,  that  here,  within 
these  four  walls,  warmed  at  this  little  fire- 
place, and  lighted  by  this  little  window  (it 
has  but  one),  lived  one  of  the  most  extraor- 
dinary men ; here  wrote  some  of  the  most 
celebrated  poems  of  modern  times/’— 
Chambers's  Journal,  No.  93. 

Page  125,  Note  67. — The  charter  of  tha 
borough  of  Ayr  bears  date  as  early  as  the 
beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century.  ; 

Page  125,  Note  68. — The  illustrious 
family  of  Wallace. 

Page  125,  Note  69. — Alluding  to  the 
great  William  Wallace,  the  hero  of  Scottish 
independence. 

Page  125,  Note  70. — Adam  Wallace,  of 
Richardton,  cousin  to  William  Wallace. 

Page  125,  Note  71. — The  Laird  of 
Craigie,  also,  of  the  family  of  Wallace,  who 
held  the  second  command  at  the  battle 
fought  in  1448,  on  the  banks  of  Sark,  and 
gained  by  the  Scottish  troops,  under 
Douglas,  Earl  of  Ormond,  and  Wallace, 
Laird  of  Craigie ; and  in  which  the  desperate 
valour,  and  masterly  skill  of  the  latter,  were 
chiefly  instrumental  in  securing  the  victory. 
The  Laird  of  Craigie  was  mortally  wounded 
in  the  engagement. 

Page  125,  Note  72. — The  shade  of  the 
supposed  Coilus,  King  of  the  Piets,  who, 
according  to  tradition,  was  buried  close  to 
the  seat  of  Montgomeries,  of  Coilsfield, 
beneath  a small  mound  crowned  with  trees. 
On  the  29th  of  May,  1837,  this  mound  was 
excavated  in  search  of  remains,  and  two 
urns  were  found,  which  so  far  corroborated 
the  tradition,  that  the  mound  was  ascer- 
tained to  have  actually  held  the  remains  of 
some  illustrious  chiefs. 

Page  125,  Note  73. — Alluding  to  Bar- 
skimming,  the  seat  of  Sir  Thomas  Millar,  at 
that  time  Lord  Justice  Clerk,  and  since 
President  of  the  Court  of  Session. 

Page  125,  Note  74. — This  stanza  refers 
to  Catrine,  the  seat  of  Dugald  Stewart  (and 
formerly  of  his  father,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Matthew 
Stewart),  and  which  is  situated  on  the  banka 
of  the  river  Ayr. 

Page  125,  Note  75. — Alluding  to  tha 
two  successive  possessors  of  Catrine,  Dr. 
Matthew,  aud  his  son,  Dugald  Stewart ; the 


42*. 


m 


NOTES  TO  THE 


first  eminent  for  his  mathematical  attain- 
ment, the  second  for  his  elegant  philosophical 
writings. 

Page  125,  Note  76. — Colonel  Fullarton. 

Page  126,  Note  77. — Coila  (the  muse  of 
Burns)  had  been  suggested  to  the  promoter 
of  her  fabulous  existence,  by  the  equally 
visionary  personage,  who  figures  under  the 
name  of  Scota  in  Mr.  A.  Ross’s  poem.  The 
Fortunate  Shepherdess. 

Page  126,  Note  78. — Mossgiel,  which 
has  since  become  the  property  of  Mr. 
Alexander,  of  Balloehmyle,  was  then  amongst 
the  possessions  of  the  Earls  of  Loudon,  that 
is,  of  the  Loudon  branch  of  the  race  of 
Campbell. 

Page  127,  Note  79. — Towards  the  close 
of  the  year  1785,  loud  complaints  were  made 
by  the  Scottish  distillers  respecting  the 
vexatious  and  oppressive  manner  in  which 
the  Excise  laws  were  enforced  at  their 
establishments — such  rigour,  they  said,  being 
exercised  at  the  instigation  of  the  London 
distillers,  who  looked  with  jealousy  on  the 
success  of  their  northern  brethren.  So  great 
was  the  severity  of  the  Excise,  that  many 
distillers  were  obliged  to  abandon  the  trade, 
and  the  price  of  barley  was  beginning  to  be 
affected.  Illicit  distillation  was  also  found 
to  be  alarmingly  on  the  increase.  In  conse- 
quence of  the  earnest  remonstrances  of  the 
distillers,  backed  by  the  county  gentlemen, 
an  Act  was  passed  in  the  session  of  1786, 
(alluded  to  by  the  author),  whereby  the 
duties  on  low  wines,  spirits,  &c.,  were  dis- 
continued, and  an  annual  tax  imposed  on 
stills,  according  to  their  capacity.  This  act 
gave  general  satisfaction.  It  seems  to  have 
been  during  the  general  outcry  against  fiscal 
oppression  at  the  end  of  1785,  or  beginning 
of  1786,  that  the  poem  was  composed. 

Page  127,  Note  80. — William  Pitt,  who 
in  his  twenty-second  year  was  at  the  head  of 
an  administration,  and  controlling  the  Ex- 
chequer. 

Page  127,  Note  81. — Hugh  Mont- 
gomery, of  Coilsfield,  afterwards  twelfth 
Earl  of  Eglinton,  at  that  time  M.P.  for 
Ayrshire,  and  who  had  served  in  the  army 
during  the  American  war. 

Page  127,  Note  82. — James  Boswell, 
well  known  to  the  party  politicians  of  Ayr- 
shire, as  one  of  the  orators  of  their  meetings, 
but  better  known  to  the  world  at  large  as 
the  shadow  and  biographer  of  Dr.  Johnson. 

Page  127,  Note  83. — George  Dempster, 
of  Dunmchen,  in  the  county  of  Forfar,  an 
eminent  Scottish  Whig  representative,  of  the 
ege  of  Fox  and  Pitt.  He  commenced  his 
failiamentary  career  in  1762,  and  closed  it 


in  1790,  after  having  sat  in  five  succeeding 
parliaments.  Every  patriotic  and  liberal 
scheme  had  the  support  of  this  excellent 
man,  wdio  died  in  1818,  at  the  age  of 
eighty-two. 

Page  127,  Note  84. — Sir  Adam  Fer- 
gusson,  of  Kilkerran,  Bart.  He  had  several 
times  represented  Ayrshire,  but  at  present 
was  member  for  the  city  of  Edinburgh. 

Page  127,  Note  85. — The  Marquis  of 
Graham,  eldest  son  of  the  Duke  of  Mont- 
rose. He  afterwards  became  the  third  Duke 
of  Montrose,  and  died  in  1836. 

Page  127,  Note  86. — The  Right  Hon. 
Henry  Dun  das.  Treasurer  of  the  Navy,  and 
M.P.  for  Edinburghshire,  afterwards  Viscount 
Melville. 

Page  128,  Note  87. — Probably  Thomas 
Erskine,  afterwards  Lord  Erskine;  but  h3 
was  not  then  in  Parliament. 

Page  128,  Note  88. — Lord  Frederick 
Campbell,  second  brother  of  the  Duke  of 
Argyle,  Lord  Registrar  of  Scotland,  and  M.P 
for  the  county  of  Argyle  in  this,  and  the 
one  preceding,  and  the  two  subsequent  Par- 
liaments. 

Page  128,  Note  89. — Ilay  Campbell, 
Lord  Advocate  of  Scotland,  who  afterwards 
became  President  of  the  Court  of  Session, 
and  survived  to  an  advanced  age.  He  was 
at  this  period  M.P.  for  the  burghs  compre- 
hended within  the  limits  of  Glasgow.  He 
died  in  1823. 

Page  128,  Note  90. — This  stanza  was 
suppressed  in  all  the  editions  which  Burns 
himself  superintended  whilst  in  press,  out  of 
respect  for  the  Montgomery,  whose  clumsy 
oratory  he  could  not  help  ridiculing. 

PagIe  128,  Note  91. — Mr.  Pitt’s  father, 
the  Earl  of  Chatham,  was  the  second  son  of 
Robert  Pitt,  of  Boconnock,  in  the  county  of 
Cornwall. 

Page  128,  Note  92. — "Scones  made 
from  a mixture  of  oats,  peas,  or  beans,  with 
wheat  or  barley,  ground  fine,  and  denomi- 
nated mashlum , are  in  general  use,  and  form 
a 'wholesome  and  palatable  food.” — New 
Statistical  Account  of  Scotland , parish  of 
Dairy,  Ayrshire. 

Page  128,  Note  93. — A worthy  old 
hostess  of  the  author’s  in  Mauchline,  where 
he  sometimes  studies  politics  over  a glass  of 
guid  auld  Scotch  drink.  Nanse’s  story  was 
different.  On  seeing  the  poem,  she  declared 
that  the  poet  had  never  been  but  once  or 
twice  in  her  house. 

Page  128,  Note  94. — The  young  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  had  gained  some 
credit  by  a measure  introduced  in  1784  for 
preventing  smuggling  of  tea  bj  reducing  the 


POEMS  OF  BTJKNS. 


duty,  ths  revenue  bting  compensated  by  a 
tax  on  win  do  ws. 

Page  129,  Note  95. — The  model  which 
Bums  followed  in  this  poem  is  evidently  the 
Cauler  Water  of  Fergusson.  The  poet’s 
imagination  is.  evidently  more  concerned  in 
the  bacchanalian  rant,  than  his  actual  pre- 
dilection ; for  it  does  not  transpire  that  be 
was  more  especially  devoted  to  Bacchus  or 
his  compeers,  than  the  majority  of  his 
associates  or  contemporaries. 

Page  129,  Note  96. — The  vulgar  name 
of  beer  being  repudiated,  and  the  more  re- 
fined cognomen  of  “ ale  ” being  substituted 
for  such  decoctions  of  malt  as  grace  the 
tables  of  the  great  in  silver  tankards. 

Page  129,  Note  97. — An  allusion  to  the 
favourite  draught  of  beer  after  a mess  of 
porridge. 

Page  129,  Note  98. — An  allusion  to  the 
crowding  of  the  congregation  round  the 
moveable  pulpits  out  of  doors,  as  was 
actually  the  case  at  a parochial  distribution 
of  the  sacrament. 

Page  130,  Note  99. — The  Scottish  Par- 
liament passed  an  Act  in  the  year  1690, 
empowering  Forbes  of  Culloden  to  distil 
whisky  free  of  duty,  on  his  manor  of 
Ferintosh,  of  Cromartyshire,  in  consideration 
of  his  services,  and  of  the  losses  which  he 
had  sustained  in  the  public  service  at  the 
period  of  the  Revolution.  The  immense 
wealth  to  which  such  an  immunity  opened 
the  way,  gradually  stimulated  the  successors 
of  the  Forbes  to  the  distillation  of  so  im- 
mense a quantity  of  the  spirit,  that  by- 
degrees  Ferintosh  became  a bye-word  signi- 
fying whisky.  This  privilege  was  abolished 
by  the  Act  of  the  British  parliament,  passed 
in  1785,  and  which  regulated  the  Scotch  dis- 
tilleries in  general.  But  a provision  was 
reserved  in  that  act  to  the  effect  that  the 
Lords  of  the  Treasury  should  indemnify  the 
present  proprietor  of  the  barony  for  the 
immense  deterioration  of  his  estate,  and  that 
if  the  Lords  of  the  Treasury  should  fail  to 
settle  the  matter  fairly,  it  should  be  sub- 
mitted to  a jury  in  the  Scottish  Co^irt  of 
Exchequer.  Accordingly,  after  futile  i ttempts 
at  redress  from  the  Treasury,  Mr.  Duncan 
Forbes  prosecuted  his  claim,  proving  that  the 
right  had  actually  produced  £1000  a year  to 
his  family,  and  might  have  been  productive  of 
seven  times  as  much ; and  the  jury  awarded 
him  the  substantial  sum  of  £21,580  as  com- 
pensation, on  the  29th  of  November,  1785. 

Page  130,  Note  100. — A preacher  of 
very  general  popularity  amongst  the  poorer 
classes. 

Page  130,  Note  101. — A preacher  not 


4SS 

much  admired  bj  the  people  generally,  but 
received  as  an  oracle  by  the  select  few  who 
were  his  partisans.  Robertson  wras  out  of 
health  at  the  time  these  lines  were  written. 

Page  131,  Note  102. — Killie,  a popular 
or  familiar  designation  amongst  the  country 
people,  meaning  Kilmarnock. 

Page  131,  No  te  103. — Thomas  Samson,  a 
nurseryman,  at  Kilmarnock,  was  one  amongst 
the  earliest  friends  of  Burns.  He  was 
devoted  to  sporting.  Supposing  one  of  his 
seasons  to  be  his  last  in  pursuit  of  game,  he 
had  expressed  a desire  to  die,  and  to  be 
buried  in  the  M'uirs,  and  this  suggested  to 
Burns  the  elegy  and  epitaph.  At  his  death 
he  was  buried  in  Kilmarnock  Churchyard, 
and  at  the  western  extremity  of  the  church 
is  a plain  monumental  slab,  with  the  inscrip- 
tion:— Thomas  Samson, 

Died  the  12th  of  December,  1795, 
Aged  72  years. 

“Tam  Samson’s  weel-worn  clay  here  lies}" 
&c.,  &c., 

in  the  identical  words  with  which  Burns  had 
humorously  provided  him. 

Page  132,  Note  104. — Mr.  Aiken  was 
one  of  the  first  persons  moving  in  the  higher 
orders  of  society,  who  noticed  the  remark- 
able talents  of  Robert  Burns,  and  whose 
patronage  and  countenance  upheld  the  poet, 
and  promoted  the  success  of  his  subsequently 
brilliant  career.  He  was  somewhat  distin- 
guished amongst  his  professional  colleagues 
(being  a lawyer),  for  the  superior  intellec- 
tual qualifications  which  he  possessed,  and 
amongst  his  friends  for  the  unaffected  gene- 
rosity of  his  character.  He  died  on  the 
24th  of  March,  1807. 

Page  132,  Note  105. — “Several  of  the 
poems  were  produced  for  the  purpose  of 
bringing  forward  some  favourite  sentiment 
of  the  author.  He  had  frequently  remarked 
to  me,  that  he  thought  there  was  something 
peculiarly  venerable  in  the  phrase,  * Let  us 
worship  God/  used  by  a decent  sober  head 
of  a family  introducing  family  worship.  To 
this  sentiment  of  the  author,  the  world  is 
indebted  for  the  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night . 
The  hint  of  the  plan,  and  title  of  the 
poem,  were  taken  from  Fergusson’s  Farmer’s 
Ingle!’ — Gilbert  Burns.  “The  house- 
hold of  the  virtuous  William  Burness  was 
the  scene  of  the  poem,  and  William  himself 
was  the  saint,  and  father  and  husband,  of 
this  truly  sacred  drama.” — Cunningham. 

Page  134,  Note  106. — See  Pope’s  Wind- 
sor Forest. 

Page  134,  Note  107. — This  poem  ia 
another  remarkable  instance  of  the  fertility 
of  genius  which  so  strikingly  characterised 


m 


NOTES  TO  THE 


the  mu se  of  Hums  Like  the  lines  to  a mouse, 
it  is  elicited  by  the  simplest  and  most  trivial 
occurrence,  and,  nevertheless,  is  wrought  up 
to  a profound  degree  of  thought  and  senti- 
ment, which  the  utmost  sublimity  of  scenery 
could  barely  have  excelled. 

Page  135,  Note  108. — The  friend  to 
whom  this  poem  is  addressed,  was  Mr. 
Andrew  Aiken,  the  son  of  Mr.  Aiken,  of 
Ayr,  to  whom  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 
is  dedicated,  and  who  had  been  taught  by 
his  father  to  venerate  the  genius  and  charac- 
ter of  his  lowly  but  illustrious  fellow-country- 
man. Mr.  Andrew  Aiken  survived  fifty  years 
after  Burns,  and  died  at  St.  Petersburgh, 
after  a very  successful  mercantile  career  into 
which  he  had  early  embarked  at  Liverpool. 

Page  136,  Note  109. — The  first  person 
of  respectable  rank  and  good  education  who 
took  any  notice  of  Burns,  was  Mr.  Gavin 
Hamilton,  writer  in  Mauchline,  from  whom 
he  took  his  farm  of  Mossgiel  on  a sub-lease. 
Mr.  Hamilton  lived  in  what  is  still  called  the 
Castle  of  Mauchline,  a half-fortified  old 
mansion  near  the  church,  forming  the  only 
remains  of  the  ancient  priory.  He  was  the 
son  of  a gentleman  who  had  practised  the 
same  profession  in  the  same  place,  and  was 
in  every  respect  a most  estimable  member  of 
society — generous,  affable,  and  humane. 
Unfortunately  his  religious  practice  did  not 
square  with  the  notions  of  the  then  minis- 
• ter  of  Mauchline,  the  Daddy  Auld  of 
Burns,  who,  in  1785,  is  found  in  the  session 
records  to  have  summoned  him  for  rebuke, 
on  the  four  following  charges  : — 1.  Unne- 
cessary absence  from  church,  for  five  conse- 
cutive Sundays  (apparently  the  result  of 
some  dispute  about  a poor’s  rate) ; 2.  Setting 
out  on  a journey  to  Carrick  on  a Sunday ; 
3.  Habitual,  if  not  total  neglect  of  family 
worship;  4.  Writing  an  abusive  letter  to 
the  session,  in  reference  to  some  of  their 
former  proceedings  respecting  him.  Strange 
though  this  prosecution  may  seem,  it  was 
strictly  accordant  with  the  right  assumed  by 
the  Scottish  clergy  at  that  period,  to  inquire 
into  the  private  habits  of  parishioners  ; and 
as  it  is  universally  allowed  that  Mr.  Auld’s 
designs  in  the  matter  were  purely  religious, 
it  is  impossible  to  speak  of  it  disrespectfully. 
It  was  unfortunately,  however,  mixed  up 
with  some  personal  motives  in  the  members 
of  the  session,  which  were  so  apparent  to 
the  Presbytery,  to  which  Mr.  Hamilton 
appealed,  that  that  reverend  body  ordered 
the  proceedings  to  be  stopped,  and  all  notice 
of  them  expunged  from  the  records.  A 
description  of  the  sufferings  of  the  Mauch- 
line  Session,  while  orator  Aiken  was  exposing 


them  before  the  Pkesbytery,  is  to  be  found  in 
Holy  Willie's  Prayer.  Partly  from  antipathy 
to  the  high  orthodox  party,  but  more  from 
friendship  for  Mr.  Hamilton,  whom  he  re- 
garded as  a worthy  and  enlightened  nan, 
persecuted  by  narrow-witteoi  bigots,  Burns 
threw  his  partisan  muse  into  the  quarrel, 
and  produced  several  poems,  that  just  men- 
tioned amongst  the  rest,  in  which  it  is  but 
too  apparent  that  religion  itself  suffers  ia 
common  with  those  whom  he  holds  up  &a 
abusing  it. 

Page  137,  Note  110. — On  reading  in 
the  public  papers  the  Laureate’s  Ode,  with 
the  other  parade  of  June  4th,  1786,  the 
author  was  no  sooner  dropt  asleep,  than  he 
imagined  himself  transported  to  the  birth- 
day levee ; and  in  his  dreaming  fancy,  made 
the  address  conveyed  in  these  lines. — It.  B. 
[The  Poet  Laureate  of  the  time  being  was 
Thomas  Warton,  and  the  subjoined  are  the 
opening  lines  of  the  ode  of  which  Burns 
became  the  quaint  commentator  in  the 
dream: — 

“When  Freedom  nursed  her  native  fire 
In  ancient  Greece,  and  ruled  the  lyre, 

Her  bards  disdainful,  from  the  tyrant’s  brow 

The  tinsel  gifts  of  flattery  tore ; 

But  paid  to  guiltless  power  their  willing  vow; 

And  to  the  throne  of  virtuous  kings, &c.,&c.” 

Vapid  enough,  it  must  be  confessed.] 

Page  138,  Note  111. — Gait,  gett,  or 
gyte,  a homely  substitute  for  the  word  child 
in  Scotland. 

Page  138,  Note  112. — When  the  vote  of 
naval  supplies  was  under  discussion  in  the 
session  of  1786,  several  modifications  of  the 
management  of  our  naval  armaments  were 
hotly  agitated  by  a Captain  McBride  and 
his  adherents.  Amongst  other  projects,  the 
abandonment  of  64-gun  ships  was  proposed 
by  him. 

Page  138,  Note  113. — Charles  Jamee 
Fox. 

Page  138,  Note  114. — In  this  respect 
Burns  has  followed  the  account  of  the 
chronicles,  adopted  as  it  had  subsequently 
been  by  ShaKespeare,  in  speaking  of 
Henry  V.,  as  mingling  in  the  wildest  frolics 
of  his  companions ; Prince  Hal  was  clearly 
of  such  habits  in  his  younger  days,  if  we 
may  trust  the  anecdotes  in  which  his  just 
punishment,  by  authority,  reflected  credit 
on  a worthy  and  impartial  judge.  But, 
according  to  the  memoirist  Tyler,  these 
were  nothing  better  than  a tissue  of  ingenious 
fables.  However  r.his  may  be,  Burns  only 
adopted  a degree  of  licence,  which  the 
greatest  British  Poet  had  considered  him* 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


4S7 


H f free  to  use  when  the  traditions  were  yet 
more  positive  on  the  subject. 

Page  138,  Note  115. — A humorous 
hit  at  Frederick,  Duke  of  York  (the  second 
son  of  George  III.),  whose  earlier  career  had 
been  spent  in  Ecclesiastical  vocations,  as 
Bishop  of  Osnaburg. 

Page  138,  Note  116. — William  Henry, 
afterwards  Duke  of  Clarence,  and  finally 
King,  by  the  name  of  William  IV.,  whose 
profession  was  the  navy. 

Page  138,  Note  117. — An  allusion  to 
the  current  tale  of  some  youthful  intrigue  of 
the  royal  sailor. 

Page  132,  Note  118. — "The tale  of  the 
Twa  Dogs  was  composed  after  the  resolution 
of  publishing  was  nearly  taken.  Robert  had 
a dog,  which  he  called  Luath,  that  was  a 
great  favourite.  The  dog  had  been 
killed  by  the  wanton  cruelty  of  some  person, 
the  night  before  my  father’s  death.  Robert 
said  to  me  that  he  should  like  to  confer 
such  an  immortality  as  he  could  bestow  on 
his  old  Friend  Luath,  and  that  he  had  a 
great  mind  to  introduce  something  into  the 
book  under  the  title  of  Stanzas  to  the 
Memory  of  a Quadruped  Friend ; but  this 
plan  was  given  up  for  the  poem  as  it  now 
stands.  Caesar  was  merely  the  creature  of  the 
poet’s  imagination,  created  for  the  purpose 
of  holding  chat  with  his  favourite  Luath.” 
—Gilbert  Burns.  Allan  Cunningham 
mentions  that  John  Wilson,  printer,  Kil- 
marnock, on  undertaking  the  first  edition  of 
the  poems,  suggested  the  propriety  of 
placing  a piece  of  a grave  nature  at  the 
beginning,  and  that  Burns,  acting  on  the 
hint,  composed  or  completed  the  Twa  Dogs 
in  walking  home  to  Mossgiel.  Its  exact  date 
is  fixed  at  February  1786,  by  a letter  of  the 
poet  to  John  Richmond. 

Page  139,  Note  119. — Kyle,  the  native 
province  of  the  poet,  is  supposed  to  derive 
its  name  from  Coilus,  a real  or  supposed 
king  of  the  Piets,  alluded  to  in  the  notes  to 
the  Vision.  Recent  antiquaries  are  disposed 
to  deduce  the  appellative  from  quite  a dif- 
ferent source,  from  clwUlie,  to  wit,  signifying 
in  the  Celtic  tongue  a woody  region.  Upon 
the  whole,  the  popular  etymology  appears 
the  more  rational. 

Page  139,  Note  120 — Cuchullin’s  dog  : 
in  Ossian’s  Fingal. 

Page  141,  Note  121. — In  the  earlvpart 
of  1786,  when  the  friends  of  his  Jean  forced 
her  to  break  the  nuptial  engagement  into 
which  he  had  clandestinely  entered  with  her, 
and  took  legal  steps  to  force  him  *o  find  ■ 
security  for  the  maintenance  of  her  expec-  j 
ted  offspring — in  this  dismal  time,  when  | 


nothing  but  ruin  seemed  before  him — our 
bard  poured  forth,  as  in  the  name  of 
another,  the  following  eloquent  effusion  of 
indignation  and  grief. 

Page  142,  Note  122. — Allusion  is  here 
made  to  Miss  Eliza  Burnet,  the  beauty 
of  her  day  in  Edinburgh — daughter  of  the 
eccentric  scholar  and  philosopher.  Lord 
Monboddo.  Burns  was  several  times  en- 
tertained by  his  lordship  at  his  house  in  St, 
John  Street,  Canongate,  where  the  lady 
presided.  He  speaks  of  her  in  a letter  in 
the  following  terms : — " There  has  not  been 
any  thing  nearly  like  her,  in  all  the  combi- 
nations of  beauty,  grace,  and  goodness,  the 
great  Creator  has  formed,  since  Milton’s 
Eve  on  the  first  day  of  her  existence  ” It 
may  be  curious  to  learn  what  was  thought  of 
this  lovely  woman  by  a man  of  a very  differ- 
ent sort  from  Burns — namely,  Hugh  Chis- 
holm, one  of  the  seven  broken  men  (usually 
called  robbers)  who  kept  Prince  Charles  in 
their  cave  in  Inverness-shire  for  several 
weeks,  during  his  hidings,  resisting  the 
temptation  of  thirty  thousand  pounds  to 
give  him  up.  This  man,  when  far  advanced 
in  life,  was  brought  on  a visit  to  Edinburgh, 
where  it  was  remarked  he  would  never  allow 
any  one  to  shake  his  right  hand,  that 
member  having  been  rendered  sacred  in  hi# 
estimation,  by  the  grasp  of  the  Prince. 
Being  taken  to  sup  at  Lord  Monboddo’s, 
old  Hugh  sat  most  of  the  time  gazing  ab- 
stractedly on  Miss  Burnet,  and  being  asked 
afterwards  what  he  thought  of  her,  he  ex- 
claimed, in  a burst  of  his  eloquent  native 
tongue,  which  can  be  but  poorly  rendered  in 
English,  "She  is  the  finest  animal  I ever 
beheld.”  Yet  an  enviously  minute  inquirer, 
in  the  letter-press  accompanying  the  reprint 
of  Kay's  Portraits , states  that  she  had  one 
blemish,  though  one  not  apt  to  be  observed 
— bad  teeth.  She  died,  in  1790,  of  con-' 
sumption,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  and  the 
poet  wrote  an  elegy  upon  her. — Chambers. 

Page  143,  Note  123. — An  hostelry  of 
high  repute  throughout  the  neighbourhood, 
situated  at  the  Auld  Brig  End. 

Page  143,  Note  124. — This  clock,  as  well 
as  the  tower  or  steeple  in  which  it  stood,  has 
been  removed  for  some  years.  The  stteple 
: was  formerly  attached  to  the  old  gaol  of 
Ayr. 

Page  143,  Note  125 — The  ancient 
Wallace  Tower,  which  fell  into  a dangerous 
state  of  repair,  was  ultimately  pulled  down, 
and  replaced  by  a new  Tower,  which  is  still 
• known  by  the  same  name.  The  Old  Wallace 
j Tower  was  an  incongruous  building,  par- 
I raking  of  the  rude  commixture  of  several 


m 


NOTES  TO  THE 


ityles  of  architecture,  and  from  it  rose  a 
slender  spire,  which,  though,  by  no  means  in 
exact  keeping  with  the  basement,  certainly 
contributed  to  the  picturesque  aspect  of  the 
building.  The  new  tower  stands  upon  the 
same  foundation  in  the  High  Street  of  Ayr. 

Page  143,  Note  126. — The  falcon,  or  as 
it  is  commonly  called,  the  Gos-hawk.  The 
imagery  of  this  passage  is  as  beautiful  as 
the  expression. 

Page  143,  Note  127. — A well-known 
ford  in  the  River,  immediately  above  the 
Auld  Brig. 

Page  143,  Note  128. — Generally,  as  the 
rapid  enlightenment  of  the  Scottish  people 
has  dispelled  the  superstitions  which  were 
wont  to  hang  about  some  localities,  even  to 
the  charm  and  poetical  imagery  with  which 
such  superstitions  served  at  times  to  invest 
them,  the  spirits  of  Garpal  Water  are  yet 
acknowledged  to  retain  their  supremacy,  and 
the  spot  is  as  firmly  believed  to  be  haunted 
by  many  of  the  peasants,  as  it  was  of  old. 

Page  144,  Note  129. — The  source  of  the 
fiver  Ayr. 

Page  144,  Note  130. — A narrow  land- 
ing place  on  the  upward  side  of  the  chief 
quay. 

Page  144,  Note  131. — Mr.  McLachlan 
was  at  that  time  well  known,  and  much  ad- 
mired for  his  taste  in  the  performance  of 
Scottish  airs  on  the  violin. 

Page  145,  Note  132. — A complimen- 
tary allusion  to  Captain  Hugh  Montgomery, 
otherwise  called  Sodger  Hugh  by  Burns, 
(who  subsequently  succeeded  to  the  Earldom 
of  Eglinton),  and  whose  family  seat  of 
Coilsfield  is  situated  on  the  Fade,  or  Feal,  a 
small  stream  which  falls  into  the  river  Ayr, 
at  no  great  distance. 

Page  145,  Note  133. — In  the  foregoing 
notes,  on  the  Epistle  to  Davie , the  intro- 
duction of  Burns  to  Mrs.  Stewart,  of  Stair, 
has  been  detailed.  The  present  passage  is  a 
complimentary  allusion  to  the  same  lady. 

Page  145,  Note  134. — Catrine  was,  as 
we  have  already  had  occasion  to  state,  the 
seat  of  Dr.  Stewart,  the  father  of  Professor 
Dugald  Stewart,  to  whose  honour,  and  in 
compliment  of  whom,  this  allusion  is  made. 

Page  145,  Note  135. — “ The  Elegy  on 
Captain  Henderson  is  a tribute  to  the 
memory  of  a man  I loved  much.” — Burns. 
Captain  Henderson  was  a retired  soldier,  of 
agreeable  manners,  and  upright  character, 
who  had  a lodging  in  Carrubber’s  Close, 
Edinburgh,  and  mingled  with  the  best  so- 
ciety of  the  city.  Mr.  Cunningham  states, 
on  the  authority  of  Sir  Thomas  Wallace,  who 
knew  him,  that  he  " dined  regularly  at  For- 


tune’s Tavern,  and  was  a member  of  tho 
Capillaire  Club,  which  was  composed  of  all 
who  inclined  Jo  the  witty  and  the  .joyous.* 
The  poem  was  written  in  Dumfriesshire 
in  1790. 

Page  145,  Note  136. — Yearns — Eagles. 

Page  146,  Note  137. — “1  look  on  Tam  o 9 
Shanter  as  my  standard  performance  in  the 
poetical  line.” — Burns. 

“When  my  father  fewed  his  little  property 
near  Alloway  Kirk,  the  wall  of  the  church- 
yard had  gone  to  ruin,  and  cattle  had  free 
liberty  of  pasture  in  it.  My  father  and  two 
or  three*  neighbours  joined  in  an  application 
to  the  town-council  of  Ayr,  who  were  supe- 
riors of  the  adjoining  land,  for  liberty  to 
rebuild  it,  and  raised  by  subscription  a sum 
for  enclosing  this  ancient  cemetery  with  a 
wall : hence,  he  came  to  consider  it  as  his 
burial  place,  and  we  learned  that  reverence 
for  it  people  generally  have  for  the  burial- 
place  of  their  ancestors.  My  brother  was 
living  in  Ellisland,  when  Captain  Grose,  on 
his  perigrinations  through  Scotland,  staid 
some  time  at  Carse-house  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, with  Captain  Robert  Riddel,  of  Glen- 
riddel,  a particular  friend  of  my  brother’s. 
The  antiquary  and  the  poet  were  4 unco  pack 
and  thick  thegither.’  Robert  requested  of 
Captain  Grose,  when  he  should  come  to 
Ayrshire,  that  he  would  make  a drawing  of 
Alloway  Kirk,  as  it  was  the  burial-place  of 
his  father,  where  he  himself  had  a sort  of 
claim  to  lay  down  his  bones  when  they 
should  be  no  longer  serviceable  to  him  ; and 
added,  by  way  of  encouragement,  that  it  was 
the  scene  of  many  a good  story  of  witches 
and  apparitions,  of  which  he  knew  the  cap- 
tain was  very  fond.  The  captain  agreed  tc 
the  request,  provided  the  poet  would  fur- 
nish a witch  story,  to  be  printed  along  with 
it.  4 Tam  o’  Shanter ’ was  produced  on  this 
occasion,  and  was  first  published  in 
'Grose’s  Antiquities  of  Scotland.’” — Gilbert 
Burns. 

It  was  while  spending  his  nineteenth  sum- 
mer in  the  parish  of  Kirkoswald,  in  Garrick, 
that  the  poet  became  acquainted  writh  the 
characters  and  circumstances  afterwards  in- 
troduced into  Tam  o’  Shanter.  The  hero 
was  an  honest  farmer,  named  Douglas  Gra- 
ham, who  lived  at  Shanter,  between 
Turnberry  and  Colzean.  His  wife,  Helen 
M'Taggart,  was  much  addicted  to  supersti- 
tious beliefs.  Graham,  dealing  much  in 
malt,  went  to  Ayr  every  market  da#,  whither 
he  was  frequently  accompanied  by  a shoe- 
making neighbour,  John  Davidson,  who 
dealt  a iitth  in  leather.  The  two  would 
often  luigc.T  to  a late  hour  in  the  taverns  at 


POEMS  DF  EXJRNS. 


48£ 


the  market  town.  One  night,  hen  riding 
home  more  than  usually  late  by  himself,  in  a 
Etorm  of  wind  and  rain,  Graham,  in  passing 
over  Brown  Carrick  Hill,  near  the  bridge  of 
Doon,  lost  his  bonnet,  which  contained  the 
money  he  had  drawn  that  day  at  the  market. 
To  avoid  the  scolding  of  his  wife,  he  imposed 
upon  her  credulity  with  a story  of  witches 
seen  at  Alloway  Kirk,  but  did  not  the  less 
return  to  the  Carrick  Hill,  to  seek  for  his 
money,  which  he  had  the  satisfaction  to  find, 
with  his  bonnet,  in  a plantation  near  the 
road.  Burns,  hearing  Graham’s  story  told 
between  jest  and  earnest  among  the  smug- 
glers of  the  Carrick  shore,  retained  it  in  his 
memory,  till,  at  a comparatively  late  period 
of  his  career,  he  wove  from  it  one  of  the  most 
admired  of  his  poems.  Douglas  Graham 
and  John  Davidson,  the  originals  of  Tam  o’ 
Shanter  and  Souter  Johnnie,  have  long 
reposed  in  the  churchyard  of  Kirkoswald, 
where  the  former  had  a handsome  monu- 
ment, bearing  a very  pious  inscription. — 
Chambers. 

Page  146,  Note  138. — The  village  where 
& parish  church  is  situated  is  usually  called 
the  Kirkton  in  Scotland.  A certain  Jean 
Kennedy,  v ho  kept  a reputable  public-house 
in  the  village  of  Kirkoswald,  is  here  alluded 
to. 

Page  147,  Note  139. — " Alloway  Kirk, 
with  its  little  enclosed  burial  ground,  stands 
beside  the  road  from  Ayr  to  May  bole,  about 
•two  miles  from  the  former  town.  The 
church  has  long  been  roofless,  but  the  walls 
are  pretty  well  preserved,  and  it  still  retains 
its  bell  at  the  east  end.  Upon  the  whole, 
the  spectator  is  struck  with  the  idea,  that 
the  witches  must  have  had  a rather  narrow 
stage  for  the  performance  of  their  revels,  as 
described  in  the  poem.  The  inner  area  is 
now  divided  by  a partition-wall,  and  one  part 
forms  the  family  burial-place  of  Mr.  Catch- 
cart,  of  Blairston.  The  ‘ winnock  bunker  in 
tne  east,’  where  sat  the  awful  musician  of  the 
party,  is  a conspicuous  feature,  being  a small 
window,  divided  by  a thick  mullion.  Around 
the  binding  are  the  vestiges  of  other  open- 
ings, at  any  of  which  the  hero  of  the  tale 
may  be  supposed  to  have  looked  in  upon  the 
hellish  scene.  Within  the  last  few  years  the 
old  oaken  rafters  of  the  kirk  wrere  mostly 
entire,  but  they  have  now  been  entirely 
taken  away,  to  form,  in  various  shapes, 
memorials  of  a place  so  remarkably  signal- 
ised by  genius.  It  is  necessary  for  those 
who  survey  the  ground  in  reference  to  the 
poem,  to  be  informed  that  the  oid  road  from 
Ayr  to  this  spot,  by  which  Burns  supposed 
his  hero  to  have  approael*ed  Alloway  Kirk, 


! was  considerably  to  the  west  of  the  present 
; one,  which,  nevertheless,  has  existed  since 
i before  the  time  of  Burns.  Upon  a field 
about  a quarter  of  a mile  to  the  north-west 
of  the  kirk,  is  a single  tree  enclosed  with  a 
paling,  the  last  remnant  of  a group  which 
covered 

4 the  cairn 

Where  hunters  faud  the  murdered  bairn 
and  immediately  beyond  that  object  is 

‘ the  ford, 

Where  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor’d  ;* 

namely,  a ford  over  a small  burn  (which 
soon  after  joins  the  Doon),  being  two  places 
which  Tam  o’  Shanter  is  described  as  having 
passed  on  his  solitary  way.  The  road  then 
made  a sweep  towards  the  river,  and,  pas- 
sing a well  which  trickles  down  into  the 
Doon,  where  formerly  stood  a thorn,  on 
which  an  individual,  called  in  the  poem 
‘Mungo’s  mither,’  committed  suicide,  ap- 
proached Alloway  Kirk  upon  the  west. 
These  circumstances  may  here  appear  trivial, 
but  it  is  surprising  with  what  interest  any 
visitor  to  the  real  scene  will  inquire  into,  and 
behold  every  part  of  which  can  be  associated, 
however  remotely,  with  the  poem  of  Tam 
o'  Shanter.  The  churchyard  contains  several 
old  monuments,  of  a very  humble  descrip- 
tion, marking  the  resting-places  of  undistin- 
guished persons.  Among  those  persons  rest 
William  Burness,  father  of  the  poet,  over 
whose  grave  the  son  had  piously  raised  a 
small  stone,  recording  his  name  and  the 
date  of  his  death,  together  with  the  short 
poetical  tribute  to  his  memory,  which  ia 
copied  in  the  works  of  the  bard.  But,  for 
this  monument,  long  ago  destroyed  and 
carried  away  piecemeal,  there  is  now  sub- 
stituted one  of  somewhat  finer  proportions; 
and  the  churchyard  of  Alloway  has  now 
become  fashionable  with  the  dead,  as  well  aa 
the  living.  Its  little  area  is  absolutely 
crowded  with  modern  monuments,  referring 
to  persons,  many  of  whom  have  been  brought 
from  considerable  distances,  to  take  their 
rest  in  this  doubly  consecrated  ground 
Among  these  is  one  to  the  memory  of  a per- 
son named  Tyrie,  who,  visiting  the  spot 
some  years  ago,  happened  to  express  a wish 
that  he  might  be  laid  in  AIL  way  church- 
yard, and,  as  fate  wo  old  have  it  was  interred 
in  the  spot  he  had  pointed  out  within  a 
fortnight.  Nor  is  this  all;  for  even  the 
neighbouring  gentry  are  now  contending 
for  departments  in  this  fold  of  the  departed, 
and  it  is  probable  that  the  elegant  mausolea 
of  rank  and  wealth  will  soon  be  jostling 


NOTES  TO  THE 


49C 

with  the  stunted  obelisks  of  humble  worth 
and  noteless  poverty.” — Chambers's  Jour- 
nal. 

Page  148,  Note  140. — It  is  well  known 
that  witches,  or  any  other  evil  spirits,  have 
no  power  to  follow  a poor  wight  any  further 
than  the  middle  of  the  nearest  running 
stream.  And,  at  the  some  time,  it  may  not 
be  superfluous  to  hint  to  the  benighted  tra- 
veller, that  when  he  is  unfortunate  enough 
to  fall  in  with  the  wierd  sisters,  orwith  bogies 
on  his  road, — whatever  be  the  danger  of 
going  forward,  it  is  far  less  than  that  of 
retreat. — Burns. 

Page  148,  Note  141. — "In  my  early 
years  nothing  less  would  serve  me  than 
courting  the  tragic  muse.  I was,  I think, 
about  eighteen  or  nineteen  when  I sketched 
the  outlines  of  a tragedy,  forsooth : but  the 
bursting  of  a cloud  of  family  misfortunes, 
which  had  for  some  time  threatened  us, 
prevented  my  farther  progress.  In  those 
days  I never  wrote  down  any  thing;  so, 
except  a speech  or  two,  the  whole  has  es- 
caped my  memory.  These  lines,  which  I 
most  distinctly  remember,  were  the  exclam- 
ation from  a great  character — great  in 
occasional  instances  of  generosity,  and  dar- 
ing at  times  in  villanies.  He  is  supposed 
to  meet  with  a child  of  misery,  and  to  burst 
out  into  this  rhapsody.” — Burns. 

Page  148,  Note  142. — "There  is  scarcely 
any  earthly  object  gives  me  more — I do  not 
know  if  I should  call  it  pleasure — but  some- 
thing which  exalts  me — something  which  en- 
raptures me — than  to  walk  on  the  sheltered 
side  of  a wood  or  plantation,  in  a cloudy 
winter’s  day,  and  hear  the  stormy  wind 
howling  amongst  the  trees,  and  raving  over 
the  plain.  It  is  my  best  season  of  devotion ; 
my  mind  is  rapt  up  in  a kind  of  enthusiasm 
to  Him,  who  in  the  pompous  language  of 
the  Hebrew  bard,  "Walks  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind.’  In  one  of  these  seasons,  just 
after  a train  of  misfortunes,  I composed 
Winter , a Dirge. — Burns.  According  to 
Gilbert  Burns,  this  is  one  of  Burns’s  earliest 
pieces,  and  he  has  assigned  1784  as  its 
date. 

Page  148,  Note  143. — A quotation  from 
Young. 

Page  149,  Note  144. — "There  was  a 
period  of  my  life  that  my  spirit  was  well  nigh 
broken  by  repeated  losses  and  disasters, 
which  threatened,  and  indeed  effected,  the 
utter  ruin  of  my  fortune.  My  body,  too, 
was  attacked  by  that  most  dreadful  dis- 
temper, a hypochondria,  or  confirmed  melan- 
choly. In  this  wretched  state,  the  recollection 
94  which  makes  me  yet  shudder,  I hung  nsy 


harp  on  the  wfllow  trees,  except  in  some 
lucid  intervals,  in  one  of  which  I composed 
these  lines.” — Burns. 

Page  149,  Note  145. — The  "Prayer,” 
and  the  " Stanzas,”  were  composed  when 
fainting  fits,  and  other  alarming  symptoms 
of  a pleurisy,  or  some  other  dangerous  dis- 
order (which  indeed  still  threatens  me)  first 
put  nature  on  the  alarm.” — Burns. 

Page  149,  Note  146. — Ruisseau , is  the 
French,  as  Burn  is  the  Scottish,  term  for 
stream.  Ruisseaux  is  the  plural  of  Ruisseau, 
as  Burns  is  of  Burn ; and  hence  the  hu- 
morous translation  of  his  own  name  in  the 
Elegy  of  Robert  Burns. 

Page  150,  Note  147. — The  Rev.  James 
Steven,  afterwards  one  of  the  Scotch  clergy 
in  London,  and  ultimately  minister  of  Kil- 
winning, in  Ayrshire,  was  the  hero  of  this 
piece  of  levity.  The  tradition  in  the  family 
of  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton  is,  that  the  poet,  in 
passing  to  the  church  at  Mauchline,  called 
at  Mr.  Hamilton’s,  who,  being  confined  with 
the  gout,  could  not  accompany  him,  but 
desired  him,  as  parents  do  with  children,  to 
bring  home  a note  of  the  text.  At  the  con- 
clusion of  the  service.  Burns  called  again, 
and,  sitting  down  for  a minute  at  Mr. 
Hamilton’s  business  table,  scribbled  these 
verses,  by  way  of  a compliance  with  the 
request.  From  a memorandum  by  Burns 
himself,  it  would  appear  that  there  was  a 
wager  with  Mr.  Hamilton  as  to  his  producing 
a poem  in  a certain  time,  and  that  he  gained 
it  by  producing  The  Calf. 

Page  150,  Note  1.48. — "At  the  time 
when  Bums  was  beginning  to  exercise  his 
powers  as  a poet,  theological  controversy 
raged  amongt  the  clergy  and  laity  of  his 
native  country.  The  prominent  points  re- 
lated to  the  doctrines  of  original  sin  and  the 
Trinity ; a scarcely  subordinate  one  referred 
to  the  right  of  patronage.  Burns  took  the 
moderate  and  liberal  side,  and  seems  to  have 
delighted  in  doing  all  he  could  to  torment 
the  zealous  party,  who  were  designated  as 
the  Auld  Lights.  The  first  of  his  poetic 
offspring  that  saw  the  light,  was  a burlesque 
lamentation  on  a quarrel  between  two 
reverend  Calvinists,  which  he  circulated 
anonymously,  and  which,  "with  a certain 
description  of  the  clergy,  as  well  as  laity, 
met  with  roars  of  applause.”  This  was  the 
Twa  Herds.  The  heroes  of  the  piece  were 
the  Rev.  Alexander  Moodie,  minister  of 
Riccarton,  and  the  Rev.  John  Russell,  minis- 
ter of  a chapel  of  ease,  at  Kilmarnock,  both 
of  them  eminent  as  leaders  of  the  Auld 
Light  party.  In  riding  home  together  they 
got  into  a warm  dispute  regarding  soma 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


491 


point  of  docti  ine,  or  of  discipline,  which  led 
to  a rupture  that  appeared  nearly  incurable. 
They  appear  to  have  afterwards  quarrelled 
about  a question  of  parish  boundaries ; and 
when  the  point  was  debated  in  the  Presby- 
tery of  Irvine,  in  presence  of  a great  multi- 
tude of  the  people  (including  Burns),  they 
lost  temper  entirely,  and  “abused  each 
other,”  says  Mr.  Lockhart,  “with  a fiery 
vehemence  of  personal  invective  such  as  has 
been  long  banished  from  all  popular  assem- 
blies, wherein  the  laws  of  courtesy  are  en- 
forced by  those  of  a certain  unwritten  code.” 
Allan  Cunningham  gives  a popular  story  of 
this  quarrel  having  ultimately  come  to  blows; 
but  if  such  had  been  the  case,  the  poet 
would  certainly  have  adverted  to  it : — 
Chambers. 

Page  150,  Note  149. — Russell  is  de- 
scribed as  a “large,  robust,  dark-com- 
plexioned man,  imperturbably  grave,  fierce 
of  temper,  and  of  a stern  expression  of 
countenance.”  He  preached  with  much  ve- 
hemence, and  at  the  height  of  a tremendous 
voice,  which,  in  certain  states  of  the  atmos- 
phere, caught  the  ear  at  the  distance  of  more 
than  a mile.  He  subsequently  became  minis- 
ter at  Stirling,  where  he  died  at  an  advanced 
age. 

Page  150,  Note  150. — Dr.  Robert  Dun- 
can, minister  of  Dundonald.  Excepting  in 
his  limbs,  which  were  short,  he  bore  a strong 
personal  resemblance  to  Charles  James 
Fox. 

Page  150,  Note  151. — Rev.  William 
Peebles,  of  Newton-upon- Ayr.  See  notes 
to  Holy  Fair , and  Kirlc's  Alarm. 

Page  150,  Note  152. — Rev.  William 
Auld,  minister  of  Mauchline. 

Page  150,  Note  153. — Rev.  Dr.  Dal- 
cymple,  one  of  the  ministers  of  Ayr.  He  died 
in  1814,  having  enjoyed  his  charge  for  the 
uncommon  period  of  sixty-eight  years. 

Page  150,  Note  154. — Rev.  William- 
M'Gill,  one  of  the  ministers  of  Ayr,  colleague 
of  Dr.  Dalrymple.  See  note  to  Kirk's 
Alarm. 

Page  150,  Note  155. — Minister  of  St. 
Qnivox,  an  enlightened  man,  and  elegant 
preacher.  He  has  been  succeeded  in  the 
parish  b;y  his  son. 

Page  150,  Note  156. — Dr.  Andrew 
Shaw  of  Craigie,  and  Dr.  David  Shaw  of 
Croylton.  Dr.  Andrew  was  a man  of  ex- 
cellent abilities,  but  extremely  diffident — 
a fine  speaker  and  an  accomplished  scholar. 
Dr.  Dav’d,  in  personal  respects,  was  a 
rodigy.  He  was  ninety-one  years  of  age 
efore  he  required  an  assistant.  At  that 
period  of  life  he  read  without  the  use  of 


glasses,  wrote  a neat  small  hand,  and  had 
not  a fun  jw  in  his  clvsek  or  a wrinkle  on 
his  brow.  He  was  Moderator  of  the  General 
Assembly  In  1775.  He  had  a fine  old 
clergymanlv-kind  of  wit.  In  the  house  of  a 
man  of  ran  a,  where  he  spent  the  night,  an 
alarm  took  place  after  midnight,  which 
brought  all  tne  members  of  the  family  from 
their  dormitories.  The  doctor  encountered 
a countess  in  ner  chemise,  which  occasioned 
some  mutual  confusion.  At  breakfast  next 
morning,  a lady  asked  him  what  he  thought 
when  he  met  the  countess  in  the  lobby, 
“ Oh,  my  lady,”  said  he,  “ I was  in  a trance  ” 
Trance  in  Scotland  signifies  a passage  or 
vestibule,  as  well  as  a swoon.  This  amiable 
man  died,  April  26,  1810,  in  the  ninety- 
second  year  of  his  age,  and  sixty-first  of 
his  ministry. 

Page  150,  Note  157. — There  were  thre# 
brothers  of  this  name,  descended  from  the 
church  historian,  and  all  ministers — one  at 
Eastwood,  their  ancestor’s  charge,  the  second 
at  Stevenston,  and  the  third.  Dr.  Peter 
Woodrow,  at  Tarbolton.  Drf  Peter  is  the 
person  named  in  the  poem.  The  assistant 
and  successor,  mentioned  in  the  verse,  waa 
M’Math,  elsewhere  alluded  to. 

Page  151,  Note  158. — The  Rev.  Mr. 
(afterwards  Dr.)  Smith,  who  figures  in  the 
Holy  Fair  as  one  of  the  tent  preachers. 

Page  151,  Note  159. — The  hero  of  this 
daring  exposition  of  Calvanistic  theology, 
was  William  Fisher,  a farmer  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Mauchline,  and  an  elder  in  Mr 
Auld’s  session.  He  had  signalised  himself 
in  the  prosecution  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  else- 
where alluded  to ; and  Burns  appears  to 
have  wricten  these  verses  in  retribution  of 
the  rancour  he  had  displayed  on  that  occasion. 
Fisher  was,  probably,  a poor  narrow-witted 
creature,  with  just  sufficient  sense  to  make  a 
show  of  sanctity.  When  removed  to  another 
parish,  and  there  acting  as  an  elder,  he  was 
found  guilty  of  some  peculations  in  the  funds 
of  the  poor — to  which  Burns  alludes  in  the 
Kirk's  Alarm.  Ultimately,  coming  home 
one  night  from  market  in  a cart,  in  a state 
of  intoxication,  he  fell  from  the  vehicle,  and 
was  found  lifeless  in  a ditch  next  morning. 

Page  151,  Note  160. — These  essays 
were  published  in  exposition  of  the  doctrines 
of  Dr.  McGill,  so  violently  persecuted  by 
the  heroes  of  orthodoxy. 

Page  152,  Note  161. — Dr.  Taylor  of 
Norwich,  whose  doctrines  were  advocated  by 
Go u die  and  McGill. 

Page  152,  Note  162. — A hearty  partisan 
of  the  heterodox  theological  school,  remark* 
able  amongst  b is  fellow-farmers  of  tint 


48 


492 


NOTES  TO  THE 


neighbourhood,  as  a jolly  companion  and 
humorous,  though  somewhat  coarse  satirist 
of  the  orthodox  heroes.  He  occupied  a farm 
called  Adam  hill,  near  Tarbolton. 

Page  152,  Note  163. — “ A certain  humo- 
rous dream  of  his  was  then  making  some 
noise  in  the  country-side.” — Burns.  Mr. 

Cunningham  gives  the  following  account  of 
the  dream  — “ Lord  K.,  it  is  said,  was  in  the 
practice  of  calling  all  his  familiar  acquaint- 
ances brutes.  ‘ Well,  ye  brute,  how  are  ye 
to-day  ? ’ was  his  usual  mode  of  salutation. 
Once  in  company,  his  lordship,  having 
indulged  in  this  rudeness  more  than  his 
wont,  turned  to  Rankine  and  exclaimed, 
‘Brute,  are  ye  dumb?  have  ye  no  queer 
ely  story  to  tell  us  ? ’ ‘ I have  nae  story/ 

said  Rankine ; ‘ but  last  night  I had  an  odd 
dream/  ‘Out  with  it,  by  all  means/  said 
the  other.  ‘Aweel,  ye  see/  said  Rankine,  ‘I 
dreamed  I was  dead,  and  that  for  keeping 
other  than  gude  company  on  earth,  I was 
sent  down  stairs.  When  I knocked  at  the 
low  door,  wha  should  open  it  but  the  deil ; 
he  was  in  a rough  humour,  and  said,  ' Wha 
may  ye  be,  and  what’s  your  name  ? * ‘ My 

name/  quoth  I,  ‘is  John  Rankine,  and  my 
dwelling-place  was  Adam-hill.’  ‘ Gae  wa’ 
wi’  ye/  quoth  Satan,  ‘ ye  canna  be  here ; 
ye’re  ane  o’  Lord  K/s  brutes — hell’s  fou  o’ 
them  already.’  ” This  sharp  rebuke,  it  is  said, 
polished  for  the  future  his  lordship’s  speech. 

Page  152,  Note  164. — Some  occurrence 
is  evidently  here  alluded  to.  We  have 
heard  the  following  account  of  it,  but  cannot 
vouch  for  its  correctness  : — A noted  zealot 
of  the  opposite  party  (the  name  of  Holy 
Willie  has  been  mentioned,  but  more 
probably,  from  the  context,  the  individual 
must  have  been  a clergyman),  calling  on  Mr. 
Rankine  on  business,  the  latter  invited  him 
to  take  a glass.  With  much  entreaty,  the 
visitor  was  prevailed  on  to  make  a very 
small  modicum  of  toddy.  The  stranger 
remarking  that  the  liquor  proved  very  strong, 
Mr.  Rankine  pointed  out,  as  any  other  land- 
lord would  have  done,  that  a little  more  hot 
water  might  improve  it.  The  kettle  was 
accordingly  resorted  to,  but  still  the  liquor 
appeared  over-potent.  Again  he  filled  up. 
Still  no  dimunition  of  strength.  All  this 
time  he  was  sipping  and  sipping.  By  and 
bye,  the  liquor  began  to  appear  only  too 
weak.  To  cut  short  a tale,  the  reluctant 
guest  ended  by  tumbling  dead  drunk  on  the 
floor.  The  trick  played  upon  him,  requires, 
of  course,  no  explanation. — Chambers. 

Page  152,  Note  165. — An  allusion  to 
some  song  which  had  been  promised  by  John 
Rankine  to  Burns. 


Page  152,  Note  166. — This  epistle  wai 
first  published  by  Lapraik  himself  amongst 
his  own  works. 

Page  153,  Note  167.— A^  that  time 
enjoying  the  appointment  of  assistant  and 
successor  to  the  Rev.  Peter  Woodrow,  miniate! 
of  Tarbolton.  He  was  an  excellent  preacher, 
and  a decided  moderate.  He  enjoyed  the 
friendship  of  the  Montgomeries  of  Coilsfield, 
and  of  Bums ; but  unhappily  fell  into  low 
spirits,  in  consequence  of  his  dependent 
situation,  and  became  dissipated.  After 
being  for  some  time  tutor  to  a family  in  the 
Western  Isles,  it  is  said  that  this  unfortunate 
man  ultimately  enlisted  as  a common  soldier. 

Page  153,  Note  168. — Gawn,  Gawin, 
Gavin.  Alluding  to  Gavin  Hamilton. 

Page  154,  Note  169. — All  the  allusions 
contained  in  this  poem  are  of  such  a nature 
and  refer  to  such  public  events  as  will  be 
readily  understood : and  there  is  something 
exceedingly  humorous  in  the  exposition  of 
the  views  and  remarks  of  the  peasantry 
respecting  the  great  leaders,  or  great  events, 
which  happen  to  become  matters  of  noto- 
riety. 

Page  154,  Note  170. — An  allusion  to 
the  unanticipated  return  of  a considerable 
majority  of  Scottish  members  in  support  of 
William  Pitt,  upon  the  election  incidental  to 
the  opening  of  his  administration. 

Page  158,  Note  171. — An  incident 
which  actually  occurred,  and  which  was 
witnessed  by  Bums,  at  Mauchline,  in  Decem- 
ber 1785. 

Page  156,  Note  172. — Lunardi  Bonnet. 
The  fashions  in  those  days,  as  in  these,  were 
apt  to  receive  denominations  from  persona 
or  events  which  had  created  general  sen- 
sation. In  our  time  we  have  our  Kossuth, 
or  Klapka  hats  and  the  like.  Lunardi  had 
made  several  balloon  ascents  during  the 
summer  of  1785,  in  Scotland,  and  as  these 
excited  much  interest  at  the  time,  Lunar- 
di’s  name  was  suivant  les  regies,  appended  to 
various  articles  of  dress,  and  to  bonnets 
amongst  others. 

Page  156,  Note  173. — In  May  1785, 
Mr.  Pitt  made  a considerable  addition  to  the 
number  of  taxed  articles,  amongst  which 
were  female  servants,  in  order  to  liquidate 
ten  millions  of  unfunded  debt.  The  poem 
seems  to  have  been  called  forth  by  the 
receipt  of  the  next  annual  mandate  from 
Mr.  Aiken,  of  Ayr,  surveyor  of  taxes  for 
the  district. 

Page  156,  Note  174. — The  off  fore 
horse,  or  leader,  in  the  plough. 

Page  156,  Note  175.-  -The  off  draught 
horse  in  the  plough. 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


4§, 


Page  150,  Note  176.-  -The familiar  ex- 
pression for  Kilmarnock,  amongst  the  pea- 
santry. 

Page  158,  Note  177. — The  near  wheel 
horse  in  the  plough. 

Page  157  Note  178. — An  allusion  to 
one  of  the  questions  (namely  “ What  is 
effectual  calling  ?”)  in  the  Catechism  pro- 
pounded by  the  Westminster  Assembly  of 
Divines,  and  which  continues  to  preserve  its 
currency  throughout  Scotland. 

Page  157,  Note  179. — A child  bom  to 
the  poet  by  a servant  girl  of  the  name  of 
Elizabeth  Paton.  She  grew  up  exceedingly 
like  her  father,  and  became  the  wife  of  Mr. 
John  Bishop,  overseer  at  Polkemmet  in  Lin- 
lithgowshire, and  died  there,  Dec.  8,  1817. 

Page  157,  Note  180. — Tootie  lived  in 
Mauchline,  and  dealt  in  cows.  The  age  of 
these  animals  is  marked  by  rings  on  their 
horns,  which  may  of  course  be  cut  and 
polished  off,  so  as  to  cause  the  cow  to 
appear  younger  than  it  is.  This  villainy  is 
called  sneck-drawing,  and  he  who  perpetrates 
it  is  a sneck-drawer. 

Page  157.  Note  181. — The  airless — 
earnest  money.  (See  also  Glossary.) 

Page  157,  Note  182. — A writer  in  Ayr, 
and  particular  friend  of  the  poet,  Mr.  Chal- 
mers, asked  Burns  to  write  a poetic  epistle  in 
his  behalf  to  a young  lady  whom  he  ad- 
mired. Burns,  who  had  seen  the  lady,  but 
was  scarcely  acquainted  with  her,  complied 
by  penning  the  above. — Chambers. 

Page  185,  Note  183. — “These  verses,  in 
the  handwriting  of  Burns,  are  copied  from 
a bank  note,  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  James 
F.  Gracie,  of  Dumfries.  The  note  is  of  the 
Bank  of  Scotland,  and  is  dated  so  far  back 
as  1st  March  1780.  The  lines  exhibit  the 
etrong  marks  of  the  poet’s  vigorous  pen, 
and  are  evidently  an  extempore  effusion 
of  his  characteristic  feelings.  They  bear 
internal  proof  of  their  having  been  written 
8t  that  interesting  period  of  his  life,  when 
j?.e  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  country 
on  account  of  the  unfavourable  manner  in 
which  his  proposals  for  marrying  his  ‘ bonny 
Jean  * (his  future  wife)  were  at  first  received 
by  her  parents.” — Motherwell. 

Page  138,  Note  184. — There  is  some 
doubt  as  to  the  authenticity  of  these  pretty 
lines.  It  has  been  averred  upon  very  good 
authority  that  the  manuscript  in  the  hand 
writing  of  Robert  Burns,  is  yet  extant,  and 

in  the  possession  of  Mr.  A . At  any 

rate,  as  the  verses  are  not  unworthy  of  the 
bard  of  Ayr,  they  may  be  accepted.  They 
were  first  published  at  Liverpool,  in  a peri- 
odical called  the  Kaleidoscope. 


Page  158,  Note  185. — These,  versei 
appear  to  have  been  written  in  th£.  distress- 
ing summer  of  1786,  when  the  poet’s  pros- 
pects were  at  the  dreariest,  and  the  very 
wife  of  his  fondest  affections  had  forsaken 
him.  From  the  time,  and  other  circum- 
stances, we  may  conjecture  that  the 
present  alluded  to  was  a copy  of  the  Kil- 
marnock edition  of  poems,  then  newly  pub- 
lished. The  verses  appeared  in  tho 
Sun  newspaper,  April  1823.  — Cham- 
bers. 

Page  158,  Note  186. — “The  first  time 
Robert  heard  the  spinnet  played  upon,  was 
at  the  house  of  Dr.  Laurie,  minister  of  Lou- 
don (about  October  1786).  Dr.  L.  had 
several  daughters — one  of  them  played;  the 
father  and  the  mother  led  down  the  dance ; 
the  rest  of  the  sisters,  the  brother,  the  poet, 
and  the  other  guests,  mixed  in  it.  It  was  a 
delightful  family  scene  for  our  poet,  then 
lately  introduced  to  the  world.  His  mind 
was  roused  to  a poetic  enthusiasm,  and  the 
stanzas  were  left  in  the  room  where  he 
slept.” — Gilbert  Burns.  Dr.  Laurie  was 
the  medium  through  which  Dr.  Blacklock 
transmitted  the  letter,  by  which  Burns  was 
arrested  on  his  flight  to  the  West  Indies, 
and  induced  to  go  to  Edinburgh.  This 
letter  has  since  been  in  the  possession  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Balfour  Graham,  minister  of  North 
Berwick,  who  is  connected  with  the  family 
by  marriage.  Dr.  Laurie,  and  his  son,  who 
was  his  successor  in  the  pastoral  charge  of 
the  parish,  are  both  deceased. 

Page  159,  Note  187. — Diogenes. 

Page  159,  Note  188. — This  meeting 
took  place,  October  23,  1786,  at  Catrine,  the 
seat  of  Professor  Stewart,  to  which  Burns 
was  now  taken  for  the  first  time  by  Mr. 
Mackenzie,  surgeon,  Mauchline.  Lord  Daer, 
who  was  eldest  son  to  Dunbar,  fourth  Earl 
of  Selkirk,  and  had  been  a pupil  of  Mr, 
Stewart,  was  a young  nobleman  of  the 
greatest  promise.  He  had  just  returned 
from  France,  where  he  cultivated  the  society 
of  some  of  those  men  who  afterwards  figured 
in  the  Revolution,  and  had  contracted  their 
sentiments.  He  was  cut  off  in  November, 
1794,  leaving  the  succession  open  to  his 
younger  brother,  the  late  Thomas,  Earl  of 
Selkirk,  distinguished  by  his  exertions  in 
the  cause  of  emigration. — Chambers. 

Page  159,  Note  189. — Major  Logan,  a 
retired  military  officer,  still  remembered  in 
Ayrshire  for  his  wit  and  humcur — of  which 
two  specimens  may  be  given.  Asked  by  an 
Ayr  hostess  if  he  wo  ild  have  water  to  the 
glass  of  spirits  she  was  bringing  to  him  on 
his  order,  he  said,  with  a gnn,  “No,  wbidd 


m 


NOTES  TO  THE 


rather  you  took  tke  water  out  o’t.”  Visited 
on  his  deathbed  by  Mr.  Cuthill,  one  of  the 
ministers  of  Ayr,  who  remarked  that  it 
would  take  fortitude  to  support  such  suffer- 
ings as  he  was  visited  with ; M Ay.”  said  the 
poor  wit,  “ it  would  take  fiftitude .”  At  the 
time  when  the  above  letter  was  addressed  to 
him.  Major  Logan  lived  at  Parkhouse,  in 
Ayrshire,  with  his  mother  and  sister,  the 
Miss  Logan  to  whom  Burns  presented  a copy 
of  Beattie’s  Poems,  with  verses.  The  major 
was  a capital  violinist. 

Page  160,  Note  190. — With  the  cha- 
racteristic humour  with  which  he  wrote  the 
elegy  and  epitaph  of  Thomas  Samson  and 
his  own  elegy.  Burns  wrote  this  address  to 
himself,  when  he  anticipated  his  departure 
for  the  West  Indies,  and  before  the  brilliant 
career  of  his  reception  at  Edinburgh  had 
fixed  his  views  as  to  life. 

Page  161,  Note  191. — The  haggis  is  a 
dish  peculiar  to  Scotland,  though  supposed  to 
he  of  French  extraction.  It  is  composed  of 
minced  offal  of  mutton,  mixed  with  oatmeal 
and  suet,  and  boiled  in  a sheep’s  stomach. 
When  made  in  Elspa's  way,  writh  “ a cum 
o’  spice  ” (see  the  Gentle  Shepherd ),  it  is  an 
agreeable,  albeit  a somewhat  heavy  dish, 
always  providing  that  no  horror  be  felt  at 
the  idea  of  its  preparation.  The  Edinburgh 
Literary  Journal  of  November  7, 1829,  makes 
the  following  statement : — “ About  sixteen 
years  ago,  there  resided  at  Mauchline  a Mr. 
Robert  Morrison,  cabinet-maker.  He  was  a 
great  crony  of  Burns,  and  it  was  in  Mr 
Morrison’s  house  that  the  poet  usually  spent 
the  ‘ mids  o’  the  day  ’ on  Sunday.  It  was  in 
this  house  that  he  wrote  his  celebrated  Ad- 
dress to  a Haggis,  after  partaking  liberally  of 
that  dish,  as  prepared  by  Mrs.  Morrison.” 
The  Ettrick  Shepherd  ha3,  on  the  contrary, 
averred  that  the  poem  was  written  in  the 
house  of  Mr.  Andrew  Bruce,  Castle  Hill, 
Edinburgh,  after  in  like  manner  partaking  of 
the  dish.  It  was  first  published  in  the  Scots 
Magazine  for  January  1787. 

Page  162,  Note  192. — Miss  Logan, 
sister  of  Major  Logan,  to  whom  also  Burns 
had  previously  addressed  a poetical  epistle. 
(See  antea,  page  159.) 

Page  162,  Note  193. — Mr.  Hay  Camp- 
bell, of  whom  we  have  had  several  occasions 
to  speak  as  the  subject,  of  complimentary 
allusions.  He  was  subsequently  president 
of  the  Court  of  Cession,  and  died  in  1823. 

Page  162,  Note  194. — The  Honourable 
Henry  Erskine,  whose  talents  as  an  advocate 
had  secured  him  a distinguished  reputation, 
tie  died  in  1817. 

Page  162,  Ndtb  Mrs.  Scott  of 


Wauchope,  in  Roxburgsiiin* — a lady  of  tasti 
and  talent,  and  fitted  to  use  the  pencil  as 
well  as  the  pen — had  addressed  (February 
1787)  the  lines,  printed  in  small  type,  to 
Burns,  which  called  forth  the  ensuing  verses, 
as  a reply  or  acknowledgment. 

Page  163,  Note  196. — Mr.  Woods  had 
been  the  friend  of  Fergusson.  He  was  long 
a favourite  actor  in  Edinburgh,  and  was  him 
self  a man  of  some  poetical  talent.  He  died 
at  his  house  on  the  Terrace,  Edinburgh 
December  14,  1802. 

Page  164,  Note  197. — The  hero  of  Mac- 
kenzie’s Man  of  Feeling , of  which  Burns 
always  spoke  in  such  warm  terms  of  admira- 
tion. 

Page  164,  Note  198. — Written  at  Sel- 
kirk, May  1787,  in  the,  course  of  the  poet’s 
southern  tour.  Mr.  Creech  was  the  poet’s 
Edinburgh  publisher,  and  seems  at  this  tim# 
to  have  been  in  high  favour  with  him.  Burn? 
afterwards  found  reason  considerably  t& 
change  his  feelings  towards  Creech,  who 
appears  to  have  given  him  much  uneasiness 
by  protracting  the  settlement  of  their  ac- 
counts. The  truth  is,  that  Mr.  Creech, 
though  a man  of  literary  talent,  great  plea- 
sautry  as  a companion,  and  the  first  publisher 
of  his  day,  had  a weakness  about  money 
matters,  and  could  scarcely  draw  upon  his 
ample  funds  for  the  liquidation  of  an  ordi- 
nary debt,  without  something  more  than  all- 
common persuasives.  He  enjoyed  high  re- 
putation as  a teller  of  quaint  stories,  and 
lived  on  familiar  terms  with  many  of  the 
literary  men  of  hri  day.  His  house,  in  one 
of  the  elevated  floors  of  a tenement  in  the 
High  Street,  accessible  from  a wretched 
alley  called  Craig’s  Close,  was  frequented  in 
the  mornings  by  company  of  that  kind,  to 
such  an  extent  that  the  meeting  used  to  be 
called  Creech's  Levee.  Burns  here  enume- 
rates as  attending  it,  Dr.  James  Gregory, 
author  of  the  Conspectus  Medicine;  Tytler, 
of  Woodhouselee,  author  of  the  Defence  of 
of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots;  Dr.  William 
Greenfield,  professor  of  rhetoric  in  the  Edin- 
burgh University;  Henry  Mackenzie,  author 
of  The  Man  of  Feeling ; and  Dugald  Stewart, 
professor  of  moral  philosophy.  Mr.  Creech 
more  than  once  filled  the  chair  of  Lord  Pro- 
vost of  Edinburgh,  and  is  noted  as  the  only 
person  who  ever  saved  money  off  the  salary 
then  attached  to  the  office.  With  reference 
to  his  penurious  bachelorly  habits,  a native 
caricaturist  once  set  the  town  in  a roar  by 
depicting,  in  connection,  the  respective 
kitchens  of  the  chief  magistrates  of  London 
and  Edinburgh,  the  former  exhibiting  every 
appearance  of  plenty  that  could  be  expected 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


fe  a large  and  munificent  establishment,  and 
the  latter  displaying  a poor  old  pinched 
housekeeper  spinning  beside  a narrow  fire- 
place, where  the  cat  was  perched  for  warmth 
upon  a gathering  coal.  Mr.  Creech  died  in 
1815,  aged  70  years. — Chambers. 

Page  164,  Note  199. — Edinburgh. 

Page  164,  Note  200. — The  Chamber  of 
Commerce  of  Edinburgh,  of  which  M». 
Creech  was  secretary. 

Page  165,  Note  201. — James  Hunter 
Blair  was  born  at  Ayr,  .in  1741.  He  pur- 
sued a successful  commercial  career,  and  be- 
came a member  of  the  banking  firm  of  Sir 
William  Forbes  and  Co.,  and  died  on  the 
first  of  July,  1787,  universally  esteemed. 

Page  165,  Note  202. — The  Royal  Park 
of  Holyrood. 

Page  165,  Note  203. — St.  Anthony’s 
Well. 

Page  165,  Note  204. — St.  Anthony’s 
Chapel. 

Page  166,  Note  205. — “The  first  object 
of  interest  that  occurs  upon  the  public  road 
after  leaving  Blair,  is  a cha'm  in  the  hill  on 
the  right  hand,  through  which  the  little  river 
Bruar  fails  in  a series  of  beautiful  cascades. 
Formerly,  the  falls  of  the  Bruar  were  un- 
adorned by  wood;  but  the  poet  Burns,  being 
conducted  to  see  them  (September  1787), 
after  visiting  the  Duke  of  Athole,  recom- 
mended that  they  should  be  invested  with 
that  necessary  decoration.  Accordingly,  trees 
have  been  thickly  planted  along  the  chasm, 
and  are  now  far  advanced  to  maturity. 
Throughout  this  young  forest,  a walk  has 
been  cut,  and  a number  of  fantastic  little 
grottoes  erected  for  the  conveniency  of  those 
who  visit  the  spot.  The  river  not  only  makes 
several  distinct  falls,  but  rushes  on  through 
a channel,  whose  roughness  and  rugged 
sublimity  adds  greatly  to  the  merits  of  the 
•cene,  as  an  object  of  interest  among  tourists.” 
— Picture  of  Scotland. 

Page  167,  Note  206. — Robert  Dundas 
of  Arniston,  elder  brother  of  Viscount  Mel- 
ville; born  1713,  appointed  president  in  1760, 
and  died  December  13,  1787,  after  a short 
illness.  Burns  sent  a copy  of  the  poem  to 
Dundas’s  son,  afterwards  Lord  Advocate  and 
Lord  Chief  Baron,  but  received  no  answer  to 
it,  which  he  greatly  resented. 

Page  168,  Note  207. — Printer,  Edin- 
burgh— author  of  the  Philosophy  of  Natural 
History,  and  member  of  the  Scottish  Antiqua- 
rian Society.  He  died  in  1795,  in  the  fifty- 
fifth  year  of  his  age. 

Page  168,  Note  208. — A club  to  which 
Burns  and  Smellie  belonged,  and  which  met 
in  Douglas’*  tavern  in  the  Anchor  Close. 


Edinburgh.  It  took  ts  name  of  Crochtllan 
Fencibles  from  a beautiful  plaintive  Highland 
air,  Cro  Chalein-^- literally  Colin’s  Cattle—* 
which  Douglas  occasionally  sang  with  much 
effect  to  his  guests. 

Page  168,  Note  209. — William  Tytler, 
Esq.  of  Woodhouselee  (born  17 1 1,  died  1792), 
a member  of  the  Society  of  Writers  to  the 
Signet,  had  published  in  1759  “An  Enquiry, 
Historical  and  Critical,  into  the  Evidence 
against  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,”  in  which  the 
favourable  side  of  her  case  is  adopted. 

Page  169,  Note  210. — One  of  a series 
intended  for  a projected  work,  under  the  title 
of  The  Poet’s  Progress.  These  lines  were 
sent  as  a specimen,  accompanied  by  a letter, 
to  Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  in  which  it  is 
thus  noticed: — “The  fragment  beginning,  a 
little,  upright,  pert,  tart,  &c.,  I have  not 
shown  to  any  man  living,  till  I now  send  it 
to  you.  It  forms  the  postulata,  the  axioms, 
the  definition  of  a character,  which,  if  it 
appear  at  all,  shall  be  placed  in  a variety  of 
lights.  This  particular  part  I send  you, 
merely  as  a sample  of  my  hand  at  portrait 
sketching. 

Page  169,  Note  211. — For  more  ex- 
plicit particulars  in  respect  of  Miss  Cruick- 
shank,  to  whom  these  lines  are  addressed, 
the  reader  is  referred  to  the  notes  on  the 
song  entitled  the  Rosebud. 

Page  169,  Note  212. — It  is  somewhat 
remarkable  how  comparatively  few  of  the 
pieces  written  by  Burns  from  this  time  for- 
ward have  been  addressed  directly  to  “ Cla- 
rinda,”  whose  influence  over  him  is  so 
powerfully  evinced  in  the  letters  (already 
mentioned  in  that  portion  of  this  volume 
which  is  devoted  to  the  poet’s  correspon- 
dence), which  passed  between  him  and  this 
fair  object  of  admiration.  In  the  foregoing 
notes  to  the  life  we  have  already  had  occasion 
to  enter  into  some  particulars  respecting  the 
career  of  Mrs.  McLehose  (Clarinda),  and  we 
shall  have  further  occasion  to  allude  to  her 
hereafter,  on  which  account  great  detail  in 
this  place  would  be  superfluous.  It  should, 
however,  be  remarked  that  the  beautiful  song 
My  Nannie’s  awa,  and  some  others  of  the 
most  exquisite  productions  of  Burns,  were 
dedicated  to  his  passion  for  Clarinda,  although 
she  be  not  directly  invoked. 

Page  170,  Note  213. — An  early  friend 
of  Burns  at  Kilmarnock.  These  lines  were 
written  in  the  year  1788,  at  the  period  when 
Burns  was  commencing  his  household  and 
farming  career  at  Ellisland. 

Page  170,  Note  214. — The  first  of  thesA 
sets  of  versea  was  written  in  June,  and  the 
second  in  December,  1788,  with  reference  to 


43* 


190 


NOTES  TO  THE 


ft  hermitage  in  the  grounds  of  Friars’  Carse, 
near  Ellisland,  the  seat  of  the  poet’s  friend. 
Captain  Riddel  of  Glenriddel. 

Page  171,  Note  215. — Captain  Riddel 
had,  in  the  course  ot  poring  over  a news- 
paper, fallen  upon  some  critica^  remarks 
respecting  some  production  of  Burns,  and 
had  accordingly  despatched  the  paper  to  the 
poet,  that  he  might  have  an  opportunity  of 
observing  what  was  said  of  him.  And  it  was 
in  returning  this  paper  that  Burns  accompa- 
nied it  with  the  comical  note  in  verse, 
entitled  an  “ Extempore  to  Captain  Riddel.” 
Page  171,  Note  216. — “The  Mother’s 
Lament  was  composed  partly  with  a view  to 
Mrs.  Fergusson  of  Craigdarroch,  and  partly  to 
the  worthy  patroness  of  my  early  unknown 
muse,  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Afton.” — Burns. 

Page  172,  Note  217. — “In  January 
last  (1789),  on  my  road  to  Ayrshire,  I had  to 
put  up  at  Bailie  Wigham’s  in  Sanquhar,  the 
only  tolerable  inn  in  the  place.  The  frost 
■Jvas  keen,  and  the  grim  evening  and  howding 
wind  were  ushering  in  a night  of  snow  and 
drift.  My  horse  and  I were  both  much 
fatigued  with  the  labours  of  the  day ; and, 
}ust  as  my  friend  the  bailie  and  I were  bidding 
defiance  to  the  storm,  over  a smoking  bowl, 
in  wheels  the  funeral  pageantry  of  the  late 
Mrs.  Oswald ; and  poor  I am  forced  to  brave 
i\[  the  terrors  of  the  tempestuous  night,  and 
jade  my  horse — my  young  favourite  horse, 
tfhom  1 had  just  christened  Pegasus — farther 
on  through  the  wildest  hills  and  moors  of 
Ayrshire  to  the  next  inn ! The  powers  of 
poetry  and  prose  sank  under  me  when  I 
would  describe  what  I felt.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  when  a good  fire  at  New  Cumnock  had 
#o  far  recovered  my  frozen  sinews,  I sat 
down  and  wrote  the  enclosed  ode.” — Burns. 

Page  172,  Note  218. — Mr.  James  Ten- 
nant had  been  an  early  and  constant  friend 
of  Robert  Burns  and  his  family,  and  had 
taken  an  active  part  in  the  selection  of  the 
farm  of  Ellisland  for  the  poet. 

Page  173,  Note  219. — Mr.  Cunningham 
mentions  that  the  poor  animal  whose  suffer- 
ings excited  this  burst  of  indignation  on  the 
part  of  the  poet,  was  shot  by  a lad  named 
James  Thomson,  son  of  a farmer  near  Ellis- 
land. Burns,  who  was  walking  beside  the 
Nith  at  the  moment,  execrated  the  young 
man,  and  spoke  of  throwing  him  into  the 
water. 

Page  174,  Note  220. — At  the  period  at 
which  this  biting  and  well-directed  rebuke 
from  the  pen  of  Burns  appeared,  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and,  in  fact,  the  whole  Scottish 
Kirk  was  agitated  by  the  most  violent  con- 
troversy, and  the  Ecclesiastical  Courts  were 


engrossed  with  the  persecution  vindicth  t y 
instituted  against  Dr.  William  McGill, 
This  was  about  the  month  of  August,  1789. 
The  original  ground  of  this  controversy,  in 
which  Dr.  McGill  was  now  figuring,  wa* 
this: — In  1786  he  had  published  a treatise, 
entitled,  A Practical  Essay  on  the  Death  of 
Jesus  Christ,  in  two  Parts — I.  Containing  the 
History — 2.  The  Doctrine  of  his  Death.  Dr, 
McGill  was  at  that  time  one  of  the  ministers 
of  the  parochial  church  of  Ayr,  and  his 
treatise  was  alleged  to  be  fraught  with  Arian 
and  Socinian  doctrines,  which  were  deemed 
injurious  to  the  interests  of  the  clergy.  Dr. 
McGill  thus  became  the  butt  of  many  at- 
tacks levelled,  partly  at  his  person  and 
character,  and  partly  at  his  work ; but  he 
took  little  or  no  notice  of  any  of  these  sal- 
lies, until  a minister,  who  had  hitherto 
been  a warm  and  personal  friend,  became 
his  most  bitter  assailant.  This  was  Dr. 
William  Peebles,  of  Newton-upon-Ayr,  who 
in  his  centenary  sermon,  preached  on  the  5th 
of  November,  1788,  gratuitously  denounced 
the  treatise  as  heretical,  and  Dr.  McGill  as 
a person  “ who  with  one  hand  received  the 
privileges  of  the  church,  while  with  the  other 
he  was  endeavouring  to  plunge  the  keenest 
poignard  into  her  heart.”  McGill  published 
a defence,  which  led,  in  April,  1789,  to  the 
introduction  of  the  case  into  the  presbyterial 
court  of  Ayr,  and  subsequently  into  that  of 
the  Synod  of  Glasgow  and  Ayr.  Meanwhile, 
the  public  out  of  doors  was  agitating  the 
question  with  the  keenest  interest,  and  the 
strife  of  the  liberal  and  zealous  parties  in 
the  church  had  reached  a painful  extreme. 
It  was  now  that  Burn 9 took  up  the  pen  in 
behalf  of  McGill,  whom,  it  is  probable,  he 
sincerely  looked  on  as  a worthy  and  enlight- 
ened person  suffering  an  unworthy  persecu- 
tion. The  war  raged,  till,  in  April  1790,  the 
case  came  on  for  trial  before  the  Synod,  when 
McGill  stopped  further  procedure,  by  giving 
in  a document,  expressive  of  his  deep  regret 
for  the  disquiet  he  had  occasioned,  explaining 
the  challenged  passages  of  his  book,  and 
declaring  his  adherence  to  the  standards  of 
the  church  on  the  points  of  doctrine  in 
question.  Dr.  McGill  died  March  30th, 
1807,  at  the  age  of  seventy-six,  and  in  the 
forty-sixth  year  of  his  ministry. — Abridged 
from  Murray's  Literary  History  of  GaP.or 
way. 

Page  174,  Note  221.— Dr.  McGill. 

Page  174,  Note  222. — U^on  the  corn, 
mencement  of  the  proceedings  against  Di. 
McGill  before  the  Synod,  the  municipal 
authorities  of  Ayr  published  a testimonial  in 
the  newspapers,  averring  their  high  esU-’era 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


497 


for  the  defendant,  both  as  a man  and  u 
minister.  ! 

Page  174,  Note  223. — Mr.  John  Ballan-  j 
tine,  the  Provost  t)f  the  town  of  Ayr,  who 
had  taken  an  -active  part  in  the  demonstra- 
tion in  favour  of  Dr.  McGill. 

Page  174,  Note  224. — It  was  by  Mr. 
Robert  Aiken  (the  lawyer,  the  friend  of 
Burns,  and  he  to  \^hom  the  “ Cotters’  Sa- 
turday Night”  is  dedicated)  that  Dr.  Me 
Gill  was  defended  before  the  Synod.  Mr. 
Aiken,  as  we  have  before  had  occasion  to 
remark,  was  not  a little  distinguished  for  his 
eloquence  as  an  advocate. 

Page  174,  Note  225. — Dr.  William  Dal- 
rymple,  as  remarkable  for  his  humble,  modest 
demeanour,  as  for  his  superior  talents  and 
worth.  He  was  senior  minister  to  the  col- 
legiate church  of  Ayr. 

Page  174,  Note  226. — John  Russell,  the 
preacher,  who  also  figures  in  the  Holy  Fair. 

Page  174,  Note  227. — The  Rev.  James 
McKin,  who  figures  as  the  hero  of  the 
Ordination. 

Page  174,Note  228. — Alexander  Moodie, 
the  minister  of  Riccarton,  who  figures  also  in 
the  Twa  Herds. 

Page  174.  Note  229. — The  Rev.  Mr. 
Auld,  of  Mauchline. 

Page  174,  Note  230. — The  clerk  was 
Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton,  whose  defence  against 
the  charges  preferred  by  Mr.  Auld,  had 
Occasioned  much  trouble  to  this  clergyman. 

Page  174,  Note  231. — Mr.  Grant,  of 
Ochiltree. 

Page  174,  Note  232. — Mr.  Young,  of 
Cumnock. 

Page  174,  Note  233. — The  Rev.  Dr. 
Peebles.  He  had  excited  some  ridicule  by 
a line  in  a poem  on  the  Centenary  of  the 
Revolution : 

' And  bound  in  Liberty’s  endearing  chain.** 

The  poetry  of  this  gentleman  is  said  to  have 
been  indifferent,  lie  translated  the  Havulies 
of  Cowley,  which  some  of  his  brethren, 
not  exactly  understanding  what  was  meant, 
took  the  liberty  of  calling  Hr.  Peebles  “ Haft 
Ideas’* — Chambers. 

Page  174,  Note  234. — "Dr.  Andrew 
Mitchell,  Monkton.  He  was  so  rich  as  to 
be  able  to  keep  his  carriage.  Extreme  love 
of  money,  and  a strange  confusion  of  ideas, 
characterised  this  presbyter.  In  his  prayer 
for  the  royal  family,  he  would  express 
himself  thus  : — “ Bless  the  King  — his 
Majesty  the  Queen — her  Majesty  the  Prince 
of  Wales.”  The  word  chemistry  he  pro- 
nounced im  three  different  ways — hemistry, 
•bemistry,  and  tchemistry — but  never,  by 
K K. 


; any  chance,  in  the  right  way.  Notwithstand- 
1 ing  the  antipathy  he  could  scarcely  neip 
| feeling  towards  Burns,  one  of  the  poets* 
comic  verses  would  make  him  laugh  heartily, 
and  confess  that,  " after  all,  he  was  a droll 
fellow.” — Chambers. 

Page  174,  Note  235. — Rev.  Mr.  Stephen 
Young,  of  Barr. 

Page  174,  Note  236. — Rev.  Mr.  George 
Smith,  of  Galston.  This  gentleman  is  praised 
as  friendly  to  common  sense  in  the  Holy 
Fair.  The  offence  which  was  taken  at  that 
praise  probably  embittered  the  poet  against 
him.  ♦ 

Page  174,  Note  237. — Mr.  John  Shep- 
herd, of  Muirkirk.  The  statistical  account  of 
Muirkirk  contributed  by  this  gentleman  to 
Sir  John  Sinclair’s  work,  is  above  the  average 
in  intelligence,  and  very  agreeably  written. 
He  had, ‘however,  an  unfortunate  habit  oA 
saying  rude  things,  which  he  mistook  for  wit; 
and  thus  laid  himself  open  to  Burns’s  satire 

Page  174,  Note  238. — The  poor  eldei„ 
William  Fisher,  whom  Burns  has  so  often 
scourged. 

Page  175,  Nots  239. — Robert  Heron, 
who  afterwards  became  a well-known  author 
by  profession,  and  died  in  misery,  in  London, 
in  1807. 

Page  175,  Note  240. — Waited  for. 

Page  175,  Note  241. — This  small  piece, 
which  was  an  imitation,  was  forwarded  to 
the  Star  Newspaper  for  publication  in  the 
month  of  May,  1789;  and  it  was  in  recom- 
pense for  this  contribution,  that  Burns  wan 
put  on  the  free  list,  and  supplied  with  the 
paper  gratuitously,  which,  however,  he  re- 
ceived very  irregularly.  In  allusion  to  the 
very  uncertain  manner  in  which  the  paper 
was  delivered  to  him,  he  addressed  the  sub- 
joined lines,  on  one  occasion,  to  the  pub- 
lisher : — 

Dear  Peter,  dear  Peter, 

We  poor  sons  of  metre 

Are  often  negleckit,  ye  ken ; 

For  instance,  your  sheet,  man. 

Though  glad  I’m  to  see’t  man, 

I get  it  no  ane  day  in  ten. 

Page  175,  Note  242. — "Mrs.  Dunlop, 
daughter  and  heiress  of  Sir  Thomas  Wallace, 
of  Craigie,  and  at  this  time  widow  of  John 
Dunlop,  of  Dunlop,  in  Ayrshire,  and  resident 
at  the  last  mentioned  place,  became  ac- 
quainted with  Burns  on  the  publication  of 
his  poems  at  Kilmarnock,  and  was  ever  after 
his  steady  friend.  She  was  a woman  of  ex- 
cellent understanding  and  heart,  with  a con- 
siderable taste  for  elegant  literature.  She 
died  in  1815,  at  the  age  of  eighty-four. 


198 


NOTES  TO  THE 


- Page  176,  "Note  243. — Subsequently 
Major  General  Dunlop,  of  Dunlop. 

Page  176,  Note  244. — Rachel,  daughter 
of  Mrs.  Dunlop,  was  engaged  upon  an 
imaginative  sketch  of  Burns’s  Muse,  Coila. 

Page  177,  Note  245. — A mare,  the 
property  of  Mr.  William  Nicol,  and  lent  by 
that  gentleman  to  Burns,  in  whose  keeping 
it  became  ill,  and  died  at  his  farm,  of  Ellis- 
land. 

Page  178,  Note  246. — This  piece  was 
published  in  a newspaper,  and  from  that 
time  forward  remained  unnoticed  until  it 
was  reproduced  in  Chambers’s  Edition  of 
Burns’s  Works. 

Page  178,  Note  247 — The  parallel  be- 
tween these  lines  and  those  of  Johnson,  as 
follow,  cannot  escape  the  reader  : — 

In  bed  we  laugh,  in  bed  we  cry. 

And  born  in  bed,  in  bed  we  die ; 

The  near  approach  a bed  may  show. 

Of  human  bliss  and  human  woe. 

Page  179,  Note  248. — At  the  general 
election,  1790,  the  representation  of  the  five 
boroughs  of  Dumfries,  Annan,  Kirkcud- 
bright, Sanquhar,  and  Lochmaben,  forming 
one  electoral  district,  was  contested  by  Sir 
James  Johnstone,  of  Westerhall,  in  the 
ministerial  or  Tory,  and  Captain  Patrick 
Miller,  the  younger,  of  Dalsvviuton,  in  the 
Whig  or  opposition  interest.  Burns,  wrho  wras 
friendly  to  the  latter  party,  here  allegorises 
the  contest ; characterising  Dumfries  as 
Maggy  on  the  banks  of  Nith ; Annan,  as 
Bess  of  Annandale ; Kirkcudbright,  as 
Whisky  Jean  of  Galloway;  Sanquhar,  as  Black 
Joan  frae  Chrichton  Peel;  and  Lochmaben 
as  Marjory  of  the  many  lochs — appellations, 
all  of  which  have  some  appropriateness  from 
local  circumstances.  The  contest  was  de- 
cided in  favour  of  Captain  Miller. 

Page  179,  Note  249. — Sir  J.  John- 
stone. 

Page  179,  Note  250. — Captain  Miller. 

Page  179,  Note  251. — King  George  the 
Third. 

Page  179,  Note  252. — George,  Prince 
of  Wales,  afterwards  Regent,  and  King 
George  the  Fourth. 

Page  180,  Note  253. — This  is  a de- 
scription of  the  contest  alluded  to  in  the 
preceding  poem.  “ Drumlanrig,”  is  the  in- 
"amous  fourth  Duke  of  Queensberry.  “Wes- 
terha,”  is  Sir  James  Johnstoue,  the  Tory 
candidate.  M’Murdo,  wras  the  Duke  of 
Queensberry’s  chamberlain  at  Drumlanrig — 
& friend  of  the  poet.  “ Craigdarroch ,”  :'s 
Fergusson,  of  Craigdarroch.  u Glenriddel” 
is  Captain  Riddel,  of  Glenriildel,  another 


friend  of  the  poet.  " Staig,”  was  the  provost 
of  Dumfries;  " Welsh,”  the  sheriff  of  the 
county. 

Page  180,  Note  254. — Apiece  of  ord* 
nance,  of  extraordinary  structure  and  mag- 
nitude, founded  in  the  reign  of  James  IV.  of 
Scotland,  about  the  end  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  which  is  still  exhibited,  though 
in  an  infirm  state,  in  Edinburgh  castle. 
The  diameter  of  the  mouth  is  twenty  inches. 

Page  180,  Note  255. — The  “ B ullers  of 
Buchan  ” is  an  appellation  given  to  a tre- 
mendous rocky  recess  on  the  Aberdeenshire 
coast,  near  Peterhead — having  an  opening 
to  the  sea  while  the  top  is  open.  The  sea, 
constantly  raging  in  it,  gives  it  the  appear- 
ance of  a pot  or  boiler,  and  hence  the 
name. 

Page  181,  Note  256. — The  executioner 
of  Charles  I.  of  England,  who,  as  was  the 
custom,  was  masked. 

Page  181,  Note  257. — John,  Earl  of 
Dundee. 

Page  181,  Note  258. — The  illustrious 
Graham,  Earl,  and  afterwards  Marquis,  of 
Montrose. 

Page  181,  Note  259. — Francis  Grose, 
author  of  the  Antiquities  of  England,  Ire- 
land, and  Scotland,  and  of  several  other  pub- 
lications, some  of  which  display  considerable 
knowledge  of  mankind,  writ,  and  humour, 
became  acquainted  with  Burns  at  Captain 
Riddel’s  mansion  at  Friar’s  Carse,  while 
making  the  necessary  inquiries  for  his 
work  on  Scottish  antiquities.  He  was  a 
bon-vivant,  and  had  acquired  enormous 
personal  bulk.  Captain  Grose  died  at 
Dublin,  of  an  apopletic  fit.  May  12,  1791, 
in  the  fifty-second  year  of  his  age. 

Page  181,  Note  260. — The  extrema 
parish  on  the  southern  frontier  of  Scotland 
is  called  KirJcm-aiden,  of  which  this  word 
Maidenkirlc  is  a mere  transposition.  Kirk- 
maiden  parish  is  in  Wigtonshire. 

Page  182,  Note  261. — One  of  the  old 
traditional  Scottish  ballads  entitled  Sir  John 
Malcolm,  furnished  Burns  with  the  rhyth- 
mical model  of  this  piece. 

Page  182,  Note  2 62. — This  poem  came 
through  the  hands  of  Rankine  of  .Adamhill 
to  those  of  a gentleman  of  Ayr,  who  gave  it 
to  the  world  in  the  Edinburgh  Magazine  for 
February  1818,  with  the  following  original 
superscription  : — “To  the  Right  Honourable 
the  Earl  of  Breadalbane,  President  of  the 
Right  Honourable  and  Honourable  the 
Highland  Society,  which  met  on  the  23rd  of 
May  last,  at  the  Shakspeare,  Covent-Garden, 
to  concert  ways  and  means  to  frustrate  the 
designs  of  five  hundred  Highlanders,  wh<fc 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


499 


jls  the  society  were  informed  by  Mr.  M , 

of  a s,  were  so  audacious  as  to  attempt 

an  escape  from  their  lawful  lords  and 
masters,  whose  property  they  were,  by 
emigrating  from  the  lands  of  Mr.  M’Donald, 
©f  Glengac-y,  to  the  wilds  of  Canada,  in 
search  of  in  at  fkntastic  thing — Liberty.” 
Page  183,  Note  263 — “As  the  authen- 
tic prose  history  of  the  Whistle  is  curious,  I 
shall  here  give  it.  In  the  train  of  Anne  of 
Denmark,  when  she  came  to  Scotland  with 
our  James  VI.,  there  came  over  also  a 
Danish  gentleman  of  gigantic  stature  and 
great  prowess,  and  a matchless  champion  of 
Bacchus.  He  had  a little  ebony  whistle, 
which,  at  the  commencement  of  the  orgies, 
he  laid  on  the  table,  and  whoever  was  the 
last  able  to  blow  it,  every  body  else  being 
disabled  by  the  potency  of  the  bottle,  was 
to  carry  off  the  whistle  as  a trophy  of 
victory.  The  Dane  produced  credentials  of 
his  victories,  without  a single  defeat,  at  the 
courts  of  Copenhagen,  Stockholm,  Moscow, 
Warsaw,  and  several  of  the  petty  courts  in 
Germany;  and  challenged  the  Scots  Bac- 
chanalians to  the  alternative  of  trying  his 
prowess,  or  else  of  acknowledging  their  in- 
feriority. After  many  overthrows  on  the 
part  of  the  Scots,  the  Dane  wa3  encountered 
by  Sir  Robert  Lawrie  of  Maxwelton,  an- 
cestor of  the  present  worthy  baronet  of  that 
name ; who,  after  three  days’  and  three 
nights’  hard  contest,  left  the  Scandinavian 
under  the  table, 

'And  blew  on  the  whistle  his  requiem  shrill.’ 

Sir  Walter,  son  of  Sir  Robert  before  men- 
tioned, afterwards  lost  the  whistle  to  Walter 
Riddel,  of  Ghenriddel,  who  had  married  & 
®ister  of  Sir  Walter’s.  On  Friday  the  16th 
of  October  1790,  at  Friar’s-Carse,  the 
whistle  was  once  more  contended  for,  as 
related  in  the  ballad,  by  the  present  Sir 
Robert,  of  Maxwelton : Robert  Riddel,  Esq., 
of  Glenriddel,  lineal  descendant,  and  repre- 
sentative of  Walter  Riddel,  who  won  the 
whistle,  and  in  whose  family  it  bad  con- 
tinued ; and  Alexander  Fergusson,  Esq.,  of 
Craigdarroch,  likewise  descended  from  the 
great  Sir  Robert ; which  last  gentleman 
carried  off  the  hard-won  honours  of  the  field.” 

• — Burns.  [The  whistle  is  kept  at  this 
day  by  the  Right  Honourable  R.  C.  Fergus- 
es, of  Craigdarroch,  M.P.  for  the  Stewartry 
Of  Kirkcudbright— son  of  the  victor.] 

Tne  Rhenish  Legends  supply  us  with 
two  or  three  analogous  stories,  in  which 
certain  cups  or  taulj  ards  figure,  and  of  which 
they  commemorate  the  facts  in  their  pre- 
verv&'iou. 


Page  133,  Note  264 — Vide  the  Carlo- 
thura  of  Ossian. 

Page  183,  Note  265. — Johnson’s  Tout 
to  the  Hebrides. 

Page  184,  Note  266. — James,  four- 
teenth Earl  of  Glencairn,  and  in  whose 
younger  brother  this  ancient  title  became 
extinct  in  1796,  was  a Whig  nobleman  of 
great  generosity  of  disposition.  He  died 
unmarried  at  Falmouth,  January  30th,  1791, 
in  the  forty-second  year  of  his  age.  Burns, 
who  considered  himself  greatly  indebted  to 
Glencairn,  put  on  mourning  for  his  death, 
wrote  this  beautiful  poem  to  his  memory, 
and  called  a son  after  him,  now  Major 
James  Glencairn  Burns,  of  the  Ea3t  India 
Company’s  service. 

Page  186,  Note  267. — Alexander  Mon- 
roe, Professor  of  Anatomy  to  the  University 
of  Edinburgh. 

Page  186,  Note  268. — The  favour 
which  formed  the  burthen  of  the  foregoing 
poetical  epistle,  was  the  translation  of  the 
poet  from  the  fatiguing  Excise  division  of 
Ellisland,  to  the  less  laborious  one  of 
Dumfries,  which  favour  is  acknowledged  as 
having  been  obtained,  in  these  lines. 

Page  186,  Note  269. — An  allusion  to 
the  decline  of  the  fashion  which  was  so 
prevalent  during  the  last  century  amongst 
gentlemen,  to  drink  to  excess,  swear,  and 
indulge  in  other  equally  delicate  amuse- 
ments, and  in  which  the  squirearchy  sc 
eminently  shone.  It  was  this  fashion  which 
had  been  so  severely  satirized  by  Fielding 
in  his  novels. 

Page  186,  Note  270. — The  ruins  of 
lincluden  church,  near  Dumfries. 

Page  188,  Note  271. — Though  found 
among  the  papers  of  Burns,  in  his  own 
hand- writing,  and  printed  as  his  in  some 
former  editions,  the  present  editor  haa 
scarcely  a doubt  that  this  poem  is  not  by 
the  Ayrshire  bard.  It  is  much  more  like 
the  composition  of  Fergusson,  or  Beattie. 

Page  188,  Note  272. — This  piece  wa* 
first  published  in  the  edition  of  Burns’s 
Works,  produced  by  Messrs  Chambers,  and 
was  contributed  by  Mr.  James  Duncan,  of 
Mosesfield,  near  Glasgow,  in  whose  posses- 
sion is  the  original  manuscript. 

Page  189,  Note  273.— When  Genera! 
Dumourief,  after  unparalled  victories,  left 
the  army  of  the  French  Republic,  April 
1793,  and  took  refuge  from  the  infuriated 
Convention,  with  the  enemies  he  had  lately 
beaten,  some  ore  expressing  joy  in  tha 
event  where  Bur  .is  was  present,  he  chanted 
almost  extempore  the  sarcastic  stanzas  of 
the  text. 


600 


NOTES  TO  THE 


P\ge  189,  Note  274.-— Captain  Riddel, 
of  Gienriddel,  or  Mr.  Riddel  of  Woodlee 
park,  which  is  not  very  decidly  ascer- 
tained. In  either  case,  we  are  informed  that 
the  parties  were  reconciled. 

Page  189,  Note  275. — The  Maria  of 
this  lampoon,  and  that  which  follows,  was 
Mrs.  Riddel,  of  Woodlee  park,  a lady  of 
poetical  talent  and  taste,  with  whom  the 
poet  was  generally  on  the  best  terms,  but 
who  had  temporarily  repudiated  him  from 
her  «ociety,  in  consequence  of  an  act  of 
rudeness  committed  by  him  when  elevated 
with  liquor.  She  is  the  lady  alluded  to  by 
Dr.  Currie,  of  whom  Burns,  amongst  his  last 
days  at  Brow,  asked  if  she  had  any  com- 
mands for  the  other  world,  and  who  wrote 
the  beautiful  paper  on  his  death,  which 
first  appeared  in  the  Dumfries  Journal,  and 
was  afterwards  transferred  entire  to  Currie's 
Memoir. 

Page  190,  Note  276. — By  iEsopus,  is 
meant  an  actor  of  the  name  of  William- 
son. 

Page  190,  Note  277. — Gillespie. 

Page  190,  Note  278. — Colonel  Me 
Dowal,  of  Logan. 

Page  191,  Note  279. — Burns  also  in- 
scribed the  following  lines  on  the  windows 
fcf  a grotto  in  Captain  Riddel’s  grounds : — 

To  Riddel,  much-lamented  man. 

This  ivied  cot  was  dear  ; 

Reader,  dost  value  matchless  worth  ? 
This  ivied  cot  revere. 

Page  191,  Note  280. — Mrs.  Riddel,  of 
Woodlee. 

Page  191,  Note  281. — These  lines 
were  written  in  the  fly  leaf  of  & copy  of 
Thomson’s  Select  Scottish  Melodies,  pre- 
sented to  Miss  Graham,  by  Robert  Burns. 

Page  192,  Note  282. — On  the  night  of 
December  the  4th,  1795. 

Page  193,  Note  283. — The  heroine  of 
several  of  his  songs.  Her  name  was  Jean 
Lorimer,  her  father  being  a farmer  at 
Kemeyss-Hall,  near  Dumfries.  Burns  seems 
to  hav.e  formed  an  acquaintance  with  her 
during  his  stay  at  Ellisland,  as  there  is 
stili  a pane  in  the  eastern  room  of  that 
house,  bearing  her  name,  and  that  of  her 
lover  John  Gillespie,  inscribed  by  her  own 
hand,  during  a visit  she  paid  there.  She 
afterwards  formed  an  unfortunate  alliance 
with  a Mr.  Whelpdale,  from  whom  she  soon 
separated.  At  the  time  when  the  following 
stanzas  w ere  addressed  to  her,  she  was  living 
in  retirement  at  Dumfries,  under  depression 
of  spirits,  the  consequence  of  her  recent 
dcwestic  uuhappin  m further  information 


respecting  this  elegant,  but  unfortunate 
woman,  is  given  elsewhere. 

Page  193,  Note  284.— On  the  death  of 
General  Stewart,  representative  of  the  Stew- 
artry  of  Kirkcudbright,  in  January  1795, 
Mr.  Heron,  of  Kerroughtree,  a zealous  Whig, 
and  a friend  of  Burns,  became  candidate  for 
the  vacant  seat.  He  was  opposed  by  Gor- 
don of  Balmaghie,  but  gained  his  election. 
The  third  ballad  relates  to  his  contest  at  the 
general  election  of  1798,  with  the  Hon. 
Montgomery  Stewart.  He  was  likewise 
elected  on  that  occasion,  but  unseated  by  a 
committee.  It  is  to  be  remarked,  that  the 
satirical  allusions  in  these  ballads,  are  almost 
all  founded  merely  in  party  bitterness,  not 
in  truth. 

Page  194,  Note  285. — John  Busby,  of 
Tinwold  Downs. 

Page  194,  Note  286—  Alluding  ,to 
Busby’s  brother,  whose  fortune,  as  it  was 
said,  was  founded  before  his  emigration  to 
the  East  Indies,  in  some  transactions  in 
which  the  Ayr  bank  was  concerned. 

Page  194,  Note  287. — Mr.  Maxwell,  of 
Cardoness. 

Page  194,  Note  288. — Mr.  Douglas,  of 
Carlingwark,  gave  the  name  of  Castle 
Douglas  to  a village  which  rose  in  his  neigh- 
bourhood, and  which  has  since  become  a 
considerable  and  thriving  town. 

Page  194,  Note  289. — Alluding  to  Mr. 
John  Syme,  an  intimate  fnend  of  Robert 
Burns. 

Page  194,  Note  290. — Troggin  is  a term 
applied,  in  Scotland  to  the  various  wares 
carried  about  by  hawkers,  who,  in  the  same 
provincialism,  are  called  troggers. 

Page  194,  Note  291.— The  Earl  of 
Galloway. 

Page  194,  Note  292. — Mr  Murray  of 
Broughton. 

Page  195,  Note  293. — One  of  the  can- 
didates  in  this  election — Mr.  Gordon  of 
Balmaghie. 

Page  194,  Note  294. — Alluding  some- 
what severely,  to  Busby,  of  Tinwold. 

Page  195,  Note  295. — Burns  here 
alludes  to  a brother  wit,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Muir- 
head,  minister  of  Urr,  in  Galloway.  The 
hit  applied  very  well,  for  Muirhead  was  a 
wind-dried,  unhealthy  looking  little  man* 
very  proud  of  his  genealogy,  and  ambitious 
of  being  acknowledged,  on  all  occasions,  a3 
the  chief  of  the  Muirheads ! He  was  not 
disposed,  however,  to  sit  down  with  the 
affront : on  the  contrary,  he  replied  to  it  in 
a virulent  diatribe,  which  may  be  presented 
as  a remarkable  specimen  of  clerical  and 
poetical  irritability  i and  curious,  moreover 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


501 


09  perhaps  the  only  contemporary  satire 
upon  Burns  of  which  the  world  has  ever 
beard,  except  the  immortal  “ trimming 
letter”  from  a tailor.  Dr.  Muirliead’s  jeu 
d’ esprit  is  in  the  shape  of  a translation  from 
Martial’s  ode.  Ad  Vacerram. 

•‘Vacerras,  shabby  son  of  whore, 

Why  do  thy  patrons  keep  thee  poor? 

Thou  art  a sycophant  and  traitor, 

A liar,  and  calumniator. 

Who  conscience  (hadst  thou  that)  wouldst 
sell. 

Nay  lave  the  common  sewers  of  hell 
For  whisky.  Like  most  precious  imp. 

Thou  art  a gauyer,  lhy raster,  pimp. — 

How  comes  it  then,  Yacerras,  that 
Thou  still  art  poor  as  a church  rat  ? ” — 

Chambers. 

Page  195,  Note  296. — Burns  was  a pri- 
vate in  the  volunteer  yoeman  corps  of 
Dumfries,  of  which  Colonel  De  Peyster  wa% 
the  commanding  officer. 

Page  195,  Note  297. — A monument 
about  to  be  erected  by  Mr.  Heron,  of  Ker- 
roughtree,  in  his  own  grounds. 

Page  195,  Note  298. — Alluding  to  an 
only  daughter,  who  died  in  the  autumn  of 

1795,  and  so  far  removed  from  his  residence, 
as  to  render  it  impossible  for  him  to  visit 
her  at  the  last.  She  died,  moreover,  very 
suddenly. 

Page  196,  Note  299. — The  Honourable 
Henry  Erskine  was  elected  Dean  of  the 
Faculty  of  Advocates  in  1786,  and  unani- 
mously re-elected  every  year  till  1796,  when 
it  was  resolved  by  some  members  of  the 
Tory  party  at  the  Scottish  bar  to  oppose  his 
re-election,  in  consideration  of  his  having 
aided  in  getting  up  a petition  against  the 
passing  of  the  well-known  sedition  bills. 
Mr.  Erskine’s  appearance  at  the  Circus 
(mow  the  Adelphi  Theatre)  on  that  occasion 
was  designated  by  those  gentlemen  (among 
whom  were  Charles  Hope  and  David  Boyle, 
now  respectively  Lord  President  and  Lord 
Justice-Clarke)  as  "agitating  the  giddy  and 
ignorant  multitude,  and  cherishing  such 
humours  and  dispositions  as  directly  tend 
to  overturn  the  laws.”  They  brought  for- 
ward Mr.  Robert  Dundas,  of  Arniston, 
Lord  Advocate,  in  opposition  to  Mr. 
Ensklne  ; and  at  the  election,  January  12th, 

1796,  the  former  gained  the  day  by  123 
against  38  votes.  The  following  verses  by 
Burns  describe  the  keenness  of  the  contest. 
The  mortification  of  the  displaced  dean  was 
»o  extreme,  that  he  that  evening,  with  a 
«oal-axe,  hewed  off  from  his  door  in  Prince’s 
ttreet,  a brass-plate  on  which  his  designa- 


| tion  as  Dean  of  Faculty  was  inscribed.  It 
is  not  impossible,  that,  in  characterising 
| Mr.  Dundas  so  opprobriously,  and  we  may 
! add  unjustly,  Burns  might  recollect  the 
slight  with  which  his  elegiac  verses  on  the 
father  of  that  gentleman  had  been  treated 
eight  years  before. 

Page  197,  Note  300. — The  Duke  of 
Q,ueensberry  stripped  his  domains  of  Drum- 
lanrig,  in  Dumfries-shire,  and  Neidpath  in 
Peebles-shire,  of  all  the  wood  fit  for  being 
cut,  in  order  to  enrich  the  Countess  of 
Yarmouth,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  his 
daughter. 

Page  197,  Note  301. — Burns  w'as  one 
day  being  rallied  by  a friend  for  wasting  his 
satirical  shafts  on  persons  unworthy  of  his 
notice,  and  was  reminded  that  there  were 
such  persons  (distinguished  by  rank  and 
circumstance)  as  the  Duke  of  Queensberry, 
on  whom  his  biting  rhapsodies  might  more 
advantageously  be  expended.  He  immedi- 
ately improvised  these  lines. 

Page  197,  Note  302. — Mr.  M'Murdo 
resided  at  Drumlanrig,  as  chamberlain  to  the 
Duke  of  Queensberry.  He  and  his  wife  and 
daughters  are  allude  l to  in  the  election  piece, 
entitled  Second  Epistle  to  Mr.  Graham  of 
Fintry.  They  were  kind  and  hospitable 
friends  of  Burns,  who  celebrated  several  of 
the  young  ladies  in  his  songs. 

Page  198,  Note  303. — “Sir  Walter  Scott 
possessed  a tumbler,  on  which  these  lines 
written  by  Burns  on  the  arrival  of  a friend, 
Mr.  W.  Stewart,  factor  to  a gentleman  of 
Nithsdale.  The  landlady  being  very  wrath 
at  what  she  considered  the  disfigurement  of 
her  glass,  a gentleman  present  appeased  her 
by  paying  down  a shilling,  and  carried  off  the 
relic.” — Lockhart. 

Page  198,  Note  304. — According  to 
Burns  himself,  this  song  was  writteu  when 
he  was  about  seventeen  years  old,  in  honour 
of  a damsel  named  Isabella  Steven,  who’ 
lived  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Locblee. 

Page  198,  Note  305. — The  old  ballad, 
McMillan's  Peggy,  was  the  model  of  this 
song.  The  heroine  of  the  piece  was  a young 
lady  educated  in  a manner  somewhat  supe- 
rior to  the  peasantry  in  general,  and  on 
whom  Burns  practised  to  display  his  tact  in 
captivating,  until,  by  degrees,  he  fell  in  love 
in  earnest,  and  then  discov  ered  that  the  object 
of  this  first  sport,  then  earnest,  was  previ- 
ously engaged.  “ It  cost  me,”  says  he^ 
“ some  heartaches  to  get  rid  of  the  affair.” 

Page  198,  Note  306. — According  to 
Mr.  Cunningham,  this  was  the  same  person 
as  Montgomery's  Peggy.  But  more  accurate 
information  identifies  the  hero;ue  of  the  piecs 


m 


NOTES  TO  THE 


os  Margaret  Alison,  of  Lochlee,  who  was 
not  engaged,  and  who  actually  mourned  the 
inconstancy  of  Burns. 

P age  199,  Note  307. — This  was  the 
same  Peggy  Alison  mentioned  in  the  fore- 
going note. 

Page  199,  Note  308. — An  adaptation  of 
the  Old  English  Ballad,  which  was  rescued 
from  oblivion,  obscurity,  and  black  letter  (in 
the  Pepys  Library,  Cambridge),  by  Mr. 
Jamieson,  who  published  it  in  his  collection. 

Pagy  200,  Note  309. — Anne  Blair,  and 
Anne  Ronald,  daughters  of  farmers  in  Tar- 
bolton  parish,  and  the  latter  of  whom  became 
Mrs.  Paterson,  of  Aikenbrae,  have  each  been 
spoken  of  in  their  native  district  as  the 
heroine  of  this  song.  The  poet’s  family 
was  intimate  with  Mr.  Ronald’s,  when  resi- 
ding at  Lochlee,  and  even  after  they  had  re- 
moved to  Mossgiel.  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns  was 
at  one  time  considered  as  a wooer  of  one  of 
the  Miss  Ronald’s.  We  learn  from  Mr. 
Cunningham  that  Mr.  Ronald  liked  the  con- 
versation of  the  poet  very  much,  and  would 
•ometirnes  sit  late  with  him;  on  which  one 
of  the  girls — probably  not  Anne — remarked 
that  “ she  could  na  see  ought  about  Robert 
Burns  that  would  tempt  her  to  sit  up  wi’ 
him  till  twal  o’clock  at  night.” 

Page  200,  Note  310. — This  song  was 
composed  in  honour  of  Margaret  Thomson, 
who  lived  in  a cottage  adjoining  the  Village 
School  of  Kirkoswald,  where  Burns  was 
completing  his  education,  when  nineteen 
years  old.  Burns  himself  gives  the  follow- 
ing account  of  the  matter: — This  Miss 
Thomson  afterwards  married  a Mr.  Nielson, 
and  settled  with  him  in  the  town  of  Ayr. 
**  A charming  fillette,”  says  Burns  in  speaking 
of  her,  “ who  lived  next  door  to  the  school, 
overset  my  trigonometry,  and  sent  me  olf  at 
a tangent  from  the  sphere  of  my  studies. 
I,  however,  struggled  on  with  my  sines  and 
cosines  for  a few  days  more ; but  stepping 
into  th;  garden  one  charming  noon  to  take 
the  sun’s  altitude,  there  I met  my  angel, 

Like  Proserpine  gathering  flowers. 

Herself  a fairer  flower. 

It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  doing  any  more 
good  at  school.  The  remaining  week  I staid, 
1 did  nothing  but  craze  the  faculties  of  my 
joul  about  her,  or  steal  out  to  meet  her.” 

Page  201,  Note  311. — “This  tune  is  by 
Oswald;  and  the  words  relate  to  some  part 
of  my  private  history,  which  it  is  of  no  con- 
sequence to  the  world  to  know.” — Burns. 

Page  201,  Note  312. — In  a memoir  of 
Ramsay,  in  a publication  entitled  “ Lives  of 
Eminent  Scotsmen”  (3  vols.  Boys,  London), 


there  is  presented  a very  early  oong  to  the 
tune  of  My  Nannie , O,  beginning — • 

“As  I came  in  by  Enbro’  town. 

By  the  side  o’  the  bonny  city,  O, 

I heard  a young  man  mak  his  moan. 

And  O!  it  was  a pity,  O. 

For  aye  he  cried  his  Nannie,  O! 

His  handsome,  charming  Nannie,  O! 
Nor  friend  nor  foe  can  tell,  O — ho. 

How  dearly  I love  Nannie,  O ! ” 

An  improved  song  to  the  same  air  was  written 
by  Ramsay ; and  finally,  Burns  wedded  the 
music  to  the  following  beautiful  effusion  of 
natural  sentiment,  the  heroine  of  which  it 
believed  to  have  been  a certain  Agnes  Flem- 
ing, servant  at  Calcothill,  near  Lochlee. 

Page  202,  Note  313. — “An  improve- 
ment upon  an  ancient  homely  ditty  to  the 
same  air.  It  has  been  pointed  out  that  the 
last  admirable  verse  is  formed  upon  a conceit, 
which  was  put  into  print  long  before  the 
days  of  Burns,  and  in  a place  where  it  is  not 
at  all  probable  that  he  could  ever  have  seen 
it — a comedy  entitled  Cupid's  Whirligig,  pub 
lished  in  1607.  The  passage  in  the  comedy 
is  an  apostrophe  to  the  female  sex,  as  fol- 
lows:— “Since  we  were  made  before  you, 
should  we  not  admire  you  as  the  last,  and 
therefore,  perfect  work  of  nature.  Man  was 
made  when  nature  was  but  an  apprentice, 
but  woman  when  she  was  a skilful  mistress 
of  her  art.” — Chambers. 

Page  202,  Note  314. — A quotation  from 
Young’s  “ Night  Thoughts.” 

Page  203,  Note  315. — The  “ Highland 
Lassie,”  celebrated  in  this  song,  was  the 
Mary  Campbell,  to  whom  Burns  was  at  one 
time  engaged,  and  devotedly  attached,  and 
whose  premature  death,  in  fact,  prevented  her 
becoming  Mrs.  Burns. 

Page  204,  Note  316. — “Composed  oc 
the  amiable  and  excellent  family  of  White- 
foord’s  leaving  Ballochmyle,  when  Sir  John’* 
misfortunes  obliged  him  to  sell  the  estate.”— 
Burns.  Maria  was  Miss  Whitefoord,  after- 
wards Mrs.  Cranstone  The  purchaser  of  the 
property  was  Claud  Alexander,  Esq.,  whose 
sister  Burns  has  celebrated  as  the  Bonnie 
Lass  of  Ballochmyle. 

Page  205,  Note  317. — The  origin  of  this 
beautiful  song  was  the  accidental  meeting  of 
Miss  Wilhelmina  Alexander,  in  the  grounds 
attached  to  the  mansion  of  Ballochmyle,  the 
property  of  her  brother  Mr.  Claude  Alexan- 
der. The  song  was  written  in  1786,  and 
immediately  forwarded  by  Burns  to  Miss 
Alexander,  whose  delicacy  kept  it  unknown 
for  the  time. 

Page  205,  Note  318. — I composed  thii 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


601 


*ong  »3  1 conveyed  my  chest  so  far  on  the 
road  to  Greenock,  where  I was  to  embark  in 
a few  days  for  Jamaica  (November,  1786). 
f meant  it  as  a farewell  dirge  to  my  native 
land.” — Burns. 

Professor  Walker  gives  the  following  ac- 
count relating  to  this  song.  “ I requested 
him  (Burns)  to  communicate  some  of  his 
unpublished  poems,  and  he  recited  his  fare- 
well s mg  to  the  Banks  of  Ayr,  introducing 
it  with  a description  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  was  composed,  more  striking 
than  the  poem  itself.  He  had  left  Dr.  Lau- 
rie’s family,  after  a visit  which  he  expected 
to  be  the  last,  and  on  his  w ay  home,  had  to 
cross  a wide  stretch  of  solitary  moor.  His 
mind  was  strongly  affected  by  parting  for 
ever  with  a scene  where  he  had  tasted  so 
much  elegant  and  social  pleasure ; and  de- 
pressed by  the  contrasted  gloom  of  his 
prospects,  the  aspect  of  nature  harmonised 
with  his  feelings ; it  was  a lowering  and 
heavy  evening  in  the  end  of  autumn.  The 
wind  was  up,  and  whistled  through  the 
rushes  and  long  spear  grass  which  bent  be- 
fore it.  The  clouds  were  driving  across  the 
sky ; and  cold  pelting  showers  at  intervals 
added  discomfort  of  body  to  cheerlessness  of 
mind.  Under  these  circumstances,  and  in 
this  frame,  Burns  composed  this  poem. 

Page  205,  Note  319. — This  song  relates 
to  an  incident  in  real  life.  The  unfortunate 
heroine  was  a beautiful  woman,  daughter  to 
a landed  gentleman  of  Carrick,  and  niece  to 
a baronet.  Her  lover  was  a landed  gentle- 
man of  Wigtonshire.  A mother  without  the 
sanction  of  matrimony,  and  deserted  by  her 
lover,  she  died  of  a broken  heart.  On  the 
subsequent  death  of  her  brother,  her  younger 
sister  inherited  the  family  property,  but  not 
without  opposition  from  an  unexpected 
quarter.  The  seducer  and  deserter  of  the 
deceased  lady  now  appeared  in  a court  of 
law,  to  endeavour  establish  the  fact  of  a 
secret  marriage  with  her,  so  as  to  entitle  him 
to  succeed  to  her  brother’s  esta^,  as  the 
father  and  heir  of  her  deceased  child,  whose 
claim,  of  course,  would  have  been  preferable 
to  that  of  the  younger  sister,  if  liis  legitimacy 
could  have  been  proved.  In  this  attempt, 
the  seducer,  it  is  gratifying  to  add,  wras  not 
successful. 

The  following  was  the  original  version  of 
the  song,  written  soon  after  the  poet’s  de 
parture  from  Ayrshire,  and  afterwards  altered 
to  suit  an  air  composed  by  a Mr.  Miller, 
writer  in  Edinburgh  : — 

Ye  flowery  banks  o’  bonnie  Doon* 
fiaw  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair  l 


How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 

And  I sae  fu’  o’  care ! 

Thou’ll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 
That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 

Thou  minds  me  o’  the  happy  days 
When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou’ll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird. 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 

For  sae  I sat,  and  sae  I sang. 

And  wist  na  o’  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I rov’d  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine. 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o’  its  love; 

And  sae  did  I o’  mine. 

Wi’  lightsome  heart  I pu'd  a rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree  : 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose; 

But  left  the  thorn  wi’  me. 

Page  205,  Note  330. — "I  composed  these 
stanzas  standing  under  the  falls  of  Aberfeldy, 
at  or  near  Moness,  in  Perthshire.” — Burns. 
This  was  in  the  course  of  his  Highland  Ex- 
cursion, in  the  month  of  September,  1787. 

Page  205,  Note  321. — James  Mao 
pherson  was  a noted  Highland  freebooter, 
of  uncommon  personal  strength,  and  an  ex- 
cellent performer  on  the  violin.  After 
holding  the  counties  of  Aberdeen,  Banff, 
and  Moray  in  fear  for  some  years,  he  was 
seized  by  Duff,  of  Braco,  ancestor  of  the 
Earl  of  Fife,  and  tried  before  the  sheriff  of 
Banffshire  (November  7,  1700),  along  with 
certain  gipsies  who  had  been  taken  in  his 
company.  In  the  prison,  while  he  lay  under 
sentence  of  death,  he  composed  a song,  and 
an  appropriate  air,  the  former  commencing 
thus : — 

“ I’ve  spent  my  time  in  rioting. 

Debauched  my  health  aud  strength ; 

I squandered  fast  as  pillage  came. 

And  fell  to  shame  at  length. 

But  dantonly  and  wantonly. 

And  rantonly  I’ll  gae ; 

Pll  play  a tune,  and  dance  it  romp 
Beneath  the  gallows  tree.” 

When  brought  to  the  place  of  execution,  on 
the  Gallow-liill  of  Banff  (Nov.  16),  he  played 
the  tune  on  his  violin,  and  then  asked  if  any 
friend  was  present  who  would  accept  the 
instrument  as  a gift  at  his  hands.  No  one 
coming  forward,  he  indignantly  broke  the 
violin  on  his  knee,  and  threw  away  the  frag- 
ments ; after  which  he  submitted  to  his 
fate.  The  traditionary  accounts  of  Mac- 
pherson’s  immense  prowess  are  justified  by 
his  sword,  which  is  still  preserved  ir_  Duff 
House,  at  Banff,  and  is  &u  implement  q! 

4* 


104 


NOTES  TO  THE 


great  length  and  weight — as  well  as  by  his 
bones,  which  were  found  a few  years  ago, 
and  were  allowed  by  all  who  saw  them  to  be 
much  stronger  than  the  bones  of  ordinary  men. 

The  verses  of  Burns — justly  called  by 
Mr.  Lockhart,  “ a grand  lyric,” — were  de- 
signed as  an  improvement  on  those  of  the 
freebooter,  preserving  the  same  air.  In  the 
edition  of  the  poet’s  works,  superintended 
by  Messrs.  Hogg  and  Motherwell  (Glasgow, 
1834),  the  reader  will  find  ampler  information 
on  the  subject  of  Macpherson  and  his  “Rant.” 

Page  207,  Note  322. — The  individual 
here  meant  is  William,  fourth  Viscount  of 
Strathallan,  who  fell  on  the  insurgent  side  at 
the  battle  of  Culloden,  April,  1/46.  Burns, 
probably  ignorant  of  this  his  real  fate,  de- 
scribes him  as  having  survived  the  action, 
mid  taken  refuge  from  the  fury  of  the  govern- 
ment forces  in  a Highland  fastness. 

Page  207,  Note  323. — These  verses 
were  composed  on  a charming  girl,  a Miss 
Charlotte  Hamilton,  who  was  since  married  to 
James  M’Kitrick  Adair,  Esq.,  physician. 
She  is  sister  of  my  worthy  friend,  Gavin 
Hamilton,  of  Mauchline,  and  was  born  on 
the  banks  of  Ayr,  but  was,  at  the  time  I I 
wrote  these  lines,  residing  at  Harvieston,  in 
Clackmannanshire,  on  the  romantic  banks  of 
the  little  river  Devon.” — Burns.  It  was  in 
the  course  of  a short  tour  in  company  with  Dr. 
Adair,  August  1787,  that  the  poet  saw 
Miss  Hamilton,  at  Harvieston.  Introducing 
his  fellow-traveller  to  the  family,  he  was  the 
means  of  bringing  about  an  union,  from 
which,  says  Adair,  in  1800,  “ I have  derived, 
and  expect  further  to  derive,  much  happiness.” 

Page  207,  Note  324. — “This  song,” 
nays  Burns,  “ I composed  on  one  of  the  most 
accomplished  of  women,  Miss  Peggy  Chal- 
mers (that  was),  now  Mrs.  Lewis  Hay,  of 
Forbes  and  Co.’s  bank,  Edinburgh.” — 
Burns.  Miss  Chalmers  was  first  met  by 
Burns  in  a trip  through  Clackmannanshire, 
in  1787.  It  was  then  that  he  visited  Har- 
viestou  in  the  month  of  August. 

Page  208,  Note  325. — “I  composed 
these  verses,”  says  Burns,  “on  Miss  Isabella 
McLeod,  of  Ramsay,  alluding  to  her  feelings 
on  the  death  of  her  sister,  and  the  still 
more  melancholy  death  (1786)  of  her  sister’s 
husband,  the  late  Earl  of  Louden,  who  shot 
himself  out  of  sheer  heartbreak  at  some 
mortifications  he  suffered,  owing  to  the  de- 
ranged state  of  his  finances.” 

Page  208,  Note  326. — “The  chorus  I 
picked  up  from  an  old  woman  in  Dumblane; 
the  rest  of  the  soiig  is  mine.” — Burns.  It 
is  evident  that  the  poet  has  understood  the 
chorus  iu  a Jacobite  sensq,  and  written  his 


own  verses  in  that  strain  accordingly.  Mfc 
Peter  Buchan,  Via?,  nevertheless,  ascertained 
that  the  original  song  related  to  a love 
attachment  between  Harry  Lurasdale,  the 
second  son  of  a Highland  gentleman,  and 
Miss  Jeanie  Gordon,  daughter  to  the  Laird 
of  Knockhespock  in  Aberdeenshire.  The 
lady  was  married  to  her  cousin,  Habichie 
Gordon,  a son  of  the  laird  of  Rhymie ; and 
some  time  after,  her  former  lover  having  met 
her,  and  shaken  her  hand,  her  husband  drew 
his  sword  in  anger,  and  lopped  off  several  of 
Lumsdale’s  fingers — which  Highland  Harry 
took  so  much  to  heart,  that  he  soon  after 
died. — See  Hogg  and  Motherwell’s  edition  of 
Burns,  II.,  197. 

Page  208,  Note  327. — “ I composed 
these  verses,”  says  Burns,  “out  of  compli- 
ment to  a Mrs.  McLachlan,  whose  husband 
was  an  officer  in  the  East  Indies.” 

Page  208,  Note  328. — “I  composed 
these  verses  while  I staid  at  Ochtertyre  with 
Sir  William  Murray  (father  of  Sir  George 
Murray,  late  Secretary  for  the  colonies).  The 
lady,  who  was  also  at  Ochtertyre  at  the 
same  time,  was  the  well-known  toast,  Miss 
i Euphemia  Murray,  of  Lintrose,  who  was 
called,  and  very  justly,  the  Flower  of 
Strathmore” — Burns.  This  visit  to  Ochter- 
tyre took  place  in  the  month  of  June, 
1787. 

Page  209,  Note  329. — “This  song/' 
says  Burns,  “I  composed  on  Miss  Jenny 
Cruickshank,  only  child  of  my  worthy  friend 
Mr.  William  Cruickshank,  of  the  High 
School,  Edinburgh.”  To  the  same  person 
were  also  addressed  the  charming  lines 
which  begin : — 

“ Beauteous  rosebud  young  and  gay/' 

and  which  were  written  by  Burns  in  the 
fly-leaf  of  a book  presented  by  him  to  her. 
This  young  lady,  who  was  then  only  twelve 
years  old,  afterwards  became  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Henderson,  a writer  or  legal  practitioner  at 
Jedburgh.  Mr.  Cruickshank’s  house  was  a 
floor  at  the  top  of  a common  stair  now 
marked,  No.  30,  in  James’s  Square,  Edin- 
burgh ; the  poet  for  some  time  lived  with 
him,  his  room  being  one  which  has  a window 
looking  out  from  the  gable  ol  the  house 
upon  the  green  behind  the  General  Registei 
House.  Here  Burns  lay  wdiile  confined  with 
a bruised  limb  in  the  winter  of  1787-8.  Mr, 
Cruickshank  died,  March  8,  1795. 

Page  209,  Note  330. — In  imitation  of  a 
song  of  which  that  consummate  libertine, 
Charles  II.,  was  the  hero. 

Page  210,  Note  331. — “I  composed  this 
song  out  of  compliment  to  Miss  Ann  Master 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


Ion,  the  daughter  of  my  friend  Allan  Master- 
the  author  of  ihe  air  Strathallan’s 
Lament,  and  two  or  three  others  in  this 
work  (Johnson’s  Scots  Musical  Museum).” — 
Burns.  Miss  Mastertou  afterwards  became 
Mrs.  Derbishire. 

Page  211,  Note  332. — "The  first  half 
stanza  of  this  song  is  old ; the  rest  mine.” — 
Burns.  That  half  stanza  was  probably  the 
same  with  the  following,  which  occurs  near 
the  close  of  a homely  ballad,  printed  in  Hogg 
and  Motherwell’s  edition  of  Burns,  as  pre- 
served by  Mr.  Peter  Buchan,  who  further 
communicates  that  the  ballad  was  composed 
in  1636,  by  Alexander  Lesley,  of  Edinburgh, 
on  Doveran  side,  grandfather  to  the  cele- 
brated Archbishop  Sharpe : — 

“ Ye’ii  bring  me  here  a pint  of  wine, 

A salver  and  a silver  tassie. 

That  I may  drink,  before  I gang, 

A health  to  my  ain  bonnie  lassie.” 

The  fact  of  Burns  pitching  upon  this  one 
fine  stanza  of  an  old  ballad,  as  a foundation 
for  a new  song,  shows  expressively  the  apt 
sense  he  had  of  all  that  was  beautiful  in 
poetry,  and  how  ready  his  imagination  was 
to  take  wing  upon  the  slightest  command. 

Page  21 1,  Note  333. — These  lines,  which 
were  found  amongst  the  papers  of  Mrs. 
McLehose,  were  evidently  addressed  to  her, 
and  allude  to  the  parting  scene  between  the 
poet  and  his  Clarinda.  “ These  exquisitely 
affecting  stanzas  contain  the  essence  of  a 
thousand  love  tales.” — Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Page  211,  Note  334. — The  tune  of  this 
song  was  composed  by  Marshall,  who  for 
many  years  served  in  the  capacity  of  butler 
to  the  Duke  of  Gordon,  and  to  whose  genius 
we  are  indebted  for  some  of  the  most  exqui- 
site of  Scottish  airs.  Of  the  words  Burns 

fives  the  following  brief  account.  “This  song 
composed  out  of  compliment  to  Mrs. 
Burns.  N.B. — It  was  the  honey-moon.” 
Page  212,  Note  335. — “This  air  is 
Oswald’s ; the  song  I made  out  of  compliment 
to  Mrs.  Burns.” — Burns. 

Page  212,  Note  336. — "I  composed 
this  song,”  says  Burns,  “ in  the  course  of  a 
most  cheerless  ride  through  the  wild  muirs 
which  extend  between  Galloway  and  Ayr- 
shire.” 

Page  213,  Note  337. — "This  celebrated 
poem  was  composed  by  Burns,  in  September 
1789,  on  the  anniverssry  of  the  day  on  which 
he  heard  of  the  death  of  his  early  love,  Mary 
Campbell.  According  to  Mrs.  Burns,  he 
spent  that  day,  though  labouring  under  cold, 
in  the  usual  work  of  the  harvest,  and  appa- 
rently in  excellent  spirits.  But,  as  the  twi-  I 


light  deepened,  he  appeared  to  grow  'very 
sad  about  something,’  and  at  length  wan* 
dered  out  into  the  barn-yard,  to  which  hij 
wife,  in  her  anxiety,  followed  him,  entreating 
him  in  vain  to  observe  that  frost  had  set  in, 
and  to  return  to  tne  fireside.  On  being  again 
and  again  requested  to  do  so,  he  promised 
compliance — but  still  remained  where  he  wa?, 
striding  up  and  down  slowly,  and  contem- 
plating the  sky,  which  was  singularly  clear 
and  starry.  At  last  Mrs.  Burns  found  him 
stretched  on  a mass  .of  straw,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  a beautiful  planet,  ‘that  shone  like 
another  moon,’  and  prevailed  on  him  to  come 
in.  He  immediately,  on  entering  the  house, 
called  for  his  desk,  and  wrote  exactly  as  they 
now  stand,  with  all  the  ease  of  one  copying 
from  memory,  these  sublime  and  pathetic 
verses.” 

Page  213,  Note  338. — “I composed  this 
song  out  of  compliment  to  one  of  the  happiesfe 
and  worthiest  married  couples  in  the  world, 
Robert  Riddel,  Esq.,  of  Glenriddel,  and  his 
lady.  At  their  fireside  I have  enjoyed  mora 
pleasant  evenings  than  at  all  the  houses  of 
fashionable  people  in  this  country  put  toge- 
ther.”— Burns.  Friars’  Carse,  closely  adja- 
cent to  Ellisland,  on  the  bank  of  the  Nith, 
was  the  residence  of  this  couple.  Mr.  Riddel 
died  April,  1791. 

Page  213,  Note  339. — “This  air  is 
Masterton’s  ; the  song  mine.  The  occasion 
of  it  was  this  : — Mr.  William  Nicol,  of  tha 
High  School,  Edinburgh,  during  the  autumn 
vacation,  being  at  Moffat,  honest  Allan,  whd 
was  at  that  time  on  a visit  to  Dalswinton 
and  I,  went  to  pay  Nicol  a visit.  We  had 
such  a joyous  meeting,  that  Mr.  Masterton 
and  I agreed,  each  in  our  own  way*,  that  wa 
should  celebrate  the  business.” — Burns 
“This  meeting,”  says  Currie,  writing  in 
1799,  "took  place  at  Laggan,  a farm  pur- 
chased by  Mr.  Nicol,  in  Nithsdale,  on  the 
recommendation  of  Burns.  These  three’ 
honest  fellows — all  men  of  uncommon  talents 
— are  now  all  under  the  turf 1”  Masterton 
has  elsewhere  been  described  by  Burns  as 
“ one  of  the  worthiest  men  in  the  world,  and 
a man  of  real  genius.”  Nicol,  who  died  April 
21,  1797,  was  a man  of  coarse  nature  and 
violent  passions. 

Page  214,  Note  340. — Composed  on 
Miss  Jean  Jeffrey,  daughter  of  the  minister 
of  Lochmaben.  Burns,  spending  an  evening 
with  this  gentleman  at  his  manse,  was  much 
pleased  with  the  young  lady,  who  did  the 
honours  of  the  table;  next  morning,  at 
breakfast,  he  presented  her  with  the  song. 
She  is  now  Mrs.  Remvi<  k,  and  *esides  ir.  NeVj 
York. — Chambers. 


506 


NOTES  TO  THE 


Pa  on  215,  Note  341.— This  is  an  adap- 
tation of  the  English  ballad  of  Sir  Robert 
Ayton,  who  was  secretary  to  the  Queen 
Consort  of  Janies  I.  (of  England).  The  old 
ballad  runs  thus  : — ■ 

WI  do  confess  thou’rt  sweet;  yet  find 
Thee  such  an  unthrift  of  thy  sweets. 

Thy  favours  are  but  like  the  wind. 

That  kisseth  every  thing  it  meets; 

A rid  since  thou  canst  with  more  than  one, 
Thou’rt  worthy  to  be  kissed  by  none. 

The  morning  rose  that  untouched  stands. 
Arm’d  with  her  briars,  how  sweetly  smells  ! 
But  plucked  and  strained  through  ruder 
hands. 

Her  scent  no  longer  with  her  dwells. 

But  scent  and  beauty  both  are  gone. 

And  leaves  fall  from  her  one  by  one. 

Such  fate,  ere  long,  will  thee  betide. 

When  thou  hast  handled  been  awhile : 
like  sun-flowers  to  be  thrown  aside. 

And  I shall  sigh  while  some  will  smile: 

Bo  see  thy  love  for  more  than  one 
Has  brought  thee  to  be  loved  by  none.” 
Page  217,  Note  342. — This  song  is  sup- 
posed to  be  one  of  those  which  Burns  only 
improved  from  old  versions.  William  Gor- 
don, sixth  Viscount  Kenmure,  raised  & 
body  of  troops  for  the  Pretender  in  1715, 
and  had  the  chief  command  of  the  insurgent 
forces,  in  the  south  of  Scotland.  Taken  at 
Preston,  he  was  tried,  and  condemned  to  be 
beheaded,  which  sentence  was  executed  on 
the  24th  February,  1716.  His  forfeited 
estate  was  bought  back  by  his  widow,  and 
transmitted  to  their  son.  By  the  son  of 
that  son — now  Viscount  Kenmure,  in 
consequence  of  the  restoration  of  the  title — 
Burns  was,  on  one  occasion,  entertained  at 
his  romantic  seat  of  Kenmure  Castle,  near 
New  Galloway. 

Page  218,  Note  343. — "The  original 
title  of  this  song  was  * Fair  Rabina : * the 
heroine  was  a young  lady  to  whom  one  of 
the  poet’s  friends  was  attached,  and  Burns 
wrote  it  in  compliment  to  his  passion. 
Johnson,  the  proprietor  of  the  Museum, 
disliked  the  name,  and  desiring  to  have  one 
more  suitable  for  singing,  the  poet,  unwill- 
ingly, changed  it  to  Eliza.” — Cunningham. 

Page  218,  Note  344. — Mr.  Cunningham 
states  that  the  heroine  of  this  song  was 
the  wife  of  a farmer  near  Ellislaud,  and 
gives  the  following  amusing  account  of 
her : — “ She  was  a very  singular  woman  : 
tea,  she  said,  would  be  the  ruin  of  the  nation ; 
sugar  was  a sore  evil ; w beaten  bread  was 
only  fit  for  babes  ; earthenware  was  a pick- 
pocket ; wooden  floors  were  but  fit  for 


thrashing  upon;  slated  roofs,  cold  ; feathery 
good  enough  for  fowls ; in  short,  she  ab« 
horred  change ; and  whenever  anything 
new  appeared,  such  as  harrows  with  iron 
teeth, ‘ Ay,  ay/  she  would  exclaim,  ‘ ye’ll  see 
the  upshot ! * 

Of  all  modern  things,  she  disliked  china 
the  most;  she  called  it  ‘burnt  clay/  aud 
said  it  was  only  fit  for  ‘ handing  the  broo  o’ 
stinking  weeds/  as  she  called  tea.  On  one 
occasion,  a southern  dealer  in  cups  and 
saucers,  asked  so  much  for  his  ware,  that  he 
exasperated  a peasant,  who  said,  ‘ I canna 
purchase,  but  I ken  ane  that  will : gang 
there/  said  he,  pointing  to  the  house  of 
Willie’s  wife ; dinna  be  blate  or  burd- 
mouthed ; ask  a gude  penny — she  has  the 
siller.’  Away  went  the  poor  dealer,  spread 
out  his  wares  before  her,  and  summed  up  all 
by  asking  a double  price.  A blow  from  her 
crummock  was  his  instant  reward,  which 
not  only  fell  on  his  person,  but  damaged  his 
china.  ‘I’ll  learn  ye/  quoth  she,  as  she 
heard  the  saucers  jingle,  ‘to  come  with  yere 
brazent  English  face  and  yere  bits  o*  burnt 
clay  to  me ! ’ She  was  an  unlovely  dame — 
her  daughters,  however,  were  beautiful.” 

Page  219,  Note  345. — ‘‘Looking  over, 
with  a musical  friend,  M’Donald’s  Collection 
of  Highland  Airs,  I was  struck  with  one,  an 
Isle  of  Skye  tune,  entitled  Oran  an  Aoig,  or 
the  Song  of  Death,  to  the  measure  of  which 
I have  adapted  my  stanzas.” — Burns  to 
Mrs.  Dunlop,  December  17,  1791,  at  which 
time  the  song  had  just  been  finished. 

Page  219,  Note  346. — Composed  in 
honour  of  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair,  whose  pa- 
ternal property  was  situated  on  the  banks  of 
the  Afton,  an  Ayrshire  tributary  of  the  Nith, 
near  New  Cumnock.  Mrs.  Stewart  was  one 
of  the  first  persons  of  rank  who  knew  or  ex- 
tended any  friendship  to  Burns. 

Page  220,  Note  347. — In  the  edition  of 
the  Poems  of  Burns  published  by  Hogg  and 
Motherwell,  there  is  a curious  note  attached 
to  this  song,  in  which  all  the  parallel  songs, 
ballads,  or  sketches  of  other  authors  are  cited, 
as,  in  fact,  they  had,  many  of  them,  occurred 
to  Burns. 

Page  220,  Note  348. — This  song  was 
handed  up  to  the  chairman,  extemporised  on 
the  back  of  a letter,  by  Burns,  at  a meeting 
of  Excise  officers,  at  Dumfries,  when  the 
poet  was  called  upon  for  a song. 

Page  221,  Note  349. — According  to 
Mr.  Cunningham,  the  heroine  of  this  song, 
was  Miss  Jaunette  Miller,  daughter  of  Mr 
Miller,  of  Dalswinton,  a young  lady  of  very 
extraordinary  beauty,  who,  subsequently, 
married  (in  1795)  Mr.  John  Thomas  Erskiu? 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


the  younger,  of  Marr  (since  13th  Earl  of 
Marr). 

Page  221,  Note  350— This  song  is  sup- 
posed to  express  the  love  and  admiration  of 
Mr  Oswald,  of  Auchincruive,  for  Miss  Lucy 
J ohnstone — afterwards  Mrs.  Oswald,  and  who 
died  of  decline,  at  Lisbon,  in  1798. 

Page  222,  Note  351. — This  song,  whether 
absolutely  original,  or  remodelled  from 
some  ancient  ballad,  was  contributed  by 
Burns  to  Johnson’s  Musical  Museum.  Mr. 
Cunningham  pronounces  it  not  original.  1 
cannot,  however,  trace  any  ballad,  either 
amongst  the  early  English,  or  early  Scottish 
Poesy,  which  will  sustain  Mr.  Cunningham’s 
judgment;  and,  moreover,  there  are  sufficient 
grounds  for  identifying  its  absolute  origi- 
nality, the  rhythm  only  being  adopted. 

Page  224,  Note  352. — “The  occasion  of 
this  ballad  was  as  follows : — When  Mr. 
Cunninghame,  of  Enterkin,  came  to  his 
estate,  two  mansion-houses  on  it,  Enterkin 
and  Aubank,  were  both  in  a ruinous  state. 
Wishing  to  introduce  himself  with  some 
iclat  to  the  county,  he  got  temporary  erec- 
tions made  on  the  banks  of  Ayr,  tastefully 
decorated  with  shrubs  and  flowers,  for  a sup- 
per and  ball,  to  which,  most  of  the  respectable 
families  in  the  county  were  invited.  It  was 
a novelty,  and  attracted  much  notice.  A 
dissolution  of  parliament  was  soon  expected, 
and  this  festivity  was  thought  to  be  an 
introduction  to  a canvass  for  representing 
the  county.  Several  other  candidates  were 
spoken  of,  particularly  Sir  John  Whitefoord, 
then  residing  at  Cloncaird,  commonly  pro- 
nounced Glencaird,  and  Mr.  Boswell,  the 
well-known  biographer  of  Dr.  Johnson. 
The  political  views  of  this  festive  assemblage, 
which  are  alluded  to  in  the  ballad,  if  they 
ever  existed,  were,  however,  laid  aside,  as 
Mr.  Cunninghame  did  not  canvass  the 
county.” — Gilbert  Burns. 

Page  225,  Note  353. — There  is  an  old 
superstition,  that,  out  of  the  slough  of 
adders,  are  formed  the  pretty  annular  peb- 
bles, which  have,  of  late  years,  become  so 
popular,  when  polished,  for  mounting  as 
jewels. 

Page  225,  Note  354. — According  to 
the  family  tradition,  this  song  was  composed 
in  honour  of  Mrs.  Riddel  of  Woodlee  Park. 

Page  226,  Note  355. — Miss  Lesley  Bail- 
lie  was  certainly  worthy  of  the  delicate  and 
naif  eulogy  of  this  poem.  She  was  the 
daugh  ter  of  a landed  proprietor  in  Ayrshire, 
p.nd,  subsequently,  married  Mr.  Cummhig,  of 
Logie.  The  occasion  of  the  meeting,  which 
furnished  the  impulse  to  this  composition, 
was  that  on  which,  in  1792,  Mr.  and  Miss 


6C7 

Baillie  were  passing  through  Dumfries  in 
their  progress  to  England  : — Burns  accom- 
panied them  for  some  distance  on  their 
journey,  and  was  thus  evidently  charmed 
with  the  worth  as  well  as  the  beauty  of  his 
fair  fellow-traveller,  . 

Page  226,  Note  356. — “In  my  very 
early  years,”  says  Burns,  “when  I was 
thinking  of  going  to  the  West  Indies,  I took 
this  farewell  of  a dear  girl  (Mary  Campbell), 
whom,  although  I did  not  leave  the  country, 
I never  saw  again.” 

Page  227,  Note  357. — The  castle  here 
alluded  to  was  that  of  Coilsfield,  near  Tar- 
bolton,  the  seat  of  Colonel  Hugh  Mont- 
gomery, who  was  ultimately  twelfth  Earl  of 
Eglinton.  The  heroine  of  the  verses  was 
Mary  Campbell,  who  lived  in  that  house  as 
a dairy-woman,  but  now  resides  with  poetical 
immortality.  Burns,  after  a long  court- 
ship, and  having  agreed  that  they  should  be 
married,  met  her  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayi, 
to  live  one  day  of  parting  love,  in  anticip& 
tion  of  a visit  she  was  to  pay  to  her  re- 
lations at  Campbeltown  in  Argyleshire. 
Mary  died  at  Greenock  on  her  return,  and 
thus  left  a blank  in  the  poet’s  affections 
which  nothing  thereafter  filled  up. 

Page  228,  Note  358. — This  song,  which 
is  the  version  contributed  to  Thomson’s 
Selection,  and  which  elicited  such  merited 
admiration  from  that  elegant  compiler,  was 
a rescript  of  a former  song  contributed  by 
Burns  to  Johnson’s  Musical  Museum.  The 
latter,  however,  was  not  absolutely  original, 
being  founded  on  an  old  ballad,  whereas 
this  version  is  entirely  original.  The  ver- 
sion furnished  to  the  Musical  Museum  runs 
as  follows : — 

Braw,  braw  lads  of  Gala  Water ; 

Oh,  braw  lads  of  Gala  Water; 

I’ll  kilt  my  coats  aboon  my  knee. 

And  follow  my  love  thro’  the  water. 

Sae  fair  her  hair,  sae  brent  her  brow, 

Sae  bonnie  blue  her  een,  my  dearie  ; 

Sae  white  her  teeth,  sae  sweet  her  mou* ; 
The  mair  I kiss  sh’es  aye  my  dearie. 

O’er  yon  bank,  and  e’er  yon  brae, 

O’er  yon  moss  amang  the  heather; 

I’ll  kiU  my  coats  aboon  my  knee. 

And  follow  my  lcve  thro’  the  water. 

Down  amang  the  broom,  the  broon, 

Down  amang  the  broom,  my  dearie. 

The  lassie  lost  her  silken  snood. 

That  cost  her  mony  a blirt  and  blearie. 

Page  228,Note359. — “This, ’’says  Burns, 
“ was  one  of  my  juvenile  works.”  These 


508 


NOTES  TO  THE 


lines  were  composed  in  honour  of  one  ol  the 
fair  daughters  of  a neighbour’s  house  at 
Mauehline.  “Of  all  the  productions  of 
Burns,  the  pathetic  and  serious  love  songs 
which  he  has  left  behind  him  in  the  manner 
of  old  ballads,  are  perhaps  those  which  take 
deepest  and  most  lasting  hold  of  the  mind. 
Such  are  the  lines  to  Mary  Morison,  &c .” 
— Hazlitt. 

Page  229,  Note  360. — “Burns,  T have 
been  informed,  was  one  summer  .evening  at 
the  inn  at  Brownhill  with  h couple  of 
friends,  when  a poor  wayworn  soldier  passed 
the  window ; of  a sudden,  it  struck  the 
poet  to  call  him  in,  and  get  the  story  of  his 
adventures  ; after  listening  to  which,  he  all 
at  once  fell  into  one  of  those  fits  of  abstrac- 
tion not  unusual  with  him.  He  was  lifted  to 
the  region  where  he  had  his  'garland  and 
singing  robes  about  him,’  and  the  result 
was  the  admirable  song  which  he  sent  you 
for  'the  Mill,  Mill  O.’ ” — Correspond- 
ence op  Mr.  George  Thomson.  Mill- 
Mannoch,  a sweet  pastoral  scene  on  the 
Coyl,  near  Coylton  Kirk,  is  presumed  to 
have  been  the  spot  where  the  poet  imagined 
the  rencontre  of  the  soldier  and  his  mistress 
to  have  taken  place. 

Page  230,  Note  361. — “The  air  of  Logan 
Braes  is  old,  and  there  are  several  old  songs 
to  it.  Immediately  before  the  rise  of  Barns, 
Mr.  John  Mayne,  who  afterwards  became 
known  for  a poem  entitled  the  Siller  Gun, 
wrote  a very  agreeable  song  to  the  air, 
beginning, 

'By  Logan’s  streams,  that  rin  sae  deep.* 

It  was  published  in  the  Star  newspaper, 
May  23rd,  1789.  Burns,  having  heard  that 
song,  and  supposing  it  to  be  an  old  com- 
position, adopted  into  the  above  a couplet 
from  it,  which  he  admired : — 

'While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 

• Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes.’ 

Mr.  Mayne  lived  to  a good  old  age,  and 
died,  March  14th,  1836,  at  Iisson  Grove, 
near  London.” — Thomson. 

Page  230,  Note  362. — Thw  song  was 
written  expressly  for  Mr.  Thomson’s  Collec- 
tion, that  is,  the  two  last  stanzas,  for  the 
two  first  were  the  original  words  of  an  old 
ballad;  Burns  was  struck  with  the  wild 
beauty  of  the  air,  and  with  the  imperfection 
of  the  closing  part  of  the  verses,  and  sup- 
plied a remodelled  version,  such  as  it  is  in 
the  text. 

Page  230,  Note  363. — This  song  has 
been  erroneously  supposed  to  celetrate 
Biuus’s  own  “ Jean.”  It  was  really  written 


in  honour  of  the  eldest  daughter  of  Mr 
John  McMurdo,  of  Drumlanrig — Miss  Jean 
McMurdo,  whose  exquisite  beauty  of  face 
and  symmetry  of  figure,  ■were  remarkable 
even  in  a family  uniformly  handsome. 

Page  232,  Note  361. — “ You  will  re- 
member an  unfortunate  part  of  our  worthy 
friend  Cunningham’s  story,  which  happened 
about  three  years  ago.  That  struck  my 
fancy,  and  I endeavoured  to  do  the  idea 
justice  as  follows.”— Burns  to  G.  Thom- 
son, August,  1793.  Mr.  Alexander  Cun- 
ningham was  a jeweller  in  Edinburgh . a 
man  of  polished  and  agreeable  manners,  and 
admitted  into  a class  of  society  considerably 
above  his  own.  The  story  of  his  unfaithful 
mistress,  which  is  here  alluded  to,  made  a 
great  noise  at  the  time,  and  has  been  kept 
in  remembrance  by  Burns’s  song. 

Page  232,  Note  365. — Phillis  the  Fair 
— Miss  Phillis  McMurdo,  daughter  of  Mr 
John  McMurdo,  of  Drumlanrig,  morr 
delicately  lovely,  though  not  so  command- 
ingly  beautiful  as  her  elder  sister  Jean. 
She  was  subsequently  married  to  Mr. 
Norman  Lockhart,  of  Carnwath.  The 
occasion  of  this  song  was  the  fancied  passion 
of  her  music  master  (Burns’s  friend)  Stephen 
Clarke,  who  requested  the  poet  to  supply 
him  with  an  adequate  copy  of  verses  to 
celebrate  her. 

Page  232,  Note  366. — Benleddi  is  a 
mountain  which  rises  to  an  elevation  of 
upwards  of  3000  feet,  and  which  is  situated 
to  the  westward  of  Strathallan. 

Page  233,  Note  367. — An  improve- 
ment upon  an  old  song,  the  hero  of  which  is 
said  to  have-  been  the  Rev.  David  William- 
son, Minister  of  St.  Cuthbert’s,  Edinburgh, 
famous  for  having  had  seven  wives,  the  first 
being  the  Laird  of  Cherrytree’s  daughter, 
with  whom  he  became  acquainted  in  a 
rather  unceremonious  manner  when  skulking 
during  the  days  of  “ the  Persecution.”  This 
remarkable  patriarch,  though  first  inducted 
into  his  charge  in  the  time  of  the  Common- 
wealth, was  a vigorous  preacher  down  to  the 
days  of  Queen  Anne. 

"Page  233,  Note  368.— “The  old  air, 
' Hey,  tuttie  taitie,’  with  Fraser’s  hautboy, 
has  often  filled  my  eyes  with  tears.  There 
is  a tradition,  which  I have  met  with  in 
many  places  of  Scotland,  that  it  was  Robert 
Bruce’s  march  at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn. 
This  thought  in  my  solitary  wanderings, 
warmed  me  to  a pitch  of  enthusiasm  on  the 
theme  of  liberty  and  independence,  which  I 
threw  into  a kind  of  Scottish  ode,  fitted  to 
the  air,  that  one  might  suppose  to  be  the 
gallant  Royal  Scot’s  address  to  his  heroic 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


50* 


followers  on  that  eventful  morning.” — 
Burns  to  G.  Thomson,  September  1792. 

Page  233,  Note  369. — According  to 
some  of  Burns’s  commentators,  this  song  . 
was  written  in  1793,  on  the  occasion  of  Cla- 
rinda’s  purposed  departure  to  join  her  hus- 
band iu  the  West  Indies.  This  is  a mistake. 
The  words  might,  very  possibly,  lune  been 
suggested  by  such  a circumstance ; but  the 
song  was  written  in  1794  for  Thomson’s 
collection,  Burns  having  previously  sug- 
gested the  air  of  Oran  Gaoil  to  his  cor- 
respondent, and  expressed  his  admiration 
of  it. 

Page  236,  Note  370. — '“How  long  and 
dreary  is  the  night ! * I met  with  some 
such  words  in  a collection  of  songs  some- 
where, which  I altered  and  enlarged  : and  to 
please  you,  and  to  suit  your  favourite  air,  I 
have  taken  a stride  or  two  across  my  room, 
and  have  arranged  it  anew,  as  you  will  find 
on  the  other  page.” — Burns  to  G.  Thom- 
son, October,  1794. 

Page  237,  Note  371. — This  song  was 
composed  in  honour  of  the  beautiful  Miss 
Jean  Lorimer,  afterwards  Mrs.  Whelpdale. 
The  occasion  of  the  composition  was  imme- 
diately on  reaching  home,  after  having  met 
Miss  Lorimer  at  a party  the  date  1794. 

Page  237,  Note  372. — The  title  of  this 
song  is  of  remote  date  in  the  English  version, 
and  even  the  opening  lines  have  been  re- 
tained. The  air,  however,  had  never  before 
been  coupled  with  it,  and  the  length  of  the 
stanzas  was  cut  down,  and  the  song  other- 
wise remodelled  by  Burns  for  Thomson’s 
collection,  in  which  it  was  coupled  with 
Burns’s  favourite  tune  of  Dainty  Davie. 

Page  239,  Note  273. — The  supposition 
that  this  song  was  elicited  as  a kind  of  peni- 
tential address  to  Mrs.  Riddel,  of  Woodlee 
park,  in  consequence  of  an  affront  offered  to 
her  by  the  poet  when  intoxicated,  is  by  no 
means  well  founded.  The  purport  of  the 
song  in  no  v/ay  concerned  Burns  personally, 
it  was  written  for  a friend  as  an  apostrophe 
to  an  offended  mistress,  and  the  reply  was 
also  by  the  hand  of  Burns,  who  was  thus 
employed  on  both  sides  in  the  dispute.  The 
reply  runs  thus 

“ Stay,  my  Willie — yet  believe  me. 

Stay,  my  Willie — yet  believe  me. 

For,  ah ! thou  know’st  na’  every  pang. 
Wad  wring  my  bosom  shouldst  thou 
leave  me. 

Tell  me  that  thou  yet  art  true, 

And  a’  my  wrongs  shall  be  forgiven, 

And  when  this  heart  proves  fause  to  thee. 

Yon  sun  shall  cease  its  course  in  heaven. 


But  to  think  I was  betrayed,  [vunder! 

That  falsehood  e’er  our  loves  should 
To  take  the  flow’ret  to  my  breast. 

And  find  the  guilefu’  serpent  under. 

Could  I hope  thou’dst  ne’er  deceive. 

Celestial  pleasures,  might  I choose  ’em, 

I’d  slight,  nor  seek  in  other  spheres 

That  heaven  I’d  find  within  my  bosom. 
Stay  my  Willie — yet  believe  me. 

Stay,  my  Willie — yet  believe  me. 

For,  ah  ! thou  knows’t  na’  every  pang 
Wad  wring  my  bosom  shouldst  thou 
leave  me.” 

Page  239,  Note  874. — The  following 
passage,  which  conveys  a very  analogous 
idea,  occurs  in  Wycherley’s  Comedy  of  The 
Plain  Dealer : — 

“ I weigh  the  man,  not  hi3  title : ’tis  not 
the  king’s  stamp  can  make  the  metal  better 
or  heavier.  Your  lord  is  a leaden  shilling, 
which  you  bend  every  way,  and  who  debases 
the  stamp  he  bears.” 

Page  240,  Note  375. — "Composed  on  a 
passion  which  a Mr.  Gillespie,  a particular 
friend  of  mine,  had  for  a Miss  Lorimer, 
afterwards  Mrs.  Whelpdale.  The  young  lady 
was  born  at  Cragieburn  Wood”  (near 
Moffat). — Burns.  Mrs.  Whelpdale  at  a 
future  date  became  the  heroine  Chlons, 
under  which  appellation  she  is  the  subject  of 
many  songs  by  Burns.  It  is  painful  to  add, 
that  this  beautiful  woman  eventually  sauk 
into  the  lowest  state  of  female  degradation, 
and  died  in  misery  at  Mauchline  a few  years 
ago. — Chambers. 

Page  240,  Note  376. — "Craigiebum 
Wood  is  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
Moffat,  and  about  three  miles  distant  from 
the  village  of  that  name,  celebrated  for  its 
medicinal  waters.  The  woods  of  Cragieburn 
and  of  Dumcrieff,  were  at  one  time  favour!  tf 
haunts  of  our  poet.  It  was  there  he  me- 
the  ' Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white  locks,’  and  that 
he  conceived  several  of  his  beautiful  lyrics.’* 
— Currie. 

Page  241,  Note  377. — This  song  waa 
composed  on  the  same  occasion,  and  sug- 
gested by  the  same  incident,  as  that  to  which 
the  song,  Had  I a Cave,  is  also  attribu- 
table, namely,  a disappointment  in  love 
which  befel  Mr.  Alexander  Cunningham,  the 
mutual  friend  of  Burns  and  Thomson.  Tha 
date  of  this  song  is  1795. 

Page  242,  Note  378. — In  the  original 
manuscript  this  line  runs,  "He  up  the 
Gateslack  to  my  black  cousin  Bess.”  Mr. 
Thomson  objected  to  this  word,  as  well  as  to 
the  word  Dalgarnock,  in  the  next  versa- 
Robert  Burns  replied  &s  follows  - 


110 


NOTES  TO  THE 


" Gates! adc  is  the  name  of  a particular 
lace,  a kind  of  passage  up  among  the 
iawther  hills,  on  the  confines  of  this  county. 
Dalgarnock  i9  also  the  name  of  a romantic 
spot  near  the  Nith,  where  are  still  a ruined 
church  and  a burial-ground.  However,  let 
the  first  run.  He  up  the  lang  loctn,&c .” 

“ It  is  always  a pity  to  throw  out  anything 
that  gives  locality  to  our  poet’s  verses.” — 
Currie. 

Page  243,  Note  379. — The  heroine  of 
this  song  was  Mrs.  Burns’s  endeared  young 
friend,  Miss  Jessy  Lewars,  sister  to  one  of 
Burns’s  associates  in  office — since  wife  of 
Mr.  James  Thomson,  writer,  Dumfries. 

Page  244,  Note  380. — This  was  the  first 
attempt  of  Burns  in  verse.  It  was  com- 
posed, according  to  his  own  account,  in  his 
sixteenth  year,  on  a "bonnie  sweet  sonsie 
lass,”  who  was  his  companion  on  the  harvest 
field.  See  his  letter  to  Dr.  ’Moore.  He 
says  elsewhere — “ For  my  own  part,  I never 
had  the  least  inclination  of  turning  poet,  till 
I once  got  heartily  in  love,  and  then  rhyme 
and  song  were  in  a manner  the  spontaneous 
language  of  my  heart.  This  composition 
was  the  first  of  my  performances,  and  done 
ac  an  early  period  of  life,  when  my  heart 
glowed  with  honest  warm  simplicity,  un- 
acquainted and  uncorrupted  with  the  ways 
of  a wicked  world.  The  performance  is, 
indeed,  very  puerile  and  silly ; but  I am 
always  pleased  with  it,  as  it  recalls  to  my 
mind  those  happy  days  when  my  heart  was 
yet  honest,  and  my  tongue  was  sincere.” 

Page  244,  Note  351. — This  autobio- 
graphical song,  as  it  may  be  called,  is  under- 
stood to  have  been  composed  during  the 
most  depressed  period  of  the  poet’s  early 
fortunes,  when  struggling  with  family  dis- 
tresses at  Lochlee.  “ It  is  a wild  rhapsody,” 
he  says,  “ miserably  deficient  in  versification ; 
but  as  tlv?  sentiments  are  the  genuine 
feelings  of  my  heart,  I have  a particular 
pleasure  in  conning  it  over.” — Chambers. 

Page  245,  Note  382. — It  has  been  said 
that  there  was  some  foundation  in  fact  for 
thi3  tale  of  £ gossip — a wayfaring  woman, 
who  chanced  to  be  present  at  tiie  poet’s 
birth,  having  actually  announced  some  such 
prophecies  respecting  the  infant  placed  in 
her  arms.  Some  similar  circumstances  at- 
tended the  birth  of  Mirabeau. 

Page  245,  Note  383. — It  may  be  grati- 
fying to  curiosity  to  know  the  fates  of  the 
six  belles  of  Mauchline.  Miss  Helen  Miller, 
the  first  mentioned,  became  the  wife  of 
Burns’s  friend,  Dr.  Mackenzie.  The  divine 
Miss  Markland  was  married  to  a Mr.  Finlay, 
an  officer  of  Excise  at  Greenock.  Miss  Jeau 


Smith  was  afterwards  Mrs.  Candlish.  Miss 
Betty  (Miller)  became  Mrs.  Templeton,  and 
Miss  Morton  married  a Mr.  Paterson.  Of 
Armour’s  history  immortality  has  taken 
charge. 

The  Glasgow  Herald  of  Saturday,  Septem« 
ber  6th,  1851,  has  the  following  notice  of  tha 
death  of  the  last  of  the  Mauchline  Belles , 
" Died  on  Saturday,  tne  30th  ult.  (August 
1851),  Mrs.  Findlay,  relict  of  Robert  Findlay, 
Esq.,  of  the  Excise.  In  ord  nary  circum- 
stances, the  departure  from  this  life  of  a 
respectable  lady,  ripe  in  years,  would  not 
have  afforded  matter  of  general  interest ; but 
it  happens  that  the  deceased  was  one  of  the 
very  few  persons  surviving  to  our  own  times, 
who  intimately  knew  the  peasant  bard  in  the 
first  flush  of  his  genius  and  manhood,  and  by 
whom  her  name  and  charms  have  been  wedded 
to  immortal  verse.  She  was  the  “ di'  ine  ” 
Miss  Markland,  noticed  in  the  "Belles  of 
Mauchline.”  Miss  Markland  became  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Findlay,  officer  of  Excise,  of  Tar- 
bolton,  a gentlemen  who  was  appointed  to 
instruct  the  bard  in  the  mysteries  of  gauging. 
The  connection  thus  formed  between  Burns 
and  Findlay,  led  to  the  introduction  of  the 
latter  to  Miss  Markland,  and  his  subsequent 
marriage  to  her  in  September  of  the  same 
year  (1788).  Mrs.  Findlay  was  in  her  23rd 
year  at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  and  in  her 
86th  at  the  time  of  her  death.” 

Page  245,  Note  384. — Jean  Armour, 
aftenvards  Mrs.  Robert  Burns  who,  as  is 
well  known,  survived  the  poet. 

Page  245,  Note  385. — This  little  frag- 
ment was  composed  in  consequence  of  a mo- 
mentary glimpse  which  the  poet  one  day 
obtained  of  a beautiful  young  female,  who 
rode  up  to  an  inn  at  Ayr,  as  the  poet  was 
mounting  his  horse  to  leave  it. 

Page  246,  Note  333. — Killie,  a familiar 
appellation  amongst  the  country  people  for 
Kilmarnock.  This  song  was  composed  in 
allusion  to  a meeting  of  the  Kilmarnock 
Mason  Lodge,  which  took  place  in  1786,  and 
at  which  William  Parker,  one  of  the  poet’s 
oldest  friends  presided,  and  which  Burns 
himself  attended.  The  song  was  an  im- 
promptu, and  was  sung,  as  it  is  believed,  at 
this  very  meeting. 

Page  246,  Note  387  (misprinted  386).— 
The  air  of  Bonnie  Dundee  appears  in  the 
Skene  MS.,  of  date  circa  1620.  The  tune 
seems  to  have  existed  at  even  an  earlier 
period,  as  there  is  a song  to  it  amongst  those 
which  were  written  by  the  English,  to  dis- 
parage the  Scottish  followers  by  whom 
Jame3  VI.  was  attended  on  his  arrival  in  tha 
south.  The  first  of  the  following  verses  is 


POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


611 


frcm  an  old  homely  ditty,  the  second  only 
being  the  composition  of  Burns. 

Page  249,  Note  388. — “This  song  is 
said  to  be  a homely  version  of  a Highland 
lament  for  the  ruin  which  followed  the  re- 
bellion of  the  " forty-five.”  Burns  heard  it 
sung  in  one  of  his  northern  excursions,  and 
begged  a transcription.” — Cunningham. 

Page  251,  Note  389. — Written  at  the 
commencement  of  his  residence  at  Ellisland, 
to  express  the  buoyant  feelings  which  ani- 
mated him  on  that  occasion,  when,  as  he 
himself  informs  us,  he  enjoyed  a few  days, 
the  most  tranquil,  if  not  the  happiest,  he  had 
ever  experienced. 

Page  255,  Note  390. — This  ballad  is,  as 
well  as  some  of  those  which  have  preceded  it, 
dedicated  to  the  turmoil  of  the  parliamentary 
election  at  Dumfries,  in  which  Burns  took  as 
active  a part  as  he  well  could  on  the  tory  side: 
— to  wit,  in  the  election  of  1790.  In  the  “Five, 
Carlines, ” as  well  as  in  the  “ Second  Epistle 
fro  Mr.  Graham  of  Fint.ry  ; ” the  poet  appeared 
to  reserve  a neutral  position,  merely  sketch- 
ing the  events  as  they  occurred  ; and,  in  fact, 
it  was  obvious,  seeing  his  dependency  upon  a 
government  situation,  that  he  should  observe 
some  measure  in  his  political  writings.  Burns’s 
genius  had  moreover  acquired  for  him  friends 
amongst  men  of  all  parties,  many  of  whom  in 
the  heat  of  a political  contest,  might  have 
felt  aggrieved  at  any  uncalled  for  violence  on 
his  part.  The  secret  Jacobitish  yearnings  of 
Burns  naturally  impelled  him  to  the  side  of 
Sir  James  Johnstone,  the  tory  and  Pittite  candi- 
date, whilst  being  the  tenant  of  Mr.  Miller, 
father  of  the  whig  or  opposition  candidate,  to 
whom  he  was  indebted  for  much  personal 
kindness,  he  could  not  well  signalise  himself 
by  any  very  decided  exertion  against  Mr. 
Miller  the  younger.  In  this  balLd  “the 
Laddies  of  the  Banks  of  Nith,”  he  does  not 
retain  such  very  decided  neutrality,  and 
pretty  clearly  allows  his  tory  predilections  to 
oose  out.  It  must  be  noticed,  however,  that 
the  toryisra  of  Burns  was  merely  a tradition- 
ary love  for  the  native  Scotch  race  of  princes, 
and  a detestation  for  the  usurping  dynasty 
(as  he  thought)  of  Brunswick ; for  in  abstract 
political  principles,  it  may  easily  be  gathered 
from  his  writings  that  he  had  a far  greater 
leaning  towards  Jacobinism , than  towards  the 
exploded  principle  of  the  divine  right  of  Icings. 
Sir  Wa  ter  Scott,  writing  to  Mr.  Lockhart, 
with  an  enclosure  of  a whole  parcel  of  letters 
of  Burns  says  : — “ In  one  of  them  to  that 
lingular  old  curmudgeon,  Lady  Winifred 
Constable,  you  will  see  he  plays  high  Jaco- 
bite, and  on  that  account  it  is  curious , though 
1 fancy  his  Jacobitism,  like  mine,  belonged  to 


the  fancy,  rather  than  to  tae  reason.  Ha 
was,  however,  a great  Pittite  down  to  a cet* 
tain  period,  that  is,  until  the  influx  of  Jacobi - 
nism  from  the  outbreak  of  1789,  when  he 
certainly  became  more  decidedly  Jacobin  than 
Jacobite.  There  were  some  passing  stupid 
verses  in  the  papers,  attacking  and  defending 
his  satire  on  a certain  preacher  whom  he 
termed  an  unco  calf.  In  one  of  them  occurred 
these  lines  in  vituperation  of  the  adversary 

A whig  I guess ; but  Rab’s  a tory. 

And  gies  us  mony  a funny  story. 

This  was  in  1787.” 

In  the  “J^addies  of  the  banks  of  Nith/ 
Burns  first  alludes  to  the  great  influence  of 
the  Duke  of  Queen sberry,  owing  to  Ida 
extensive  landed  possessions  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood.— The  Duke  of  Queensberry  figures 
in  no  enviable  light,  either  politically  or 
privately. — A life  spent  in  mere  selfish  grati- 
fication and  profligacy,  and  a political  career 
stamped  with  his  protest  of  December  26th, 
1788,  on  the  Regency  question,  are  very 
concisely  lashed. 

Page  256,  Note  391. — Captain  Grose 
himself,  was  the  first  and  most  earnest  to 
relish  the  point  of  this  epigram.  It  was  an 
impromptu  of  one  of  the  drinking  parties  or 
nightly  carousals  of  these  “ guid  fellows.’’ 

Page  256,  Note  392. — An  allusion  to 
the  excessive  corpulency  of  Captain  Grose, 
which  was  a common  subject  of  joke  with 
himself. 

Page  256,  Note  393. — “Stopping  at  a 
merchant’s  shop,  a friend  of  mine,  in  Edin- 
burgh, one  day  put  Elphinstone’s  translation 
of  Martial  into  my  hand,  and  desired  my 
opinion  of  it.  I asked  permission  to  write 
my  opinion  in  a blank  leaf  of  the  book, 
which,  being  granted,  I wrote  this  epigram.’* 
— Burns.  A similar  idea  occurs  in  a mock- 
heroic  poem,  entitled  the  Knight,  by 
William  Meston,  who,  in  allusion  to  Dr.  J. 
Trapp’s  translation  of  the  Georgies  of  Virgil, 
says : — 

“Read  the  commandment,  Trapp,  proceed 
no  further ; 

For  there  ’tis  written,  thou  shalt  do  nc 
murder.” 

Page  256,  Note  394. — The  Miss  Burns 
who  was  the  subject  of  these  lines,  was  a 
young  English  woman,  settled  in  Edinburgh 
— as  remarkable  for  the  laxity  of  her  de- 
meanour, as  for  the  exquisite  beauty  of  her 
person.  She  figured  in  the  less  rigid  society 
of  some  of  our  wits,  and  her  portrait  was 
engraved  and  published  by  Mr.  John  Kay. 
It  was  on  one  of  these  engravings  that 


NOTES  TO  THE  POEMS  OF  BURNS. 


$12 

Burns  wrote  tlie  lines  which  it  sug-  | 
gested. 

Page  257,  Note  395. — These  lines  were 
in  reply  to  a question  put  to  the  poet : 

“ Wherefore  Miss  Davies  (a  particular  fa- 
vourite of  Burns’s)  should  have  been  made 
so  diminutive,  and  another  lady  named,  so 
large  in  proportion  ? ” 

Page  257,  Note  396. — The  occasion 
which  suggested  these  lines,  was  the  receipt 
of  intelligence  that  the  Austrians  had  been 
totally  routed  at  Gemappes,  by  General 
Dumourier  (1792.) 

Page  257,  Note  397. — Burns,  accompa- 
nied by  a friend,  having  gone  to  Inverary  at 
a time  when  some  company  were  there  on  a 
visit  to  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  finding 
himself  and  his  companion  entirely  neglected 
by  the  innkeeper,  whose  whole  attention 
seemed  to  be  occupied  with  the  visitors  of 
liis  grace,  expressed  his  disapprobation  of 
the  incivility  with  which  he  was  treated,  in 
the  above  lines. 

Page  257,  Note  398.— Composed  and 
repeated  by  Burns,  to  the  master  of  the 
house,  on  taking  leave  at  a place  in  the 
Highlands,  where  he  had  been  hospitably 
entertained. 

Page  257,  Note  399. — Spoken,  in  reply 
to  a gentleman,  who  sneered  at  the  sufferings 
of  Scotland  for  conscience-saxe,  and  called 
the  Solemn  League  and  Covenant  ridiculous 
and  fanatical. 

Page  258,  Note  400. — These  were  a 
society  of  friends  of  the  government,  who 
assumed  an  exclusive  loyalty  during  the 
fervours  of  the  French  Revolution.  The 
above  lines  were  written  in  consequence  of 
the  receipt,  at  a convivial  meeting,  of  the 
following  senseless  quatrain  from  one  of  the 
Loyal  Natives  — 

u Ye  sons  of  sedition,  give  ear  to  my  song. 

Let  Syme,  Burns,  and  Maxwell,  pervade 
every  throng. 

With  Craken  the  attorney,  and  Mundell  the 
quack, 

Send  W illie  the  monger  to  hell  with  a 
smack.” 

Page  258,  Note  401. — When  the  Board 
of  Excise  informed  Burns  that  his  business 
was  to  act,  and  not  to  think  and  speak,  he 
read  the  order  to  a friend,  turned  the  paper, 
End  wrote  what  he  called  The  Creed  of 
Wwtrty — Cunninghiam. 


| Page  258,  Note  402. — " These  lines  ar* 
addressed  to  John  Taylor,  blacksmith,  at 
Wanlockhead,  on  being  indebted  to  him, 
one  winter’s  day  between  Dumfries-shire  and 
Ayrshire,  for  a small  cast  of  his  office.”— 
Burns. 

Page  259,  Note  403. — Burns  was  called 
upon  for  a song  at  a dinner  of  the  Dumfries 
Volunteers,  in  honour  of  Rodney’s  victory 
of  the  12th  of  April,  1782.  He  replied  to 
the  call  by  pronouncing  the  following. 

Page  259,  Note  404. — This  was  at  the 
King’s  Arms  Inn,  Dumfries,  and  was  sugges 
ted  by  hearing  some  person  speak  in  terms 
of  reproach  of  the  officers  of  his  Majesty’s 
Excise. 

Page  259,  Note  405. — This  lady,  in  her 
early  days,  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Mrs. 
Burns,  and  also  a great  favourite  with  ths 
poet,  who  esteemed  her  sprightly  and  affec- 
tionate character.  During  his  last  illness, 
his  surgeon,  Mr.  Brown,  brought  in  a long 
sheet,  containing  the  particulars  of  a me- 
nagerie of  wild  beasts  which  he  had  just  been 
visiting.  As  Mr.  Brown  was  handing  the 
sheet  to  Miss  Lewars,  Burns  seized  it,  and 
wrote  upon  it  these  verses  with  red  chalk ; 
after  which  he  handed  it  to  Miss  Lewars, 
saying  that  it  was  now  fit  to  be  presented 
to  a lady.  Miss  Lewars  afterwards  married 
Mr.  James  Thomson,  of  Dumfries. 

Page  259,  Note  406. — While  Miss 
Lewars  was  waiting  upon  him  in  his  sick 
chamber,  the  poet  took  up  a crystal  goblet 
containing  wine  and  water,  and  after  writing 
upon  it  these  verses,  in  the  character  of  a 
Toast,  presented  it  to  her. 

Page  259,  Note  407. — At  this  time  of 
trouble,  on  Miss  Lewars  complaining  of 
indisposition,  he  said,  to  provide  for  the 
worst,  he  would  write  her  epitaph.  He 
accordingly  inscribed  these  lines  on  another 
goblet,  saying,  “ That  will  be  a companion 
to  the  Toast  ” 

Page  260,  Note  408. — Quotation  from 
Goldsmith. 

Page  260,  Note  409. — James  Humphry. 

Page  260,  Note  410. — Mr.  John  Wilsoaj 
printer,  of  Kilmarnock,  by  whom  the  first 
edition  of  Burns’s  Poems  was  produced- 

Page  261,  Note  411. — ( Misprinted  409)( 
The  father  of  Dr.  Richardson,  who  accora 
panied  .Franklin’#  expedition. — Cham 
bees. 


il w CnrrtBpmiknre  iif  ®urna, 


?age  268,  Note  1. — Mr.  James  Burness,  of 
Moutrose,  stood  in  the  relationship  of  first 
cousin  to  Robert  Burns.  The  father  of 
James  was,  like  his  brother  William,  in 
humble  circumstances,  but  had  pursued  a 
more  prosperous  career.  We  have  already 
had  occasion  to  remark  that  the  poet  was 
the  first  of  his  family  to  abbreviate  the 
name  of  Burness  to  Burns.  The  grandson 
of  James  Burness,  of  Montrose,  was  the 
Lieutenant  Burness  of  our  own  time,  the 
author  of  Travels  in  Bokhara. 

Page  27Q,  Note  2. — Mr.  John  Rich- 
mond was  one  of  the  earliest  friends  of 
Burns  at  Mauchline.  He  had  since  em- 
barked in  the  study  of  the  law,  and  was 
preparing  for  that  profession  at  Edinburgh. 

Page  271,  Note  3. — Mauchline  Corse  is 
the  name  of  the  Market  Cross,  in  the  centre 
of  the  village  or  town. 

Page  272,  Note  4.  According  to 
Motherwell,  the  piece  to  which  Burns  alludes 
in  this  letter  was  that  entitled  the  Mountain 
Dasiy , or  as  it  was  called  in  the  original 
manuscript,  The  Goavan. 

Page  272,  Note  5. — Mr.  David  Brice 
was  a shoemaker  at  Glasgow,  and  an  early 
associate  of  the  poet. 

Page  272,  Note  6. — Alluding  to  Miss 
Jean  Armour’s  return  from  Paisley,  to  which 
•he  had  been  sent  by  her  parents,  to  be  out 
of  the  reach  of  her  too  ardent  lover.  Burns 
writes  in  this  spirit  under  the  impression 
that  her  own  feelings  towards  him  had 
actually  been  distorted  by  the  influence  of 
her  friends.  This  was,  to  a certain  extent, 
the  case,  as  we  have  had  occasion  to  notice 
h h 


in  the  foregoing  portion  of  this  volume,  ia 
the  dissertation  on  the  Life  of  Robert 
Burns. 

Page  275,  Note  7. — The  expression! 
contained  in  this  letter  strongly  betray  the 
extreme  distress  from  which  Burns  was 
suffering,  owing  to  the  forced  separation 
between  himself  and  Jean  Armour. 

Page  275,  Note  8. — An  allusion  to  the 
efforts  which  were  being  made  at  this  time 
by  Mr.  Aiken,  and  the  other  friends  of  the 
poet,  to  procure  for  him  an  appointment  to 
office  in  the  Excise. 

Page  276,  Note  9. — Miss  Alexander, 
the  sister  of  Mr.  Claude  Alexander,  who  had 
recently  purchased  the  estate  of  Balloch- 
myle. 

Page  276,  Note  10. — The  25th  of 
January,  1759,  was  the  day  on  which  Burns 
was  born. 

Page  277,  Note  11. — The  designation 
applied  to  old  bachelors. 

Page  277,  Note  12. — Without  a proper 
covering  or  cloak  to  protect  you  from  its 
rigour. 

Page  277,  Note  13. — Lady  Betty  Cun-0 
ningham. 

Page  278,  Note  14. — This  paper  waa 
written  by  the  author  of  The  Man  of 
Feeling , Mr.  Mackenzie. 

Page  279,  Note  15. — One  of  those 
traditionary  examples  with  which  the  lively 
memory  of  Burns  was  so  teeming.  He 
appears  to  have  retained  and  culled  these 
recollections  of  his  early  years  with  peculiar 
y ineration. 

Page  280,  Note  16.— Dr.  Moore’s  letter 


614 


NOTES  TO  THE 


to  which  this  letter  was  a reply,  ran  as 
follows  : — 

“ Clifford  Street,  Januarg  23rd,  1787. 

“ Sir — I have  just  received  your  letter,  by 
which  I find  I have  reason  to  complain  of 
my  friend  Mrs.  Dunlop,  for  transmitting  to 
you  extracts  from  my  letters  to  her,  by  much 
too  freely,  and  too  carelessly  written  for 
your  perusal.  I must  forgive  her,  however, 
in  consideration  of  her  good  intention,  as 
you  will  forgive  me,  I hope,  for  the  freedom 
I use  with  certain  expressions,  in  con- 
sideration of  my  admiration  of  the  poems  in 
general.  If  I may  judge  of  the  author’s 
disposition  from  his  works,  with  all  the 
other  good  qualities  of  a poet,  he  has  not 
the  irritable  temper  ascribed  to  that  race  of 
men  by  one  of  their  own  number,  whom  you 
have  the  happiness  to  resemble  in  ease  and 
curious  felicity  of  expression.  Indeed,  the 
poetical  beauties,  however  original  and 
brilliant,  and  lavishly  scattered,  are  not  all  I 
admire  in  your  works ; the  love  of  your 
native  country,  that  feeling  sensibility  to  all 
the  objects  of  humanity,  and  the  inde- 
pendent spirit  which  breathes  through  the 
whole,  give  me  a most  favourable  impression 
of  the  poet,  and  have  made  me  often  regret 
that  1 did  not  see  the  poems,  the  certain 
effect  of  which  would  have  been  my  seeing 
the  author,  last  summer,  when  I was  longer 
in  Scotland  than  1 have  been  for  many  years. 

“ I rejoice  very  sincerely  at  the  encourage- 
ment you  receive  at  Edinburgh,  and  I think 
you  peculiarly  fortunate  in  the  patronage  of 
Dr.  Blair,  who,  I am  informed,  interests 
himself  very  much  for  you.  I beg  to  be  re- 
membered to  him;  nobody  can  have  a 
warmer  regard  for  that  gentleman  than  I 
have,  which,  independent  of  the  worth  of 
his  character,  would  be  kept  alive  by  the 
memory  of  our  common  friend,  the  late  Mr. 
George  B e. 

“ Before  I received  your  letter,  I sent,  en- 
closed in  a letter  to , a sonnet  by  Miss 

Williams,  a young  poetical  lady,  which  she 
wrote  on  reading  your  Mountain  Daisy ; 
perhaps  it  may  not  displease  you : — 

8 While  soon  “ the  garden’s  flaunting  flowers” 
decay 

And  scatter’d  on  the  earth  neglected  lie. 
The  ‘ Mountain-Daisy,’  cherish’d  by  the  ray 

A poet  drew  from  heaven,  shall  never  die. 
Ah,  like  that  lo  \ely  flower  the  poet  rose  ! 

’Mid  penury’s  bare  soil  and  bitter  gale ; 
He  felt  each  storm  that  on  the  mountain 
blows. 

Nor  ever  knew  the  shelter  of  the  vale. 


By  genius  in  her  native  vigour  nurst, 

On  nature  with  impassion’d  look  he  gazed; 
Then  through  the  cioud  of  adverse  fort  an® 
burst 

Indignant,  and  in  light  unborrowed  blazed. 
Scotia!  from  rude  afflicti&n  shield  thy  baid; 
His  heaven- taught  numbers  Fame  hersell 
will  guard.’ 

" I have  been  trying  to  add  to  the  numbef 
of  your  subscribers,  but  find  many  of  my 
acquaintance  are  already  among  them.  I 
have  only  to  add,  that,  with  every  sehtiment 
of  esteem,  and  the  most  cordial  good  wishes, 
I am,  your  obedient  humble  servant, 

J.  Moore.” 

Page  282,  Note  17. — Subjoined  is  Di. 
Moore’s  reply  to  this  letter,  which  is  added 
to  throw  additional  light  on  the  subject 

" Clifford  Street,  Feb.  23th,  1787. 

•'Dear  Sir — Your  letter  of  the  15th  gave 
me  a great  deal  of  pleasure.  It  is  not  sur- 
prising that  you  improve  in  correctness  and 
taste,  considering  where  you  have  been  for 
some  time  past.  And  I dare  swear  there  is 
no  danger  of  your  admitting  any  polish 
which  might  weaken  the  vigour  of  youi’ 
native  powers. 

“ I am  glad  to  perceive  that  you  disdain 
the  nauseous  affectation  of  decrying  your 
own  merit  as  as  a poet,  an  affectation  which 
is  displayed  with  most  ostentation  by  those 
who  have  the  greatest  share  of  self-conceit, 
and  which  only  adds  undeceiving  falsehood 
to  disgusting  vanity.  For  you  to  deny  the 
merit  of  your  poems,  would  be  arraigning  the 
fixed  opinion  of  the  public. 

"As  the  new  edition  of  my  View  of 
Society  is  not  yet  ready,  I have  sent  you 
the  former  edition,  which  I beg  you  will 
accept  as  a small  mark  of  my  esteem.  It  is 
sent  by  sea  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Creech ; and 
along  with  these  four  volumes  for  yourself, 
I have  also  sent  my  Medical  Sketches  in, 
one  volume,  for  my  friend  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of 
Dunlop ; this  you  will  be  so  obliging  as  to 
transmit,  or,  if  you  chance  to  pass  soon  by 
Dunlop,  to  give  to  her. 

“ I am  happy  to  hear  that  your  subscrip- 
tion is  so  ample,  and  shall  rejoice  at  every 
piece  of  good  fortuue  that  befalls  you.  For 
you  are  a very  great  favourite  in  my  family ; 
and  this  is  a higher  fompliment  than  perhaps 
you  are  aware  of.  It  includes  almost  all  the 
professions,  and,  of  course,  is  a proof  that 
your  writings  are  adapted  to  various  tastea 
and  situations.  My  youngest  son,  who  is  at 
Winchester  school,  writes  to  me,  that  he  ia 
translating  some  stanzas  of  your  * Hallowe’en* 
into  Latin  verse,  for  the  benefit  of  his  coin 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


515 


Wules.  This  unison  of  taste  partly  proceeds, 
no  doubt,  from  the  cement  of  Scottish  par- 
tiality, with  which  they  are  all  somewhat 
tinctured.  Even  your  translator,  who  left 
Scotland  too  early  in  life  for  recollection,  is 
not  without  it.  I remain,  with  great  since- 
rity, your  obedient  servant,  J.  Moore.” 
Page  282,  Note  18. — Mr.  William 
Dunbar  was  writer  to  the  Signet,  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  was  the  person  celebrated  in  the 
song,  Rattling  Roaring  Willie. 

Page  286,  Note  19. — Dr.  Smith  was 
author  of  the  well-known  work,  entitled 
The  Wealth  of  Nations,  and  of  some  admirable 
translations  of  the  best  Greek  authors. 

Page  286,  Note  20. — Subjoined  is  Dr. 
Moore’s  reply  to  this  letter 

“ Clifford  Street,  May  23rd,  1787. 

"Dear  Sir — I had  the  pleasure  of  your 
letter  by  Mr.  Creech,  and  soon  after  he  sent 
me  the  new  edition  of  your  poems.  You 
seem  to  think  it  incumbent  on  you  to  send 
to  each  subscriber  a number  of  copies  pro- 
portionate to  his  subscription  money,  but 
you  may  depend  upon  it,  few  subscribers 
expect  more  than  one  copy,  whatever  they 
subscribed;  I must  inform  you,  however, 
that  I took  twelve  copies  for  those  sub- 
scribers, for  whose  money  you  were  so 
accurate  as  to  send  me  a receipt,  and  Lord 
Eglinton  told  me  he  had  sent  for  six  copies 
for  himself,  as  he  wished  to  give  five  of  them 
as  presents. 

“ Some  of  the  poems  you  have  added  in 
this  last  edition  are  very  beautiful,  particu- 
larly the  ‘ Winter  Night,’  the  ‘ Address  to 
Edinburgh,’  * Green  grow  the  rashes,’  and 
the  two  songs  immediately  following — the 
latter  of  which  is  exquisite.  By  the  way, 
I imagine  you  have  a peculiar  talent  for  such 
compositions  which  you  ought  to  indulge. 
No  kind  of  poetry  demands  more  delicacy 
or  higher  polishing.  Horace  is  more  ad- 
mired on  account  of  his  Odes  than  all  his 
other  writings.  But  nothing  now  added  is 
equal  to  your  * Vision  ’ and  ‘ Cotter’s  Satur- 
day Night.’  In  these  are  united  fine  ima- 
gery, natural  and  pathetic  description,  with 
sublimity  of  language  and  thought.  It  is 
evident  that  you  already  possess  a great 
variety  of  expression  and  command  of  the 
English  language ; you  ought  therefore  to 
deal  more  sparingly  for  the  future  in  the 
provincial  dialect. — Why  should  you,  by  using 
that,  limit  the  number  of  your  admirers  to 
those  who  understand  the  Scottish,  when 
you  can  extend  it  to  all  persons  of  taste  who 
understand  the. English  language?  In  my 
Opinion,  yon  should  plan  some  larger  work 


than  any  you  have  as  yet  attempted.  I itean, 
reflect  upon  some  proper  subject,  and  ar- 
range the  plan  in  your  mind,  without  begin- 
ning to  execute  any  part  of  it  till  you  have 
studied  most  of  the  best  English  poets,  and 
read  a little  more  of  history.  The  Greek 
and  Roman  stories  you  can  read  in  some 
abridgment,  and  soon  become  master  of 
some  of  the  most  brilliant  facts,  which  must 
highly  delight  a poetical  mind.  You  should 
also,  and  very  soon  may,  become  master  of 
the  heathen  mythology,  to  which  there  ate 
everlasting  allusions  in  all  the  poets,  and 
which  in  itself  is  charmingly  fanciful.  What 
will  require  to  be  studied  with  more  atten- 
tion, is  modern  history ; that  is,  the  history 
of  France  and  Great  Britain,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  Henry  VII.’s  reign.  I know  very 
well  you  have  a mind  capable  of  attaining 
knowledge  by  a shorter  process  than  ii 
commonly  used,  and  I am  certain  you  are 
capable  of  making  a better  use  of  it,  when 
attained,  than  is  generally  done. 

“ I beg  you  will  not  give  yourself  the 
trouble  of  writing  to  me  when  it  is  incon* 
venient,  and  make  no  apology  when  you 
do  write  for  having  postponed  it, — be  assured 
of  this,  however,  that  I shall  always  be 
happy  to  hear  from  you.  I think  my  friend 
Mr.  Creech  told  me  that  you  had  some  poems 
in  manuscript  by  you,  of  a satirical  and 
humorous  nature  (in  which,  by  the  way,  I 
think  you  very  strong),  which  your  prudent 
friends  prevailed  on  you  to  omit,  particu- 
larly one  called  * Somebody’s  Confession;' 
if  you  will  entrust  me  with  a sight  of  any 
one  of  these,  I will  pawn  ray  word  to  give 
no  copies,  and  will  be  obliged  to  you  for  a 
perusal  of  them. 

“I  understand  you  intend  to  take  a farm, 
and  make  the  useful  and  respectable  busi- 
ness of  husbandry  your  chief  occupation : 
this,  I hope,  will  not  prevent  your  making 
occasional  addresses  to  the  nine  ladies  who 
have  shown  you  such  favour,  one  of  whom 
visited  you  in  the  * auld  clay  biggin.* 
Virgil,  before  you,  proved  to  the  world  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  business  of  husban- 
dry inimical  to  poetry ; and  I sincerely  hope 
that  you  may  afford  an  example  of  a good 
poet  being  a successful  farmer.  I fear  it 
will  not  be  in  my  power  to  visit  Scotland 
this  season ; when  I do,  I’ll  endeavour  t« 
find  you  out,  for  I heartily  wish  to  see  and 
converse  with  you.  If  ever  your  occasions 
call  you  to  this  place,  I make  no  doubt  of 
your  paying  me  a visit,  and  you  may  depend 
on  a very  cordial  welcome  from  this  family. 
I am,  dear  Sir,  your  frieud  and  obedient 
servant,  a J 

45 


510 


NOTES  TO  THE 


Page  286,  Note  21. — Throng,  a very 
familiar  Scottish  term  for  busy — “having 
one’s  hands  full.” 

Page  286,  Note  22. — Burns  here  alludes 
to  his  excursion  to  the  south,  to  visit 
places  of  interest,  and  full  of  the  traditions 
of  the  Border  contests  of  early  Scottish 
history. 

Page  287,  Note  23. — An  engraving 
executed  by  Beugo,  from  Nasmyth’s  por- 
trait of  Robert  Burns,  and  which  all  persons 
admitted  to  be  even  a more  faithful  likeness 
than  the  picture,  although  that  possessed 
much  merit. 

Page  287,  Note  24. — Subjoined  is  Dr. 
Blair’s  reply  to  this  letter : — 

* Argyle  Square , Edinburgh,  May  4th,  1787. 

“ Dear  Sir — I was  favoured  this  fore- 
noon with  your  very  obliging  lettter,  to- 
gether with  an  impression  of  your  portrait, 
for  which  I return  you  my  best  thanks. 
The  success  you  have  met  with  I do  not 
think  was  beyond  your  merits ; and  if  I 
have  had  any  small  hand  in  contributing  to 
it,  it  gives  me  great  pleasure.  I know  no 
way  in  which  literary  persons  who  are  ad- 
vanced in  years  can  do  more  service  to  the 
world,  than  in  forwarding  the  efforts  of 
rising  genius,  or  bringing  forth  unknown 
merit  from  obscurity.  I was  the  first  person 
who  brought  out  to  the  knowledge  of  the 
world  the  poems  of  Ossian ; first,  by  the 
‘Fragments  of  ancient  Poetry,’  which  I 
published,  and  afterwards,  by  my  setting  on 
foot  the  undertaking  for  collecting  and 
publishing  the  * Works  of  Ossian ; ’ and  I 
have  always  considered  this  as  a meritorious 
action  of  my  life. 

“Your  situation,  as  you  say,  was  indeed 
singular  ; and  in  being  brought,  all  at  once, 
fr<  m the  shades  of  deepest  privacy  to  so 
great  a share  of  public  notice  and  observa- 
tion, you  had  to  stand  a severe  trial.  I am 
happy  that  you  have  stood  is  so  well ; and, 
as  far  as  I have  known  or  heard,  though  in 
the  midst  of  many  temptations,  without 
reproach  to  your  character  and  behaviour. 

“ You  are  now,  I presume,  to  retire  to  a 
more  private  walk  of  life  ; and  I trust  will 
conduct  yourself  there  with  industry,  pru- 
dence, and  honour.  You  have  laid  the 
foundation  for  just  public  esteem.  In  the 
midst  of  those  employments  which  your 
situation  will  render  proper,  you  will  not,  I 
hope,  #neglect  to  promote  that  esteem,  by 
cultivating  your  genius,  and  attending  to 
such  productions  of  it  as  may  raise  your 
character  still  higher.  At  the  same  time, 
foe  u'ot  hi  too  great  a haste  to  come  fovw&rd. 


Talce  time  and  leisure  to  improve  and  mature 
your  talents  ; for,  on  any  second  production 
you  give  the  world,  your  fete,  as  a poet,  will 
very  much  depend.  There  is  no  doubt  a 
gloss  of  novelty,  which  time  wears  off.  Aa 
you  very  properly  hint  yourself,  you  are  not 
to  be  surprised,  if  in  your  rural  retreat  you 
do  not  find  yourself  surrounded  with  that 
glare  of  notice  and  applause  which  here 
shone  upon  you.  No  man  can  be  a good 
poet  without  being  somewhat  of  a philoso- 
pher. He  must  lay  his  account,  that  any 
one,  who  exposes  him  to  public  observation, 
will  occasionally  meet  with  the  attacks  of 
illiberal  censure,  which  it  is  always  best  to 
overlook  and  despise.  He  will  be  inclined 
sometimes  to  court  retreat,  and  to  disappear 
from  public  view.  He  will  not  affect  to 
shine  always,  that  he  may  at  proper  se’asons 
come  forth  with  more  advantage  and  energy. 
He  will  not  think  himself  neglected  if  he  be 
not  always  praised.  I have  taken  the 
liberty,  you  see,  of  an  old  man  to  give  ad- 
vice and  make  reflections,  which  your  own 
good  sense  will,  I dare  say,  render  un- 
necessary. 

“As  you  mention  your  being  just  about  to 
leave  town,  you  are  going,  I should  suppose, 
to  Dumfries-shire,  to  look  at  some  of  Mr. 
Miller’s  farms.  I heartily  wish  the  offers  to 
be  made  you  there  may  answer,  as  I am  per- 
suaded you  will  not  easily  find  a more 
generous  and  better -hearted  proprietor  to 
live  under  than  Mr.  Miller.  When  you 
return,  if  you  come  this  way,  I will  be  happy 
to  see  you,  and  to  know  concerning  your 
future  plans  of  life.  You  will  find  me  by 
the  22nd  of  this  month,  not  in  my  house  ia 
Argyle  square,  but  at  a country  house  in  Res- 
talrig,  about  a mile  east  of  Edinburgh,  near 
the  Musselburg  road.  Wishing  you,  with 
the  warmest  interest,  all  success  and  pros- 
perity, I am,  with  true  regard  and  esteem; 
dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely,  Hugh  Blair.” 

Page  287,  Note  25. — Burns  here  alludes 
to  an  extempore  address,  which  he  wrote  off- 
hand to  Mr.  Creech,  of  which  the  opening 
words  are  Auld  Chuckle  Reekie's  salt 
distrest,  and  which  will  be  found  amongst  the 
poems  in  the  foregoing  part  of  this  volume. 

Page  287,  Note  26. — This  patron  was 
James,  Earl  of  Glencairn,  whose  countenance 
had  also  reared  Mr.  Creech  to  eminence 
that  celebrated  bibliopole  having  formerly 
travelled  with  the  earl  (then  a very  young 
man),  in  the  capacity  of  tutor  and  companion 
to  his  lordship.  It  was  by  Lord  Glencairn, 
as  we  have  already  observed*  that  Burnt 
was  introduced  to  Creech. 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


Page  287,  Note  27. — Burns  here  alludes 
to  his  friend  and  correspondent,  for  whom 
he  penned  some  of  his  best  songs,  namely, 
Mr.  Johnson,  the  compiler  and  publisher  of 
the  Scots’  Musical  Museum. 

Page  288,  Note  28. — Mr.  Peter  Hill, 
afterwards  in  business  for  himself  as  a book- 
seller, and  honoured  by  the  poet’s  corres- 
pondence. Reared  with  Mr.  Creech,  he  was 
in  his  turn,  master  to  Mr.  Constable.  He 
died  at  an  advanced  age  in  1836. 

Page  288,  Note  29. — This  wonderful 
beast  had  been  named  Jenny  Geddes  by  the 
poet,  in  honour  of  the  old  woman  to  whom 
tradition  assigns  the  credit  of  having  cast 
the  first  stool  at  the  dean’s  head  in  St. 
Giles’s  church,  July  23,  1637,  when  the 
liturgy  imposed  on  Scotland  by  Charles  I. 
was  first  read. 

Page  288,  Note  30. — Auchtertyre  was 
the  seat  of  Sir  William  Murray,  Bart.,  situ- 
ated in  a picturesque  and  romantic  district, 
a few  miles  from  Crieff.  The  son  and  suc- 
cessor of  the  then  proprietor,  namely,  Sir 
George  Murray,  was  subsequently  a mem- 
ber of  Pitt’s  administration,  as  Secretary  for 
the  Colonies. 

Page  288,  Note  31. — This  was  Auch- 
tertyre, near  Stirling,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Teith.  Mr.  Ramsay  was  not  only  an  accom- 
plished scholar,  and  remarkable  for  his 
distinguished  classical  attainments  and  re- 
fined taste ; but  wa3  possessed  with  a warm 
national  enthusiasm,  in  favour  of  the  simple 
and  truthful  imagery  and  diction  of  the  less 
polished  literature  of  his  own  country. 

Page  289,  Note  32. — Mr.  Cruikshank, 
of  the  High  School,  Edinburgh,  and  the 
father  of  the  fair  Miss  Cruikshank  whom 
Burns  has  so  delicately  celebrated  in  his 
gong  of  the  Rosebud. 

Page  290,  Note  33. — Mr.  Ainslie  was 
educated  to  the  profession  of  the  law,  and 
eubsequently  became  a writer  to  the  Signet, 
in  Edinburgh.  He  survived  the  poet  nearly 
half  a century,  and  died  at  Edinburgh,  on 
the  11th  of  April  1838,  at  the  advanced  age 
of  seventy-two  years.  At  the  time  in 
question,  he  was  barely  over  twenty.  He 
had  accompanied  Burns  on  his  poetical  ex- 
cursion through  the  southern  or  border 
districts. 

Page  291,  Note  34. — Mr.  Andrew 
Bruce,  of  the  North  Bridge,  Edinburgh. 

Page  291,  Note  35. — Hugh,  the  neigh- 
bour’s herdsman,  who  cuts  such  a quaint 
figure  in  the  poem  of  Poor  Mailie,  Burns’s 
pet  ewe. 

Page  291,  Note  36. — Miss  Charlotte 
Hamilton  subsequently  mlrrie'd  Dr.  Adair, 


611 

a physician,  at  Harrowgate,  and  survived  the 
poet  nearly  forty  years.  She  was  celebrated 
by  the  poet  in  the  song  entitled  the  Bank* 
of  the  Devon. 

Page  291,  Note  37. — Mr.  Hamilton’s 
son,  who  figures  in  the  poem  entitled  The 
Dedication,  by  the  designation  of  Wee  curlie 
Johnnie. 

Page  292,  Note  38. — Mr.  Walker  was 
employed  by  the  Duke  of  Athole,  at  his 
seat  of  Blair  Athole,  in  the  capacity  of  tutor 
to  his  grace’s  children.  It  was  at  Blair 
Athole  that  Burns  had  first  met  him,  and 
become  acquainted  with  him,  only  a few 
days  before  the  date  of  this  letter,  that  is,  in 
the  month  of  September,  1787,  in  the  course 
of  one  of  his  Highland  excursions. 

Page  292,  Note  39. — The  poet  here 
alludes  to  the  lines  entitled  the  Address  of 
Bruar  Water  to  the  Duke  of  Athole.  It  will 
be  remembered  that  in  a previous  allusion  to 
this  subject,  we  stated  that  the  spot  was 
originally  bare  and  unadorned  by  plantations, 
for  which  the  capab  lities  of  the  landscape  so 
especially  fitted  this  beautiful  spot.  Burns 
was  the  first  who  suggested  to  the  Duke 
the  bestowal  of  a little  art  in  laying  out  this 
portion  of  his  estate  in  ornamental  grounds 
— a suggestion  which  the  Duke  quickly 
adopted. 

Page  29.2,  Note  40. — The  Duchess  of 
Athole  of  the  time  being,  was  the  daughter 
of  Charles,  Lord  Cathcart  (the  ninth  of  the 
title),  and  the  “ little  angel  band,”  of  which 
Burns  speaks  with  such  fervour,  were 
severally,  the  Lady  Charlotte  Murray,  then 
only  twelve  years  of  age,  and  subsequently 
married  to  Sir  John  Menzies,  of  Castle 
Menzies ; Lady  Amelia  Murray,  then  seven 
years  of  age,  and  subsequently  married  to 
the  Lord  Viscount  Strathallan;  and  lastly. 
Lady  Elizabeth  Murray,  then  only  five 
months  old  (an  infant  in  arms),  and  since 
married  to  Macgregor  Murray,  of  Lanrick. 

Page  292,  Note  41. — The  valley  of 
Strathspey  has  given  its  name  to  the  dancing 
tunes  in  quick  time,  so  popular  in  Scotland^ 
and  especially  in  the  Highlands,  and  which 
derived  their  origin  remotely  from  this 
district. 

Page  292,  Note  42. — Stonehaven,  some- 
times also  called  Stonehive,  by  the  people  of 
the  country. 

Page  292,  Note  43. — The  youngest 
daughter  of  the  late  James  Chalmers,  Esq., 
of  Fingland.  She  married,  December  9, 
1788,  Lewis  Hay,  Esq.,  of  the  banking  firm 
of  Sir  William  Forbes,  James  Hunter,  and 
Company,  Edinburgh.  Mrs.  Hay  has  sines 
resided  at  Pan*  in  the  south  of  France. 


618 


NOTES  TO  THE 


Page  293,  Note  44. — The  second  num- 
ber of  the  Scots  Musical  Museum , edited 
end  published  by  Johnson. 

Page  293,  Note  45. — These  songs,  which 
Burns  enthusiastically  admired,  were  the 
works  of  the  Rev.  John  Skinner,  the  epis- 
copalian officiating  minister  at  Longside, 
near  Peterhead. 

Page  294,  Note  46.— Hoy  was  librarian 
to  the  Duke  of  Gordon  for  forty-six  years 
antecedent  to  his  death  in  1828.  He  was  a 
simple,  pure-hearted  man,  of  the  Dominie 
Sampson  genus,  and  had  attracted  the  regard 
of  Burns  during  the  short  stay  of  the  poet 
at  Gordon  Castle. 

Page  294,  Note  47. — Alexander,  fourth 
Duke  of  Gordon,  who  entertained  Burns  at 
Gordon  Castle,  possessed  considerable  abili- 
ties for  song  writing,  though  few  of  his 
verses  have  been  made  public.  The  song 
alluded  to  by  Burns  seems  to  have  been  ob- 
tained from  Mr.  Hoy,  as  it  appears  in 
Johnson’s  second  volume. 

Page  296,  Note  48.  Mr.  Charles  Hay, 
afterwards  Lord  Newton.  He  was  a man  of 
much  wit,  and  not  by  any  means  deficient  of 
learning  in  the  abstruser  questions  of  his 
profession.  That  his  qualifications  as  a 
lawyer  were  by  no  means  contemptible,  his 
subsequent  attainment  of  a judgeship  suffi- 
ciently testifies.  In  his  earlier  days,  and  at 
the  period  of  his  correspondence  with  the 
poet,  however,  he  was  probably  more  strongly 
given  to  the  bottle,  the  song  and  the 
repartee,  than  to  very  deep  questions  of 
jurisprudence. 

Page  296,  Note  49. — The  Charlotte 
here  meant  w'as  Miss  Charlotte  Hamilton, 
Bister  of  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton,  the  poet’s  firm 
friend. 

Page  297,  Note  50. — Alluding  to  the 
■ong  dedicated  to  Miss  Chalmers,  and  of 
which  the  initiatory  line  runs  thus  : — 

“ Where  braving  angry  winter’s  storms.” 

Page  298,  Note  51 — It  is  not  impro- 
bable that  the  locality  illustrated  in  these 
lines,  to  wit,  Glenap,  had  some  considerable 
share  in  the  deep  interest  which  they  excited 
in  the  mind  of  Burns.  Glenap  is  a small 
place  in  the  southern  part  of  Ayrshire,  and 
the  local  associations  were  no  doubt  powerful 
to  render  any  song  which  celebrated  them 
interesting  in  the  eyes  of  Burns. 

Page  298,  Note  52. — After  a long  and 
honourable  practice  as  a surgeon  at  Irvine, 
Mr.  Mackenzie,  who  had  there  occupied  every 
honourable  post  in  the  township,  finally  (in 
1827)  retired  to  the  metropolis,  where  he 
Continued  to  reside  until  hi«  death,  on  the 


11th  of  January,  1837.  In  the  course  of  his 
medical  career,  he  sought  aud  attained  a 
physician’s  diploma,  and  it  was  by  him  (as 
Dr.  Mackenzie)  that  Burns  was  presented  to 
Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  also  a warm 
friend,  and  great  admirer  of  the  genius  oi 
the  Scottish  Bard.  Further  details  on  the 
subject  of  Burns’s  intimacy  with  these  two 
worthy  and  distinguished  contemporaries, 
may  be  gathered  from  the  particulars  afforded 
in  the  memoir  which  forms  the  first  part  of 
this  volume. 

Page  239,  Note  53. — Miss  Williams 
had,  in  the  previous  month  of  June,  addressed 
a letter  of  compliment  to  Burns,  which  may 
be  found  in  the  Edinburgh  Magazine  for  Sep- 
tember, 1817,  where  the  letter  in  the  text  also 
appeared  for  the  first  time,  along  with  the  fol- 
lowing note  by  the  editor,  Mr.  Thomas  Pringle? 
— “The  critique,  though  not  without  soma 
traits  of  his  usual  sound  judgment  and  dis- 
crimination, appears  on  the  whole  to  be  much 
in  the  strain  of  those  gallant  and  flattering 
responses  which  men  of  genius  usually  find 
it  iucumbent  to  issue,  when  consulted  upon 
the  productions  of  their  female  admirers.” 

Page  300,  Note  54. — This  was  the  per- 
son whom  Burns,  in  his  autobiographical 
letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  -describes  as  his  com- 
panion at  Irvine — whose  mind  was  fraught 
with  every  manly  virtue,  and  who,  neverthe- 
less, was  the  means  of  making  him  regard 
illicit  love  with  levity. 

Page  301,  Note  55. — Mrs.  McLehose, 
so  well  known  to  those  who  are  conversant 
with  the  life  and  works  of  Burns,  under  the 
fictitious  name  of  Clarinda. 

Page  301,  Note  56. — This,  according 
to  the  arrangement  of  Motherwell,  is  the  first 
of  the  letters  extant,  and  addressed  by  Robert 
Burns  to  Mrs.  McLehose,  although  it  had 
previously  been  published  as  the  second . 
The  date,  according  to  the  same  authority, 
must  have  been  December  6th,  1787,  to 
which  it  is  added,  that  the  poet  “ was  to  have 
drunk  tea  with  her  on  that  day,  but  was  dis- 
appointed by  the  lady,  who  afterwards 
repeated  her  invitation  for  Saturday  (the  next 
day  but  one),  when  he  was  once  more  disap- 
pointed, in  consequence  of  the  accident 
which  confined  him  to  his  room  for  sev/ral 
weeks,  and  by  which  his  leg  was  seriously 
injured. 

Page  302,  Note  57. — If  our  conjecture 
as  to  the  date  of  the  foregoing  letter  be  cor- 
rect, a3  stated  in  the  Note,  number  56,  it  is 
obvious  that  this  note  must  have  been  written 
and  despatched  on  Saturday,  the  8th  of  De* 
ceinber,  1787.  We  are  confirmed  as  to  the 
date  of  these  letter^  by  those  addressed  to 


519 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


Others  of  his  correspondents,  and  to  Miss  I 
Chalmers  in  particular,  to  which  Burns  had  pre- 
fixed dates,  and  which  have  definitely  pointed 
to  Saturday,  December  the  8th,  1787,  as  the 
day  upon  which  the  accident  occurred,  by 
which  his  leg  was  injured.  We  have  already 
stated  that  Mrs.  McLehose  had  deferred  re- 
ceiving Burns  on  the  Thursday  previous,  and 
had  named  this  day  (Saturday)  to  receive  him 
instead. 

Page  302,  Note  58.— The  letter  of  the 
21st  of  December,  to  which  Burns  here 
alludes,  has  been  lost,  and  we  can  only  infer 
the  contents  from  the  context  of  the  present 
letter,  and  from  the  reply  in  verse  which  he 
received  from  Mrs.  McLehose  in  the  lines 
beginning — 

* Talk  not  of  love,  it  gives  me  pain,”  &c. 

This  letter  was  the  first  of  that  series  which 
was  signed  with  the  Arcadian  name  of 
" Clarinda,”  and  which  Burns  here  repeats 
with  marked  emphasis. 

Page  303,  Note  59—  Judging  from  the 
facts  communicated,  or  alluded  to,  or  from 
the  contents  of  other  letters,  evidently  of  the 
same  period,  this  letter  must  have  been 
written  between  the  31st  of  December  1787, 
and  the  3rd  of  January  1788.  It  would 
almost  seem  as  if  we  had  lost  some  of  the 
intermediary  notes;  but  it  is  also  evident 
that  there  could  not  have  been  a very  volu- 
minous senes  of  letters  intervening  between 
that  of  December  21st  and  this  one. 

Page  306,  Note  60. — The  date  of  this 
letter  was  probably  before  the  20th  of 
January,  and  it  might  possibly  have  been  as 
early  as  the  eighth  of  the  same  month ; we 
can  only  infer  ambiguously  from  the  context, 
and  the  circumstances  which  transpire  in 
other  letters  of  the  same  period.  A contem- 
porary of  both  Burns  and  Clarinda,  has 
definitely  fixed  this  letter  for  the  12th  of 
January  1788,  but  upon  what  grounds  I do 
not  precisely  know ; possibly,  however,  from 
some  occurrence  of  circumstances  which 
might  have  rendered  the  date  conclusive. 

Page  308,  Note  61. — An  allusion  to 
the  novel  of  Fielding,  entitled  Amelia,  to 
which  Clarinda  had  drawn  his  attention 
especially. 

Page  310,  Note  62. — Burns  here  alludes 
to  the  song  of  which  the  opening  line  is 

“ C hr  in  da,  mistress  of  my  soul.” 

Page  314,  Note  63. — This  letter  was  a 
reply  to  the  subjoined  letter,  received  by 
Burns  from  Mr.  Skinner,  in  which  he  alludes 
to  a project  for  the  publication  of  a complete 
cciheiha  of  Scottish  songs 


“ Linsheart,  \4.t7i  November,  1787. 

u Sir — Your  kind  return  w ithout  date,  but 
of  post-mark  October  25th,  came  to  my  hand 
only  this  day ; and,  to  testify  my  punctuality 
to  my  poetic  engagement,  I sit  down  itnme* 
diately  to  answer  it  in  kind.  Your  acknow- 
ledgment of  my  poor  but  just  encomiums  on 
your  surprising  genius,  and  your  opinion  of 
my  rhyming  excursions,  are  both,  I think,  by 
far  too  high.  The  difference  between  our  two 
tracks  of  education  and  ways  of  life  is  entirely 
in  your  favour,  and  gives  you  the  preference 
in  every  manner  of  way.  I know  a classical 
education  will  not  create  a versifying  taste, 
l ut  it  mightily  improves  and  assists  it ; arid 
though,  where  both  these  meet,  there  may 
sometimes  be  ground  for  approbation,  yet 
where  taste  appears  single,  as  it  w ere,  and 
neither  cramped  nor  supported  by  acquisition, 
I will  always  sustain  the  justice  of  its  prior 
claim  to  applause.  A small  portion  of  taste, 
this  way,  I have  had  almost  from  childhood, 
especially  in  the  old  Scottish  dialect : and  it 
is  as  old  a thing  as  I remember,  my  fondness 
for  * Christ-kirk  o’  the  Green/  which  I had 
by  heart  ere  I was  twelve  years  of  age,  and 
which,  some  years  ago,  I attempted  to  turn 
into  Latin  verse.  While  I was  young,  I 
dabbled  a good  deal  in  these  things ; but, 
on  getting  the  black  gown,  I gave  it  pretty 
much  over,  till  my  daughters  grew  up,  who, 
being  all  good  singers,  plagued  me  for  words 
to  some  of  their  favourite  tune3,  and  so  ex- 
torted these  effusions,  which  have  made  a 
public  appearance  beyond  my  expectations, 
and  contrary  to  my  intentions,  at  the  same 
time  that  i hope  there  is  nothing  to  be  found 
in  them  uncharacteristic,  or  unbecoming  the 
cloth,  w'hich  I would  adways  wish  to  see 
respected. 

“ As  to  the  assistance  you  propose  from  me 
in  the  undertaking  you  are  engaged  in,  I am 
sorry  I cannot  give  it  so  far  as  I could  wish, 
and  you  perhaps  expect.  My  daughters, 
who  were  my  only  intelligencers,  are  all 
foris-familiate,  and  the  old  woman  their 
mother  has  lost  that  taste.  There  are  two 
from  my  own  pen,  which  I might  give  you, 
if  worth  the  while.  One  to  the  old  Scotch 
tune  of  ‘ Dumbarton’s  Drums.’ 

“ The  other,  perhaps,  you  have  met  with,  aa 
your  noble  friend,  the  duchess,  has,  1 am 
told,  heard  of  it.  It  was  squeezed  out  of 
me  by  a brother  parson  in  her  neighbour- 
hourhood,  to  accommodate  a new  Highland 
reel  for  the  Marquis’s  birth-day  to  the 
stanza  of 

‘Tune  your  fiddles,  tune  them  sweetly/  &c. 

“If  this  last  answer  ymi  purpose,  yosd 


620 


NOTES  TO  THE 


may  have  it  from  a brother  o.  mine,  Mr. 
James  Skinner,  writer,  in  Edinburgh,  who, 
I believe,  can  give  the  music  too. 

“ There  is  another  humorous  thing,  I have 
heard  said  to  be  done  by  the  Catholic  priest 
Geddes,  and  which  hit  my  taste  much : — - 

'There  was  a wee  wifeikie,  was  coming  frae 
the  fair. 

Had  gotten  a little  drapikie,  which  bred 
her  meikle  care. 

It  took  upo’  the  wifie’s  heart,  and  she 
began  to  spew, 

And  co*  the  wee  wifeikie,  I wish  I binna 
iou. 

I wish/  &c.,  &c. 

"I  have  heard  of  another  new  composition, 
by  a young  ploughman  of  my  acquaintance, 
that  I am  vastly  pleased  with,  to  the  tune 
of  ‘The  humours  of  Glen/  which  I fear 
won’t  do,  as  the  music,  I am  told,  is  of  Irish 
original.  I have  mentioned  these,  such  as 
they  are,  to  show  my  readiness  to  oblige 
you,  and  to  contribute  my  mite,  if  I could, 
to  the  patriotic  work  you  have  in  hand,  and 
which  I wish  all  success  to.  You  have  only 
to  notify  your  mind,  and  what  you  want  of 
the  above,  shall  be  sent  you. 

“ Meantime,  while  you  are  thus  publicly,  I 
may  say,  employed,  do  not  sheath  your  own 
roper  and  piercing  weapon.  From  what  I 
ave  seen  of  yours  already,  I am  inclined  to 
hope  for  much  good.  One  lesson  of  virtue 
and  morality,  delivered  in  your  amusing 
style,  and  from  such  as  you,  will  operate 
more  than  dozens  would  do  from  such  as 
me,  who  shall  be  told  it  is  our  employment, 
and  be  never  more  minded : whereas,  from 
A pen  like  yours,  as  being  one  of  the  many, 
what  comes  will  be  admired.  Admiration 
will  produce  regard,  and  regard  will  leave  an 
impression,  especially  when  example  goes 
along  with  it. 

Now  binna  saying  I’m  ill  bred. 

Else,  by  my  troth.  I’ll  no  be  glad ; 

For  cadgers,  ye  have  heard  it  said. 

And  sic  like  fry. 

Maun  aye  be  harland  in  their  trade. 
And  sae  maun  I. 

•‘Wishing  you,  from  my  poet-pen,  all 
fuccess,  and,  in  my  other  character,  all 
happiness  and  heavenly  direction,  I remain, 
with  esteem,  your  sincere  friend, 

“John  Skinner.” 

Page  314,  Note  64. — Dr.  Webster  was 
the  otliciating  minister  of  the  Scottish  Epis- 
copalian Church,  at  Edinburgh. 

Page  315,  Note  65. — The  “Two  fair 
spirits  of  the  Hill*  alluded  to,  were  Miss 


Sophia  Brodie,  and  Miss  Rose,  of  Kilva* 

rock. 

Page  316,  Note  66. — “The  letters  to 
Richard  Brown,  written  at  a period  when 
the  poet  was  in  the  full  blaze  of  reputation, 
showed  that  he  was  at  no  time  so  dazzled 
with  success,  as  to  forget  the  friends  who 
had  anticipated  the  public  by  discovering  hit 
merit.” — Walker. 

Page  316,  Note  67. — An  intervening 
letter,  which  probably  bore  date  about  the 
23rd  of  February,  has  not  transpired.  We 
are  led  to  the  conviction  that  such  a letter, 
did  exist,  from  the  context  and  the  allusions 
contained  in  this  letter. 

Page  317,  Note  68. — Burns  here  alludes 
to  Mr.  James  Tennant,  of  Glenconner,  in 
Ayrshire,  to  whom  he  addressed  a brief 
poem  (which  will  be  found  in  its  proper 
place  in  this  volume).  It  was  the  same  Mr. 
James  Tennant,  who  had  previously  in- 
spected other  farms  which  Bums  con  tern- 
plated  hiring. 

Page  320,  Note  69. — It  is  probable  from 
the  allusions  contained  in  this  letter  that  it 
wras  written  after  the  brief  visit  of  the  poet 
to  Edinburgh,  in  which  he  finally  concluded 
the  bargain  with  Mr.  Miller,  to  take  the  farm 
of  Ellisland.  It  was  on  the  13th  of  March, 
that  this  contract  was  closed ; and  judging 
from  circumstances,  the  date  of  this  letter 
would  have  been  about  the  18th  of  March, 
1788.  Burns  did  not  see  Mrs.  McLehose 
in  this  instance,  and  appears  even  to  have 
avoided  an  interview,  for  private  reasons. 

Page  322,  Note  70. — The  words  isr. 
question,  are  those  which  bear  the  title  of 
the  Ckevallier's  Lament. 

Page  322,  Note  71. — The  allusion  here 
made  is  to  his  marriage  with  Jean  Armour. 

Page  326,  Note  72. — Burns,  of  course, 
again  alludes  to  his  marriage  with  Jeau 
Armour. 

Page  326,  Note  73. — Alluding  to  the 
death  of  Mr.  Samuel  Mitchelson,  writer  to 
the  Signet  in  Edinburgh,  who  had  been  the 
friend  and  master  of  Mr.  Ainslie,  and  which 
occurred  on  the  21st  of  June,  1788. 

Page  327,  Note  74. — Burns  alludes  to 
a parcel  of  books,  which  his  friend,  Mr.  Hill, 
had  sent  to  him  as  a present. 

Page  328,  Note  75. — Mr.  David 
Ramsay,  the  printer,  and  publisher,  ol 
the  Edinburgh  Evening  Courant. 

Page  328,  Note  76. — The  Crothallan 
Fencibles,  a select  club  of  wits  and  conge- 
nial spirits,  to  which  Burns  belonged,  and  to 
which  he  very  frequently  alludes. 

Page  328,  Note  77. — Mr.  Alexander 
Cunningham,  jewdlor,  of  Edi.iburgh,  a 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS, 


52* 


mutual  friend  of  Robert  Burns  and  George 
Thomson. 

Page  333,  Note  78. — Mr.  Morrison 
was  a cabinet  maker  and  upholsterer  at 
Mauchline,  who  had  undertaken  to  furnish 
Burns’s  new  house  at  Ellisland,  as  soon  as 
it  should  be  completed. 

Page  336,  Note  79. — A quey — a heifer. 

Page  339,  Note  80. — This  letter  was  a 
reply  to  one  received  by  Burns  from  Mr. 
Carfrae,  of  which  the  subjoined  is  a copy : — 

“January  2nd,  1789. 

"Sir — If  you  have  lately  seen  Mrs. 
Dunlop,  of  Dunlop,  you  have  certainly  heard 
of  the  author  of  the  verses  which  accompany 
this  letter.  He  was  a man  highly  respected 
for  every  accomplishment  and  virtue  which 
adorns  the  character  of  a man  or  a Chris- 
tian. To  a great  degree  of  literature,  of 
taste  and  poetic  genius,  was  added  an  in- 
vincible modesty  of  temper,  which  prevented, 
in  a great  degree,  his  figuring  in  life,  and 
confined  the  perfect  knowledge  of  his 
character  and  talents  to  the  small  circle  of 
his  chosen  friends.  He  was  untimely  taken 
from  us,  a few  weeks  ago,  by  an  inflammatory 
fever,  in  the  prime  of  life ; beloved  by  all 
who  enjoyed  his  acquaintance,  and  lamented 
by  all  who  have  any  regard  for  virtue  or 
genius.  There  is  a woe  pronounced  in  Scrip- 
ture against  the  person  whom  all  men  speak 
well  of ; if  ever  that  woe  fell  upon  the  head 
of  mortal  man,  it  fell  upon  him.  He  has  left 
behind  him  a considerable  number  of  com- 
positions, chiefly  poetical,  sufficient,  I ima- 
gine, to  make  a large  octavo  volume.  In 
particular,  two  complete  and  regular  trage- 
dies, a farce  of  three  acts,  and  some  smal.er 
poems  on  different  subjects.  It  falls  to  my 
share,  who  have  lived  in  the  most  intimate 
and  uninterrupted  friendship  with  him  from 
my  youth  upwards,  to  submit  to  you  the 
verses  he  wrote  on  the  publication  of  your 
incomparable  poems.  It  is  probable  they 
were  his  last,  as  they  were  found  in  his 
escritoire,  folded  up  with  the  form  of  a letter 
addressed  to  you,  and,  I imagine,  were  only 
prevented  from  being  sent  by  himself,  by 
that  melancholy  dispensation  which  we  still 
bemoan.  The  verses  themselves  I will  not 
pretend  to  criticise,  when  writing  to  a gen- 
tlemen whom  I consider  as  entirely  qualified 
to  judge  of  their  merit.  They  are  the  only 
verses  he  seems  to  have  attempted  in  the 
Scottish  style ; and  I hesitate  not  to  sav,  in 
general,  that  they  will'  bring  no  dishonour 
on  the  Scottish  muse ; and  allow  me  to  add, 
that  if  it  is  your  opinion  they  are  not  un- 
worthy of  the  author,  and  will  be  no  dis- 


I credit  to  you,  it  is  the  inclination  of  Mr, 
Mylnes’  friends  that  they  should  immediately 
j be  published  in  some  periodical  work,  to 
i give  the  world  a specimen  of  what  may  be 
expected  from  his  performances  in  the 
poetic  line,  which  perhaps  will  afterwards  be 
published  for  the  advantage  of  his  family' 

"I  must  beg  the  favour  of  a letter  from 
you  acknowledging  tne  receipt  of  this,  and 
to  be  allowed  to  subscribe  myself,  with 
great  regard.  Sir,  your  most  obedient 
servant.  P.  Carfrae.” 

Page  340,  Note  81. — The  piety  of  thi* 
letter  receives  a harmonious  response  from 
the  following,  addressed  on  the  same  day 
by  Gilbert  Burns  to  his  poetical  brother 
“ Mossgiel,  January  1st,  1789. 

"Dear  Brother — I have  just  finished 
my  new-year’s-day  breakfast  in  the  usual 
form,  which  naturally  makes  me  call  tf* 
mind  the  days  of  former"  years,  and  tin 
society  in  which  we  used  to  begin  them  > 
and  when  I look  at  our  family  vicissitudes, 
* through  the  dark  postern  of  time  long 
elapsed/  1 cannot  help  remarking  to  you, 
my  dear  brother,  how  good  the  God  of 
Seasons  is  to  us,  and  that,  however  some 
clouds  may  seem  to  lower  over  the  portion 
of  time  before  us,  we  have  great  reason  to 
hope  that  all  will  turn  out  well. 

"Your  mother  and  sisters,  with  Robert  the 
second,  join  me  in  the  compliments  of  the 
season  to  you  and  Mrs.  Burns,  and  beg  you 
will  remember  us  in  the  same  manner  to 
William,  the  first  time  you  see  him.  I am, 
dear  brother,  yours,  Gilbert  Burns.” 

Page  342,  Note  82. — Alexander  Gedde3, 
born  at  Arradowl,  in  Banffshire,  in  1737, 
was  reared  as  a Catholic  clergyman,  and  long 
officiated  in  that  capacity  in  his  native 
country,  and  elsewhere.  As  humbly  born 
as  Burns,  lie  possessed  much  of  his  strong 
and  eccentric  genius,  and  it  is  not  surpris- 
ing that  he  and  the  Ayrshire  bard  should 
have  become  friends.  After  1780,  his  life 
was  spent  in  London,  chiefly  under  the 
fostering  patronage  of  a generous  Catholic 
nobleman.  Lord  Petre.  The  heterodox 
opinions  of  Dr.  Geddes,  his  extraordinary 
attempts  to  translate  the  Bible,  and  his 
numerous  fugitive  publications  on  contro- 
versial divinity,  made  much  noise  at  the 
time ; but  he  is  now  only  remembered  for 
some  successful  Scotch  verses.  This  singular 
man  died  in  London,  February  20th,  1802, 
in  the  'fixty -fifth  year  of  his  age. 

Page  342,  Note  83. — A copy  of  Burns’s 
Poems,  belonging  to  Dr.  Geddes,  into  which 
the  poet  had  transferred  some  of  hi  a more 


m 


NOTES  TO  THE 


recent  verses.  The  volume  has  since  been 
in  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Hislop,  Finsbury 
Square,  London. 

Pag?  343,  Note  84. — Burns  here  alludes 
to  his  rife’s  sister-in-law,  namely,  the  wife' 
of  Mr.  Adam  Armour,  a mason,  at  Mauch- 
line  (and  brother  to  Mrs.  Burns).  Mrs. 
Adam  Armour  survived  the  poet  nearly  half 
a century. 

Page  344,  Note  85. — The  following  is 
the  letter  to  which  the  above  was  an  answer. 
Dr.  Currie  has  unfortunately  suppressed 
the  name  of  this  correspondent  of  our 
poet : — 

“London,  August  5 ihy  1789. 

"My  Dear  Sir — Excuse  me  when  I say, 
that  the  uncommon  abilities  which  you 
possess  must  render  your  correspondence 
very  acceptable  to  any  one.  I can  assure 
you  I am  particularly  proud  of  your  partiality, 
and  shall  endeavour,  by  every  method  in  my 
power,  to  merit  a continuance  of  your 
politeness. 

* • * • • 

“ When  you  can  spare  a few  moments,  I 
should  be  proud  of  a letier  from  you,  directed 
for  me,  Gerard  Street,  Soho. 

* * * • • 

"I  cannot  express  my  happiness  suffi- 
ciently at  the  instance  of  your  attachment 
to  my  late  inestimable  frieud,  Bob  Fergus- 
Bcn,  who  was  particularly  intimate  with 
myself  and  relations.  While  I recollect 
with  pleasure  his  extraordinary  talents,  and 
many  amiable  qualities,  it  affords  me  the 
greatest  consolation  that  I am  honoured 
with  the  correspondence  of  his  successor  in 
national  simplicity  and  genius.  That  Mr. 
Burns  has  refined  in  the  art  of  poetry,  must 
readily  be  admitted ; but,  notwithstanding 
many  favourable  representations,  I am  yet 
to  learn  that  he  inherits  his  convivial 
powers. 

"There  was  such  a richness  of  conver- 
sation, such  a plentitude  of  fancy  and 
attraction  in  him,  that  when  I call  the  happy 
period  of  our  intercourse  to  my  memory,  I 
feel  mys<  If  in  a state  of  delirium.  I was 
then  younger  than  him  by  eight  or  ten 
years,  but  his  manner  was  so  felicitious,  that 
he  enraptured  every  person  around  him, 
and  infused  into  the  hearts  of  the  young 
and  old,  the  spirit  and  animation  which 
Operated  on  his  own  mind.  I am,  dear  Sir, 
your’s,  &c. 

Page  344,  Note  86. — Mr.  Edward 
Neilson,  officiating  Presbyterian  Minister  of 
the  church  of  Kirkbean,  in  the  Stewartry  of 
Kirkcui  bright. 


Page  345,  Note  87. — Subjoined  is  Dr, 
Moore’s  reply  to  this  letter  : — 

“Clifford  Street,  June  10 ih,  1789. 

"Dear  Sir— I thank  you  for  tie  differ- 
ent communications  you  have  made  me  ol 
your  occasional  productions  in  manuscript, 
all  of  which  have  merit,  and  some  of  them 
merit  of  a d.flerent  kind  from  what  appears 
in  the  poems  you  have  published.  You 
ought  carefully  to  preserve  all  your  occasional 
productions,  to  correct  and  improve  them  at 
your  leisure;  and  when  you  can  select  as 
sn.raiy  cf  these  as  will  make  a volume,  pub- 
lish it  either  at  Edinburgh  or  London  by 
subscription : on  such  an  occasion,  it  may 
be  in  my  power,  as  it  is  very  much  in  my 
inclination,  to  be  of  service  to  you. 

" If  I were  to  offer  an  opinion,  it  would  be, 
that,  in  your  future  productions,  you  should 
abandon  the  Scottish  stanza  and  dialect,  and 
adopt  the  measure  and  language  of  modern 
English  poetry. 

" The  stanza  which  you  use  in  imitation 
of  * Christ’s  Kirk  on  the  green  ’ with  the 
tiresome  repetition  of  ‘ that  day,’  is  fatiguing 
to  English  ears,  and  I should  think  not  very 
agreeable  to  Scottish. 

" All  the  fine  satire  and  humour  of  your 
* Holy  Fair,’  is  lost  on  the  English  ; yet  with- 
out more  trouble  to  yourself,  you  could  have 
conveyed  the  whole  to  them.  The  same  is 
true  of  some  of  your  other  poems.  In  your 
epistle  to  J.  Smith,  the  stanzas  of  that  be- 
ginning with  this  line  ‘This  life  so  far’s  I 
understand,’  to  that  which  ends  with  ‘short 
while  it  grieves,’  are  easy  flowing  gaily 
philosophical  and  of  Horav>an  elegance the 
language  is  English,  with  a few  Scottish 
wrords,  and  some  of  those  so  harmonious  as 
to  add  to  the  beauty : for  what  poet  would 
not  prefer  gloaming  to  twilight  ? 

“I  imagine  by  carefully  keeping,  and 
occasionally  polishing  and  correcting  those 
verses  which  the  muse  dictates,  you  will, 
within  a year  or  two,  have  another  volume 
as  large  as  the  first,  ready  for  the  press ; and 
this,  without  diverting  you  from  every 
proper  attention-to  the  study  and  practice  of 
husbandry,  in  which  I understand  you  are 
very  learned,  and  which  I fancy  you  will 
choose  to  adhere  to  as  a wife,  whilst  poetry 
amuses  you  from  time  to  time  like  a mistress. 

“ The  former,  like  a prudent  wife,  must 
not  show  ill-humour,  although  you  retain  a 
sneaking  kindness  to  tbis  agreeable  gipsy, 
and  pay  her  occasional  visits,  which  in  no 
manner  alienates  your  heart  from  your 
lawful  spouse,  but  tends,  on  the  contrary,  U 
promote  her  interest. 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


523 


"I  desired  Mr.  Cadell  to  write  to  Mr 
Creech  to  send  you  a copy  of  Zeluco.  This 
performance  has  had  great  success  here; 
but  I •shall  be  glad  to  have  your  opinion  of 
it,  because  I value  your  opinion,  and  because 
I kr/ny  you  are  above  saying  what  you  do 
not  'hink. 

“ I beg  you  will  offer  my  best  wishes  to 
my  very  good  friend  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who,  I 
understand,  is  your  neighbour.  If  she  is  as 
happy  as  I wish  her,  she  is  happy  enough. 
Mak?  my  compliments  also  to  Mrs.  Burns  ; 
and  believe  me  to  be,  with  sincere  esteem, 
dea?  Sir,  your’s,”  &c.  &c. 

P vge  346,  Note  88. — The  husband  of 
thi*  lady  was  chamberlain  to  the  Duke  of 
QiKensberry,  at  whose  house  of  Drumlanrig 
tin  family  consequently  lived.  The  beauti- 
ful daughters  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  M’Murdo  are 
tht*  heroines  of  several  of  Burns’s  songs. 

Page  347,  Note  89. — Burns  had  also 
aei  t a copy  of  the  lines  transcribed  in  this 
let'  er  to  Dr.  Gregory,  for  his  opinion  of 
tbi  .r  merit  or  demerit,  to  which  Dr.  Gregory 
re^  lied  as  follows  : — 

“Edinburgh,  June  2nd,  1789. 

'‘Dear  Sir — I take  the  first  leisure 
hour  I could  command,  to  thank  you  for 
your  letter,  and  the  copy  of  verses  enclosed 
in  it.  As  there  is  real  poetic  merit,  I mean 
both  fancy  and  tenderness,  and  some  happy 
expressions  in  them,  I think  they  will 
deserve  that  you  should  revise  them  care- 
fully, and  polish  them  to  the  utmost.  This 
I am  sure  you  can  do  if  you  please,  for  you 
have  great  command  both  of  expression  and 
of  rhymes : and  you  may  iudge,  from  the  two 
last  pieces  of  Mrs.  Hunter’s  poetry  that  I 
f ive  you,  how  much  correctness  and  high 
polish  enhance  the  value  of  such  compo- 
sitions. As  you  desire  it,  I shall,  with 
great  freedom,  give  you  my  most  rigorous 
criticism  on  your  verses.  I wish  you  would 
give  me  another  edition  of  them,  much 
amended,  and  I will  send  it  to  Mrs.  Hunter, 
who,  I am  sure,  will  have  much  pleasure  in 
reading  it.  Pray  give  me  likewise  for  my- 
self, and  her  too,  a copy  (as  much  amended 
fis  you  please)  of  the  ‘ Water  Fowl  on  Loch 
Turit.’ 

" * The  Wounded  Hare*  is  a pretty  good 
subject ; but  the  measure  or  stanza  you 
have  chosen  for  it  is  not  a good  one ; it  does 
not  flow  well ; and  the  rhyme  of  the  fourth 
line  is  almost  lost  by  its  distance  from  the 
first,  and  the  two  interposed  close  rhymes. 
If  I were  you,  I would  put  it  into  a different 
•tanza  yet. 

" Stanza  1.  The  execrations  in  the  first 


too  lines  are  two  strong  or  coarse;  but  they 
may  pass.  * Murder-aiming’  is  a bad  com* 
pound  epithet,  and  not  very  intelligibly 
‘ Blood-stained  in  stanza  iii.  hne  4,  has  the 
same  fault : Bleeding  bosom  is  infinitely 
better.  You  have  accustomed  yourself  to 
such  epithets,  and  have  no  notion  how  stiff 
and  quaint  they  appear  to  others,  and  how 
incongruous  with  poetic  fancy  and  tender 
sentiments.  Suppose  Pope  had  written, 
' Why  that  blood-stained  bosom  gored,’  how 
would  you  have  liked  it  ? Form  is  neither 
a poetic,  nor  a dignified,  nor  a plain  common 
word : it  is  a mere  sportsman’s  word ; un- 
suitable to  pathetic  or  serious  poetry. 

" ‘Mangled’  is  a coarse  word.  ‘Innocent/ 
in  this  sense,  is  a nursery  word,  but  both 
may  pass. 

“Stanza  4.  'Who  will  now  provide  that 
life  a mother  only  can  bestow  ? * will  not  do 
at  all : it  is  not  grammar — it  is  not  intelli- 
gible. Do  you  mean,  ' provide  for  that  life 
which  the  mother  had  bestowed  and  used  to 
provide  for  ? ’ 

“ There  was  a ridiculous  slip  of  the  pen, 
‘Feeling’  (I  suppose)  for  ‘Fellow,’  in  the 
title  of  your  copy  of  verses  ; but  even  fellow 
would  be  wrong ; it  is  but  a colloquial  and 
vulgar  word,  unsuitable  to  your  sentiments. 
‘ Shot’  is  improper  too.  On  seeing  a person 
(or  a sportsman)  wound  a hare;  it  is  need- 
less to  add  with  what  weapon  ; but  if  you. 
think  otherwise,  you  should  say,  with  a 
fowling-piece. 

“ Let  me  see  you  when  you  come  to  town, 
and  I will  show  you  some  more  of  Mrs* 
Hunter’s  poems.” 

" It  must  be  admitted,  that  this  criticism  ia 
not  more  distinguished  by  its  good  sense, 
than  by  its  freedom  from  ceremony.  It  is 
impossible  not  to  smile  at  the  manner  in 
.which  the  poet  may  be  supposed  to  have 
received  it.  In  fact,  it  appears,  as  the  sailors 
say,  to  have  thrown  him  quite  aback.  In  a 
letter  which  he  wrote  soon  after,  he  says,  ‘Dr. 
Gregory  is  a good  man,  but  he  crucifies  me/ 
And  again,  ‘I  believe  in  the  iron  justice  of 
D*'  Gregory ; but,  like  the  devils,  I believe 
and  tremble  ' However,  he  profited  by 
these  criticisms,  as  the  reader  will  find  by 
comparing  this  first  edition  of  the  poem  with 
that  elsewhere  published/ — Currie. 

Paqe  350,  Note  90. — This  lady  had 
been  introduced  to  Burns  by  Dr.  Moore. 
It  was  Miss  Helen  Maria  Williams. 

Page  351  Note  91. — Subjoined  is  Misa 
Williams  reply  to  this  letter  : — 

August  7th,  1789. 

"Dear  Sir — I do  not  lose  a moment  ia 


NOTES  TO  THE 


m 

returning:  you  my  sincere  acknowledgments 
for  your  letter,  and  your  criticism  on  my 
poem,  which  is  a very  flattering  proof  that 
you  have  read  it  with  attention.  I think 
your  objections  are  perfectly  just,  except  in 
one  instance. 

“You  have  indeed  been  very  profuse  of 
panegyric  on  my  little  performance.  A 
much  less  portion  of  applause  from  you 
would  have  been  gratifying  to  me  ; since  I 
think  its  value  depends  entirely  upon  the 
source  from  whence  it  proceeds — the  in- 
cense of  praise,  like  other  incense,  is  more 
grateful  from  the  quality  than  the  quantity 
of  the  odour. 

“ I hope  you  still  cultivate  the  pleasures 
of  poetry,  which  are  precious,  even  indepen- 
dent of  the  rewards  of  fame.  Perhaps  the 
most  valuable  property  of  poetry,  is  its 
power  of  disengaging  the  mind  from  worldly 
cares,  and  leading  the  imagination  to  the 
richest  springs  of  intellectual  enjoyment; 
since,  however  frequently  life  may  be 
chequered  with  gloomy  scenes,  those  who 
trully  love  the  muse  can  always  find  one 
little  path  adorned  with  flowers  and  cheered 
by  sunshine” 

Page  351,  Note  92. — Mr.  John  Logan, 
of  Knockshinnock,  Glen  Afton,  in  the 
tounty  of  Ayr. 

Page  354,  Note  93. — Burns  had  in 
this  place  alluded,  with  extreme  acrimony, 
to  the  Duke  of  Queensberry,  whom  he  has 
elsewhere  also  dealt  with,  with  exemplary 
severity.  Dr.  Currie,  however,  prudently 
erased  the  passage. 

Page  355,  Note  94. — Lady  Winifred 
Constable  was  at  this  time  the  lineal 
representative  of  the  House  of  Constable,  of 
Nithsdale,  and  was  an  uncompromising 
Jacobite  m political  opinions.  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  in  alluding  to  this  letter,  which  he 
sent  to  Mr.  Lockhart,  rallies  the  opinions  of 
Burns  as  expressed  to  that  “ quaint  old 
curmudgeon,  Lady  W.  Constable.” 

Page  356,  Note  95. — Burns  here  alludes 
to  the  lines  addressed  to  Mr.  William 
Tytler. 

Page  356,  Note  96. — An  allusion  to 
the  ex  officio  leadership  of  the  provost  in  the 
Marjorie  of  the  Many  Locks,  and  to  the 
recent  political  excitement  of  the  district. . 

Page  356,  Note  97. — In  the  song  “I 
gaed  a waefu’  gate  yestreen,”  Burns  has 
celebrated  one  of  the  daughters  of  this 
gentleman.  He  was  the  minister  of  tbe 
church  of  Lochmaben. 

Page  357,  Note  98. — “This  letter  is 
extracted  from  the  third  volume  of  Sir 
John  Sinclair’s  Statistical  Account  of 


Scotland,  p.  598. — It  was  enclosed  to  Sif 
John  by  Mr  Riddel  himself,  iu  the  following 
letter,  also  printed  there  : — 

* Sir  John — I enclose  you  a letter, 
written  by  Mr.  Burns,  &s  an  addition  to  tha 
account  of  Dunscore  parish.  It  contains  aa 
account  of  a small  library  which  he  was  so 
good  (at  my  desire)  as  to  set  on  foot,  in  the 
baveny  of  Monkland,  or  Friars  Carse,  in  this 
parish.  As  its  utility  has  been  felt,  par- 
ticularly among  the  younger  class  of  people, 

I think  that  if  a similar  plan  were  established 
in  the  different  parishes  of  Scotland,  it  would 
tend  greatly  to  the  speedy  improvement 
cf  the  tenantry,  tradespeople,  and  work- 
people. Mr.  Burns  was  so  good  as  to  take 
the  whole  charge  of  this  small  concern.  He 
was  treasurer,  librarian,  and  censor,  to  this 
little  society,  who  will  long  have  a grateful 
sense  of  his  public  spirit  and  exertions  for 
their  improvement  and  information.  I have 
the  honour  to  be.  Sir  John,  your’s  most 
sincerely,  Robert  Riddel” 

— j-Currir.  Mr.  Cunningham  adds,  that 
the  minister  of  Dunscore  probably  omitted 
to  notice  the  Monkland  library  scheme, 
from  dislike  to  the  kind  of  literature  patro- 
nised by  it. 

Page  358,  Note  99. — It  was  Mr. 
William  Dunbar,  who  had  presented  a copy 
of  Spenser's  Poems  to  Burns. 

Page  359,  Note  100. — An  allusion  to  a 
ballad,  in  which  one  of  the  ladies  in  waiting 
to  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  is  described  as 
having  murdered  her  illegitimate  child,  and 
as  having  undergone  capital  punishment 
in  consequence.  The  stanza  here  quoted 
are  the  supposed  last  expressions  which 
escaped  her  at  the  moment  of  execution. 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots  had,  however,  curious 
enough,  four  attendants  of  the  same  Christian 
name  as  her  own. 

Page  359,  Note  101. — Francis,  the 
second  son  of  the  poet,  to  whom  Mrs. 
Dunlop  had  stood  as  godmother. 

Page  359,  Note  102. — Burns  here 
alludes  to  an  unfortunate  woman,  whose 
laxity  had  exposed  her  to  some  excess  of 
severity  from  the  Magistrates  of  Edinburgh, 
in  which  Creech  had  been  one  of  the  most 
active  persons.  The  treatment  to  which  she 
had  been  subjected  had  been  so  severe,  indeed, 
as  to  awaken  general-sympathy  in  her  behalf. 

Page  360,  Note  103. — Perhaps  no  set 
of  men  more  effectually  avail  themselves  of 
the  easy  credulity  of  the  public,  than  a 
certain  description  of  Paternoster  Row 
booksellers.  Three  hundred  and  odd 
engravings !«» and  by  the  fisit  artists  in 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


London,  too! — No  wonder  that  Burns  was 
dazzled  by  the  splendour  of  the  promise.  It 
is  no  unusual  tiling  for  this  class  of  im- 
postors to  illustrate  the  Holy  Scriptures  by 
plates  originally  engraved  for  the  History  of 
England,  and  I have  actually  seen  subjects 
designed  by  our  celeb: ated  artist  Stothard, 
from  Clarissa  Harlowe  and  the  Novelist’s 
Magazine,  converted,  with  incredible  dex- 
terity, by  these  bookselling  Breslavvs,  into 
Scriptural  embellishments ! One  of  these 
venders  of  ' Family  Bibles  ’ lately  called  on 
me,  to  consult  me  professionally  about  a folio 
engraving  he  brought  with  him.  It  repre- 
sented Mons.  Buffon,  seated,  contemplating 
various  groups  of  animals  that  surrounded 
him  : he  merely  wished,  he  said,  to  be 
informed  whether,  by  unclothing  the  natu- 
ralist, and  giving  him  a rather  more  resolute 
look,  the  plate  could  not,  at  a trifling  expense, 
be  made  to  pass  for  * Daniel  in  the  Lions* 
Den ! ’ ” — C romek. 

Page  361,  Note  104. — This  letter  will 
be  the  better  understood,  when  it  is  added 
that  Burns  had  a very  short  time  before 
received  the  subjoined  letter  from  Mr.  Cun- 
ningham : — • 

. * 20 th  January,  1790. 

“ In  some  instances  it  is  reckoned  unpar- 
donable to  quote  any  one’s  own  words  ; but 
the  value  I have  for  your  friendship,  nothing 
can  more  truly  or  more  elegantly  express  than 

* Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear.’ 

Having  written  to  you  twice  without  having 
heard  from  you,  I am  apt  to  think  my  letters 
have  miscarried.  My  conjecture  is  only 
framed  upon  the  chapter  of  accidents  turning 
up  against  me,  as  it  too  often  does,  in  the 
trivial,  and  I may  with  truth  add,  the  more 
important  affairs  of  life ; but  I shall  continue 
occasionally  to  inform  you  what  is  going  on 
among  the  circle  of  your  friends  in  these 
parts.  In  these  days  of  merriment,  I have 
frequently  heard  your  name  'proclaimed  at 
the  jovial  board,  under  the  roof  of  our 
hospitable  friend  at  Stenhouse-mills ; there 
were  no 

* Lingering  moments  number’d  with  care.* 

I saw  your  * Address  to  the  New-year,’  in 
the  Dumfries  Journal.  Of  your  productions 
I shall  say  nothing ; but  my  acquaintances 
allege  that  when  your  name  is  mentioned, 
which  every  man  of  celebrity  must  know 
often  happens,  I am  the  champion,  the 
Mendoza,  against  all  snarling  critics  and 
narrow-minded  reptiles,  of  whom  a few  on 
this  planet  do  crawl . 


52 1 

“With  best  compliments  to  your  wife,  and 
her  black-eyed  sister,  I remain  yours,  &c.” 

Page  362,  Note  105. — A letter  to  Lady 
Harriet  Don,  quoted  by  Mr.  Cunningham 
in  his  edition  of  Burns,  shows  that  the  poet 
was  now  contemplating  dramatic  compo- 
sition ; and,  with  that  view,  was  anxious  to 
study  the  best  dramatic  authors,  English 
and  French  being  the  only  languages  with 
which  he  was  acquainted. 

Page  363,  Note  106. — The  subject  of 
thi3  paper  being  the  existence  of  peculiar 
attachments  between  master  and  servants, 
and  the  anecdote  of  Albert  Blane  being 
aptly  introduced  at  the  close,  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  writer’s  views. 

Page  364,  Note  107. — The  sonnets  of 
Charlotte  Smith. 

Page  365,  Note  108. — This  letter  was 
communicated  to  me,  says  Cromek,  by  » 
gentleman,  to  whose  liberal  advice  and 
information  I am  much  indebted,  Mr.  John 
Murdoch,  the  tutor  of  the  poet,  accompanied 
by  the  following  interesting  note : — 

**  London,  Hart  Street,  Bloomsbury , 
December  28 th,  1807. 

"Dear  Sir, — The  following  letter,  which 
I lately  found  among  my  papers,  I copy  for 
your  perusal,  partly  because  it  is  Burns’s, 
partly  because  it  makes  honourable  mention 
of  my  rational  Christian  friend,  his  father ; 
and  likewise,  because  it  is  rather  flattering 
to  myself.  I glory  in  no  one  thing  so  much 
as  an  intimacy  with  good  men  the  friend- 
ship of  others  reflects  no  honour.  When  I 
recollect  the  pleasure  (and  I hope  benefit)  I 
received  from  the  conversation  of  William 
Burns,  especially  when  on  the  Lord’s  day  we 
walked  together  for  about  two  miles  to  the 
house  of  prayer,  there  publicly  to  adore  and 
praise  the  Giver  of  all  Good,  I entertain  an 
ardent  hope  that  together  we  shall  ‘ renew 
the  glorious  theme  in  distant  worlds,’  with 
powers  more  adequate  to  the  mighty  sub- 
ject— the  exuberant  beneficence  of  the  great 
Creator.  But  to  the  letter  : — 

[ Here  follows  the  letter  relative  to  yomg 
William  Burns.] 

“I  promised  myself  a deal  of  happiness  in 
the  conversation  of  my  dear  young  friend ; 
but  my  promises  of  this  nature  generally 
prove  fallacious.  Two  visits  were  the  utmost 
that  I received.  At  one  of  them,  however, 
he  repeated  a lesson  which  I had  given  him 
about  twenty  years  before,  when  he  was  a 
mere  child,  concerning  the  pity  and  tender- 
ness due  to  animals.  To  that  lesson  (which 
it  seems  was  brought  to  the  level  of  his 
capacity),  he  declared  himself  indebted  £of 


NOTES  TO  THE 


m 

almost  all  the  philanthropy  and  general  sym- 
pathy he  possessed. 

“Let  not  parents  and  teachers  imagine  that 
it  is  needless  to  talk  seriously  to  children. 
They  are  sooner  fit  to  be  reasoned  with  than 
is  generally  thought.  Strong  and  indelible 
impressions  are  to  be  made  before  the  mind 
be  agitated  and  ruffled  by  the  numerous 
train  of  distracting  cares  and  unruly  passions, 
whereby  it  is  frequently  rendered  almost 
unsusceptible  of  the  principles  and  precepts 
cf  rational  religion  and  sound  morality. 

“But  I find  myself  digressing  again.  Poor 
William ! then  in  the  bloom  and  vigour  of 
youth,  caught  a putrid  fever,  and  in  a few  days, 
as  real  chief  mourner,  I followed  his  remains 
to  the  land  of  forgetfulness. 

Cromek.  “John  Murdoch.” 

Page  365,  Note  109. — “The  preceding 
letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  explains  the  feelings 
under  which  this  was  written.  The  strain 
of  indignant  invective  goes  on  some  time 
longer  in  the  style  which  our  bard  was  too 
ant  to  indulge,  and  of  which  the  reader  has 
already  seen  so  much.” — Currie. 

Page  366,  Note  110. — This  fragment, 
first  published  by  Cromek,  is  placed  by  him, 
and  subsequent  editors,  under  1794,  and  by 
Mr.  Cunningham  is  supposed  to  be  addressed 
to  Dr.  Robert  Anderson,  the  editor  of  the 
British  Poets.  We  have  little  doubt  that 
the  gentleman  addressed  was  Dr.  James 
Anderson,  a well-known  agricultural  and  mis- 
cellaneous writer,  and  the  editor  o£,  a 
weekly  miscellany  entitled  “The  Bee.”  This 
publication  was  commenced  in  Edinburgh, 
December,  1790,  and  concluded  in  January 
1794,  when  it  formed  eighteen  volumes. 
The  above  letter  by  Burns,  from  the  allu- 
sion it  makes  to  his  extreme  occupation  by 
business,  as  well  as  from  -the  bitterness 
of  its  tone,  seems  to  have  been  wTitten  in 
the  latter  part  of  1790,  immediately  after  the 
poet  had  commenced  Exciseman  ; it  was  an 
answer,  probably,  to  an  application  for  aid 
in  the  conduct  of  “ The  Bee,”  then  about  to 
be  started.  For  these  reasons,  the  present 
editor  has  shifted  its  place  in  the  poet’s 
correspondence. 

Page  367,  Note  111. — Susan,  one  of 
Mrs.  Dunlop’s  daughters,  had  married  a 
French  gentleman  of  rank  and  fortune,  of 
the  name  of  Henri,  and  this  letter  of  the 
poet’s  was  written  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  upon  the 
receipt  of  intelligence  that  Madame  Henri 
had  given  birth  to  a child  some  months  after 
the  death  of  the  father,  who  had  died  in 
consequence  of  an  inflammatory  disease  en- 
gendered by  exposure  to  wet.  M.  Henri 
died  on  the  22nd  of  Jun^,  1790,  and  his 


Posthumous  Child  was  bcrn  on  the  4th  of 
November  in  the  same  year.  Both  Mra. 
Dunlop’s  daughter  and  her  son-in-law  w ere 
residing  at  Loudon  Castle,  in  Ayrshire. 
The  letter  of  Burns,  enclosed  also  the  lines 
entitled,  “ Stanzas  on  the  Birthday  of  a 
Posthumus  Child.”  In  one  of  the  following 
letters  of  Burns  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  he  alludes 
to  the  perilous  situation  of  Madame  Henri, 
w ho  had  been  compelled  to  proceed  to  France, 
for  the  purpose  of  disposing  of  some  family 
affairs  of  her  deceased  husband,  just  at  the 
time  w hen  the  most  frightful  excesses  of  the 
Revolution  were  being  perpetrated.  Madame 
Henri  never  returned  to  England,  as  she 
died  not  many  months  after  her  arrival  in 
France.  To  this  melancholy  occurrence 
Burns  again  alludes  in  another  letter  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop.  Madame  Henri  had  left  her  orphan 
child  under  the  care  of  her  deceased  husband’s 
father,  M.  Henri  the  elder;  but  he  being 
shortly  afterwards  compelled  to  take  refuge 
in  Switzerland,  had  been  obliged  to  leave  his 
grandchild  behind  him  ; and  no  tidings  were 
heard  of  this  child  until  some  years  after- 
wards, when  the  grandfather  was  enabled#to 
return  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  property.  In 
the  interim  of  time  which  had  elapsed,  the 
child  had  been  reared  by  a person  of  tin* 
name  of  Susette,  previously  a female  servant 
of  the  household  of  M.  Henri  the  elder ; and 
she,  though  compelled  to  provide  for  her 
orphan  charge  at  the  cost  of  her  own  toil, 
had  constantly  observed  all  the  delicate 
attentions  which  could  possibly  have  been 
enjoyed,  had  his  family  been  in  the  full 
enjoyment  of  their  rank  and  possessions. 
This  grandson  of  Mrs.  Dunlop  subsequently 
returned  to  Scotland  for  a short  time,  but 
continued  to  reside  permanently  at  the 
chateau  which  he  had  inherited  from  hia 
paternal  grandfather ; and  his  faithful  pre- 
server long  survived  to  enjoy  the  gratefiL 
recompense  of  her  fidelity. 

Page  368,  Note  112. — One  of  the  Super- 
visors-General  of  Excise. 

Page  368,  Note  113. — Mr.  Charles 
Sharpe,  to  whom  this  letter  was  addressed 
by  Burns,  was  the  father  of  the  Charles 
Kirkpatrick  Sharpe,  the  intimate  friend  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  the  contributor  of 
several  very  beautiful  original  ballads  to  the 
Border  Minstrelsy. 

Page  369,  Note  114. — Burns  here 
alludes  to  a box  or  casket  presented  to  him 
by  Lady  W.  Constable,  in  the  lid  of  whieli 
was  a portrait  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 
supposed  to  have  been  original.  Some  year* 
ago,  according  to  Chambers,  one  of  the  sout 
of  the  poet,  in  leaping  on  board  a vessel  id 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


527 


India  had  the  misfortune  to  break  this  box, 
imd  irreparably  damage  the  portrait. 

Page  369,  Note  115. — The  President  of 
the  Convivial  Club,  called  the  Crochallan 
Fencibles,  was  officially  known  by  the  desig- 
nation of  Colonel. 

Page  370,  Note  116. — This  letter  was 
a reply  to  the  subjoined  letter  from  Mr. 
Tytler 

“Dear  Sir — Mr.  Hill  yesterday  put  into 
my  hands  a sheet  of  ' Grose’s  Antiquities/ 
containing  a poem  of  yours,  entitled  ' Tam 
o’  Shariter,  a Tale.’  The  very  high  pleasure 
I have  received  from  the  perusal  of  this 
admirable  piece,  I feel,  demands  the  warmest 
acknowledgments.  Hill  tells  me  he  is  to 
send  off  a packet  for  you  this  day ; I cannot 
resist,  therefore,  putting  on  paper  what  I 
must  have  told  you  in  person,  had  I met 
with  you  after  the  recent  perusal  of  your 
tale,  which  is,  that  I feel  I owe  you  a debt, 
which,  if  undischarged,  would  reproach  me 
with  ingratitude.  I have  seldom  in  my  life 
tasted  of  higher  enjoyment  from  any  work 
of  genius,  than  I have  received  from  this 
composition  ; and  I am  much  mistaken,  if 
this  poem  alone,  had  you  never  written 
another  syllable,  would  not  have  been  suffi- 
cient to  have  transmitted  your  name  down 
to  posterity  with  high  reputation.  In  the 
introductory  part,  where  you  paint  the 
character  of  your  hero,  and  exhibit  him  at 
the  alehouse  ingle,  with  his  tippling  cronies, 
you  have  delineated  nature  with  a humour 
and  naiveU  that  would  do  honour  to 
Matthew  Prior ; but  when  you  describe  the 
infernal  orgies  of  the  witches’  Sabbath,  and 
the  hellish  scenery  in  which  they  are  ex- 
hibited, you  display  a power  of  imagination 
that  Shakespeare  himself  could  not  have 
exceeded.  1 know  not  that  I have  ever  met 
with  a picture  of  more  horrible  fancy  than 
the  following : — 

* Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses. 

That  shaw’d  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 

And,  by  some  devilish  cantrip  sleight. 

Each  in  his  cauld  hand  held  a light/ 

But  when  I came  to  the  succeeding  lines, 
tay  blood  ran  cold  within  me  : — 

* A knife,  a father’s  throat  had  mangled. 

Whom  his  ain  son  of  life  bereft ; 

The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft* 

“And  here,  after  the  two  following  lines, 
* Wi’  mair  o’  horrible  and  awfu’/  &c.,  the 
descriptive  part  might,  perhaps,  have  been 
better  closed,  than  the  four  lines  which 
fs*ieee(i,  which,  though  good  in  themselves. 


yet,  as  they  derive  all  their  merit  from  th® 
satire  they  contain,  are  here  rather  misplaced 
among  the  circumsti  nces  of  pure  horror. 
[The  four  lines  wore  as  follow : — 

' Three  lawyers’  tongues  turned  inside  out, 
Wi’  lies  seemed  like  a beggar’s  clout, 

And  priests’  hearts  rotten,  black  as  muck. 
Lay  stinking,  vile,  in  every  neuk/ 

The  poet  expunged  them,  in  obedience  to 
the  recommendation  of  Mr.  Tytler.] 

“The  initiation  of  the  young  witch  ia 
most  happily  described — the  effect  of  her 
charms  exhibited  in  the  dance  of  Satan  him- 
self— the  apostrophe,  'Ah,  little  thought  thy 
reverend  grannie  ! ’ — the  transport  of  Tam, 
who  forgets  his  situation,  and  enters  com- 
pletely into  the  spirit  of  the  scene-are  all 
features  of  high  merit  in  this  excellent 
composition.  The  only  fault  it  possesses, 
is,  that  the  winding  up,  or  conclusion  of  the 
story,  is  not  commensurate  to  the  interest 
which  is  excited  by  the  descriptive  and 
characteristic  painting  of  the  preceding 
parts.  The  preparation  is  fine,  but  the 
result  is  not  adequate.  But  for  this,  per- 
haps, you  have  a good  apology — you  stick  to 
the  popular  tale. 

“ And  now  that  I have  got  out  my  mind, 
and  feel  a little  relieved  of  the  weight  of 
that  debt  I owed  you,  let  me  end  this 
desultory  scroll  by  an  advice: — You  have 
proved  your  talent  for  a species  of  composi- 
tion in  which  but  a very  few  of  our  own 
poets  have  succeeded.  Go  on — write  more 
tales  in  the  same  style — you  will  eclipse 
Prior  and  La  Fontaine ; for,  with  equal  wit, 
equal  power  of  numbers,  and  equal  naivetS 
of  expression,  you  have  a bolder  and  more 
vigorous  imagination.” 

Page  370,  Note  117. — This  respectable 
and  benevolent  person,  since  Principal  of 
the  University  of  Edinburgh,  had  written  to 
Burns,  requesting  his  aid  in  revising  Bruce’s 
poems,  and  a contribution  to  swell  the 
volume.  It  does  not  appear  that  the 
edition  which  subsequently  appeared,  con- 
tained any  poem  by  Burns. 

Page  372,  Note  118. — This  is  the  letter 
which  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart,  in  his  commu- 
nication to  Dr.  Currie  respecting  Burns 
(printed  iu  the  Memoir  written  by  that 
gentleman),  says  he  read  with  surprise,  as 
evincing  that  the  unlettered  Ayrshire  bard 
had  formed  “a  distinct  conception  of  the 
general  principles  of  the  doctrine  of  asso- 
ciation.” (See  the'  foregoing  resume  of 
Dr.  Currie’s  Memoir  of  Burns.  The  doc- 
trine here  alluded  to,  is  one  peculiar, 
we  believe,  to  the  Scotch  school  c t metaphy* 

46 


528 


NOTES  TO  THE 


iiciai.fi,  and  mainly  consists  in  an  assertion 
that  our  ideas  of  beauty  in  objects,  of  all 
kinds,  arise  from  our  associating  with  them 
some  other  ideas  of  an  agreeable  kind.  For 
instance,  our  notion  of  beauty  in  the  cheek 
of  a pretty  maiden  arises  from  our  notions 
of  her  health,  innocence,  and  so  forth ; our 
notion  of  the  beauty  of  a Highland  prospect, 
*uch  as  the  Trosachs,  from  our  notions  of 
the  romantic  kind  of  life  formerly  led  in  it ; 
is  if  there  were  no  female  beauty  inde- 
pendent of  both  health  and  innocence,  or 
tine  scenery  where  men  had  not  formerly 
worn  tartans  and  claymores.  fTlie  whole  of 
the  above  letter  of  Burns  is,  in  reality 
(though,  perhaps,  unmeant  by  him),  a satire 
on  this  doctrine,  which,  notwithstanding  the 
eloquence  of  an  Alison,  a Stewart  and  a 
Jeffrey,  must  now  be  considered  as  amongst 
the  dreams  of  philosophy. 

Page  374, Note  119. — "This gentleman, 
the  factor,  or  steward  of  Burns’s  noble 
friend.  Lord  Glencairn,  with  a view  to  en- 
courage a second  edition  of  the  poems,  laid 
the  volume  before  his  lordship,  with  such  an 
account  of  the  rustic  bard’s  situation  and 
prospects,  as  from  his  slender  acquaintance 
with  him  he  could  furnish.  The  result,  as 
communicated  to  Burns  by  Mr.  Dalzel,  is 
highly  creditable  to  the  character  of  Lord 
Glencairn.  After  reading  the  book,  his 
lordship  declared  that  its  merits  greatly 
exceeded  his  expectation,  and  he  took  it  with 
him,  as  a literary  curiosity,  to  Edinburgh. 
He  repeated  his  wishes  to  be  of  service  to 
Burns,  and  desired  Mr.  Dalzel  to  inform 
him,  that  in  patronising  the  book,  ushering 
it  with  effect  into  the  world,  or  treating  with 
the  booksellers,  he  would  most  willingly  give 
every  aid  in  his  power ; adding  his  request, 
that  Burns  would  take  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity of  letting  him  know  in  what  way  or 
manner  he  could  best  further  his  interests.” 
* — Cromer. 

Page  374,  Note  120. — The  gist  of  this 
passage  will  be  the  better  understood,  when 
it  is  exDlained  that  Mrs.  Burns’s  accouche- 
ment had  occurred  only  two  days  before  the 
date  of  this  letter,  that  is,  on  the  9th  of 
April.  It  was  the  birth  of  William  Nicol 
Burns,  to  which  this  letter  refers.  This 
child  was  christened  after  Mr.  W.  N.,  the 
teacher  in  the  High  School,  Edinburgh,  and 
the  warm  friend  of  Burns. 

Page  374,  Note  121. — An  allusion  to 
the  grandson  of  Mrs.  Dunlop,  and  son  of  M. 
and  Madame  Henri.  For  additional  par- 
ticulars the  reader  is  referred  to  the  foregoing 
Note,  number  111. 

Page  375,  Note  122. — Dr.  Robinson, 


who  stood  in  the  relationship  of  matcmaS 
uncle  to  Mr.  Cunningham. 

Page  376,  Note  123.— Lady  E.  Cun- 
ningham  was  the  sister  of  Burns's  best 
patron,  the  deceased  Earl  of  Glencairn,  as 
also  of  the  existing  nobleman  (who  had 
succeeded  to  his  brother).  Lady  E.  C. 
died  in  the  month  of  August,  1804,  un- 
married. 

Page  376,  Note  124. — The  accompanying 
poem  enclosed  in  this  letter,  and  to  whick 
Burns  here  alludes,  was  the  "Lament  for 
James,  Earl  of  Glencairn.” 

Page  376,  Note  125. — Colonel  Fullarton 
is  mentioned  with  praise  and  respect  by 
Burns,  in  his  poem  of  The  Vision.  This 
letter  was  first  published  in  the  year  1828, 
in  the  Paisley  Magazine. 

Page  376,  Note  126. — An  allusion  to 
eight- page  song  books,  produced  in  the 
coarsest  manner, and  containingequally  coarse 
matter,  usually  heralded  with  the  title  of 
Six  Excellent  Songs  for  One  Halfpenny , 
the  price  at  which  they  were  sold;  and, 
secondly,  to  the  Penny  Almanacks  published 
at  Aberdeen. 

Page  377,  Note  127. — Colonel  Fullarton 
was  a native  of  Ayrshire. 

Page  377,  Note  128. — Mr. Cunningham, 
in  his  edition  of  Burns,  gives  a very  interest- 
ing note  respecting  the  "charming  lovely 
Davies from  which  we  learn,  that  she  was 
the  youngest  daughter  of  Dr.  Davies,  of 
Tenby,  in  Pembrokeshire,  and  a relative  of 
the  Riddels  of  Friars’  Carse.  She  died 
young,  under  the  distress  of  mind  consequent 
on  the  neglect  of  a lover. 

Page  379,  Note  129. — Grose,  in  the 
introduction  to  his  " Antiquities  of  Scotland,” 
acknowledges  his  obligations  to  Burns  in 
the  following  paragraph,  some  of  the  terms 
of  which  will  scarcely  fail  to  amuse  the 
modern  reader : — 

" To  my  ingenious  friend,  Mr.  Robert 
Burns,  I have  been  seriously  obligated : he 
was  not  only  at  the  pains  of  making  out 
what  was  most  worthy  of  notice  in  Ayrshire, 
the  country  honoured  by  his  birth,  but  he 
also  wrote,  expressly  for  this  work,  the 
pretty  tale  annexed  to  Alloway  Church  : — ” 

This  " pretty  tale  ” being  " '.lam  c f 
Shanter.” 

Page  379,  Note  130. — Mrs.  Riddel,  of 
Woodlee  Park,  near  Dumfries.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Maria  Woodlee,  or  Woodleigh, 
of  Woodlee.  Another  Mrs.  Riddel  (she  of 
Friars’  Carse)  was  also  a friend  of  Burns’s. 

Page  379,  Note  131. — The  Philosophy 
of  Natural  History. 

Page  380,  Note  132.— iln  allusion  to  an 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


623 


fedmon'tory  Jotter  received  from  W.  Nicol,  I 
by  Bums. 

Page  380,  Note  133. — Mi.  Nicol  had 
purchased  a small  piece  of  ground,  called 
Laggan,  on  the  Nith.  There  took  place  the 
bacchanalian  scene  which  called  forth  “ Willie 
Brewed  a Peck  o’  Maut.” 

Page  381,  Note  134. — This  letter  was 
communicated  by  Mr.  Gilchrist,  of  Stamford, 
to  Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  by  whom  it  was 
published  in  the  Censura  Literaria , in  the 
year  1/90. 

Page  384,  Note  135. — The  lengthy  cor- 
respondence which  ensued  between  Mr.  G. 
Thomson  and  Robert  Burns,  originated  in 
the  circumstances  referred  to  in  the  first  and 
second  letters.  Mr.  George  Thomson,  of 
Edinburgh,  having  designed  a more  than 
usually  elegant  collection  of  the  national 
music  of  Scotland,  applied  to  the  poet  for 
his  aid  in  improving  the  songs,  many  of 
which  were  unworthy  of  publication.  Burns, 
with  that  enthusiasm  which  he  entertained 
on  the  subject  of  Scottish  music,  entered 
heartily  into  Mr.  Thomson’s  views,  and 
contributed  about  sixty  songs  to  the  work. 
The  letters  which  passed  between  the  poet 
and  Mr.  Thomson  are  here  given,  as  pre- 
pared for  publication  by  the  latter,  and 
presented  to  the  public  in  the  volumes  of 
Dr.  Currie,  wno  prefaced  them  with  the 
following  note: — “The  undertaking  of  Mr. 
Thomson  is  one  on  which  the  public  may  be 
congratulated  in  various  points  of  view,  not 
merely  as  having  collected  the  finest  of  the 
Scottish  songs  and  airs  of  past  times,  but  as 
having  given  occasion  to  a number  of  original 
songs  of  our  bard,  which  equal  or  surpass 
the  former  efforts  of  the  pastoral  muses  of 
Scotland,  and  which,  if  we  mistake  not,  may 
be  safely  compared  with  the  lyric  poetry  of 
any  age  or  country.  The  letters  of  Mr. 
Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson  include  the  songs  he 
presented  to  him,  some  of  which  appear  in 
different  stages  of  their  progress ; and  these 
letters  will  be  found  to  exhibit  occasionally 
his  notions  of  song-writing,  and  his  opinions 
on  various  subjects  of  taste  and  criticism. 
These  opinions,  it  will  be  observed,  were 
lulled  forth  by  the  observations  of  his 
correspondent,  Mr.  Thomson;  and  without 
the  letters  of  this  gentlemen,  those  of  Burns 
would  have  been  often  unintelligible.  He 
has,  therefore,  yielded  to  the  earnest  request 
of  the  trustees  of  the  family  of  the  poet,  to 
Buffer  them  to  appear  in  their  natural  order ; 
and,  independently  of  the  illustration  they 
give  to  the  letters  of  our  bard,  it  is  not  to  be 
doubted  that  their  intrinsic  merit  will  ensure 
tliam  a reception  from  the  public,  far  beyond 


what  Mr.  Thomson’s  modesty  would  permit 
him  to  suppose.” 

Mr.  George  Thomson  was  born  at  Lime- 
kilns, in  Fife,  about  the  year  1759,  and 
educated  at  Banff,  his  father  being  a 
schoolmaster  successively  at  these  two 
places.  Through  the  recommendation  of 
Mr.  Home,  the  author  of  “ Douglas,”  he  was 
admitted,  in  1780,  to  the  office4  of  the  Board 
of  Trustees  for  the  Encouragement  of  Manu- 
factures in  Scotland,  as  their  junior  clerk : 
and  he  is  now  (1838),  after  a service  of 
fifty-eight  years,  principal  clerk  to  the  Board. 
His  natural  taste  for  music  was  cultivated, 
in  his  early  years,  at  the  meetings  of  the  St, 
Cecilia  Society  in  Edinburgh — an  amateur 
body,  whose  performances  used  to  attract  no 
inconsiderable  hare  of  notice  in  those  days. 
Mr.  Thomson’s  Collection  of  Scottish  Airs, 
first  designed  about  1792,  was  uot  completed 
for  many  years  : it  has  been,  in  fact,  the 
employment  of  the  leisure  hours  of  tha 
better  part  of  his  life. 

Mr.  Thomson’s  work  is  entitled,  “A 
Select  Collection  of  Original  Scottish  Airs 
for  the  Voice : to  which  are  added.  Intro- 
ductory and  Concluding  Symphonies  and 
Accompaniments  for  the  Piano  Forte  and 
Violin,  by  Pleyel  and  Kozeluch ; with  Select 
and  characteristic  Verses,  by  the  most 
admired  Scottish  Poets,”  &c.  London : 
Printed  and  sold  by  Preston,  No.  97,  Strand. 
It  has  been  completed  in  five  volumes— one 
edition  being  in  folio,  and  another  in  8vo. 

Page  385,  Note  136. — We  have  been 
informed  that  Burns  marked  his  loathing  of 
remuneration,  by  the  use  of  even  a stronger 
term  than  this,  which  was  substituted  by 
the  original  editor. 

Page  390,  Note  137. — The  Commis- 
sioners of  the  Scottish  Board  of  Excise 
were,  at  this  time,  George  Brown,  Thomas 
Wharton,  James  Stodart,  Robert  Graham 
(of  Fintry),  and  John  Grieve,  Esqrs. 

Page  391,  Note  138. — “The  following 
extract  from  a letter  addressed  by  Mr, 
Bloomfield  to  the  Earl  of  Buchan,  contain* 
so  interesting  an  exhibition  of  the  modesty 
inherent  in  real  worth,  and  so  philosophical, 
and  at  the  same  time,  so  poetical  an  esti- 
mate of  the  different  characters  and  destinies 
of  Burns  and  its  author,  that  I should 
esteem  myself  culpable  were  1 to  withhold 
it  from  the  public  view. 

“*  The  illustrious  soul  that  has  left  amongst 
U9  the  name  of  Burns,  has  often  been 
lowered  down  to  a comparison  with  me ; 
but  the  comparison  exists  more  in  cir- 
cumstances than  in  essentials.  That  man 
stood  up  with  the  stamp  of  superior  intellect 


NOTES  TO  THE 


*83 

on  his  brow;  & visible  greatness : and  great 
and  patriotic  subjects  would  only  have  called 
into  action  the  powers  of  his  mind,  which 
lay  inactive  while  he  played  calmly  and  ex- 
quisitely the  pastoral  pipe. 

“ 4 The  letters  to  which  I have  alluded  in 
my  Preface  to  the  " Rural  Tales,”  were 
friendly  warnings,  pointed  with  immediate 
reference  to  the  fate  of  that  extraordinary 
man.  “ Remember  Burns  ” has  been  the 
watchword  of  my  friends.  I do  remember 
Burns ; but  I am  not  Burns  ! neither  have 
I his  fire  to  fan  or  to  quench,  nor  passions 
to  control ! Where,  then,  is  my  merit,  if  I 
mai'.e  a peaceful  voyage  on  a smooth  sea, 
and  with  no  mutiny  on  board?  To  a lady 
(I  have  it  from  herself)  who  remonstrated 
with  him  on  his  danger  from  drink,  and  the 
pursuits  of  some  of  his  associates,  he 
replied : — “ Madam,  they  would  not  thank 
me  for  my  company,  if  I did  not  drink  with 
them.  I must  give  them  a slice  of  my  con- 
stitution.” How  much  is  it  not  to  be  regretted 
that  he  did  not  give  them  thinner  slices  of 
his  constitution,  that  it  might  have  lasted 
longer.’  ” — Cromek. 

Page  391,  Note  139. — This  letter  is 
correctly  dated,  according  to  Chambers’s 
arrangement,  in  the  year  1793.  The  allusions 
to  the  untoward  influence  of  his  political 
opinions  on  his  Excise  promotion,  which  it 
contains,  sufficiently  identify  it  as  having 
been  written  in  this  year.  And  in  that 
respect  1 fully  agree  with  Mr.  Chambers,  in 
opposition  to  Dr.  Currie,  who  has  attributed 
it  to  the  year  1792  in  his  own  arrange- 
ment. 

Page  391,  Note  140. — At  the  head  of 
this  letter  was  a transcribed  copy  of  the  two 
6ongs,  “Puirtith  Cauld”  and  “Gala  Water,” 
which  will  respectively  be  found  in  the 
foregoing  part  of  this  volume,  amongst  the 
poems. 

Page  392,  Note  141. — Third  son  of 
Alexander,  fifth  Earl  of  Kellie,  by  Janet, 
daughter  of  the  celebrated  physician  and 
wit.  Dr.  Pitcairn.  Mr.  Erskine  was  a wit 
and  a poet,  and  the  author,  in  part  of  a 
curious  and  rare  volume,  entitled  “ Letters 
between  the  Hon.  Andrew  Erskine  and 
Janies  Boswell,  Esq.,  London,  1763” — an 
amusing  specimen  of  youthful  frolic  and 
vivacity.  Mr.  E.  died  in  1793. 

Page  393,  Note  142. — The  song  of 
Dr.  Walcot  (Peter  Pindar),  on  the  same 
subject,  is  as  follows  : — 

" Ah  ope.  Lord  Gregory,  thy  door ! 

A midnight  wanderer  sighs ; 

Hard  rush  the  rains,  the  tempests  roar, 

And  lightnings  cleave  the  skie?.” 


" Who  comes  with  woe  at  this  drear  night-* 
A pilgrim  of  the  gloom  ? 

If  she  whose  love  did  once  delight. 

My  cot  shall  yield  her  room.” 

" Alas ! thou  heard’st  a pilgrim  mourn. 

That  once  was  prized  by  thee ; 

Think  of  the  ring  by  yonder  burn. 

Thou  gav’st  to  love  and  me.” 

44  But  should’st  thou  not  poor  Marion  know. 
I’ll  turn  my  feet  and  parr ; 

And  think  the  storms  that  round  me  blow. 
Far  kinder  than  thy  heart.” 

"It  is  but  doing  justice  to  Dr.  Walcot  to 
mention  that  his  song  is  purely  original. 
Mr.  Burns  saw  it,  liked  it,  and  immediately 
wrote  the  other  on  the  same  subject,  which 
is  derived  from  an  old  Scottish  ballad  of 
uncertain  origin.” — Currie. 

Page  393,  Note  143. — In  closing  this 
letter.  Burns  here  transcribed  and  appended 
his  own  ballad  of  "Lord  Gregory,”  as  it 
stands  in  the  text,  now  amongst  the  poems, 
and  as  it  was  published  in  Mr.  Thomson’ a 
collection. 

Page  393,  Note  144. — This  letter  bear* 
date  subsequently  to  the  marriage  of  Robert 
Burns. 

Page  394,  Note  145. — The  following 
recent  account  of  Clarinda,  written  in  Feb. 
1837,  appears  in  a note,  to  the  Memoir  of 
Lord  Craig,  in  "Kay’s  Edinburgn  Portraits,” 
and  will  be  read  with  interest  by  all  adm’  era 
of  the  poet : — " It  may,  perhaps,  be  worthy 
of  notice  that  Lord  Craig  was  cousin-german 
of  Mrs.  M'Lehose,  the  celeb)  ated  Clarinda 
of  Burns,  who  is  still  liviug  in  Edinburgh,  and 
was  left  an  annuity  by  his  lordship.  She  is  now 
nearly  eighty  y°ars  of  age,  but  enjoys  ex- 
cellent health.  We  fouud  her  sitting  in  the 
parlour,  with  some  papers  on  the  table.  Her 
appearance,  at  first,  betrayed  a little  of  that 
langour  and  apathy  which  attend  age  and 
solitude;  but  the  moment  she  comprehended 
the  object  of  our  visit,  her  countenance, 
which  even  yet  retains  the  lineaments  of 
what  Clarinda  may  be  supposed  to  have 
been,  became  animated  and  intelligent. 
‘ That,’  said  she,  rising  up  and  pointing  to 
an  engraving  over  the  mantel-piece,  ‘is  a 
likeness  of  my  relative  (Lord  Craig),  about 
whom  7ou  have  been  inquiring.  He  was 
the  best  friend  I ever  had!  After  a little 
conversation  about  his  Lordship,  she  directed 
our  attention  to  a picture  of  Burns,  by 
Ilorsburgh,  after  Taylor,  on  the  opposite  wall 
of  the  apartment.  ‘ You  well  know  who 
that  is — it  was  presented  to  me  by  Constable 
and  Co.,  foi  having  simply  declared  what  I 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


631 


Ine^r  to  be  true,  that  the  likeness  was  good.* 
We  spoke  of  the  correspondence  betwixt  the 
poet  and  Clariuda,  at  which  she  smiled,  and 
pleasantly  remarked  on  the  great  change 
which  the  lapse  of  so  many  years  had  pro- 
duced on  her  personal  appearance.  Indeed, 
any  observation  respecting  Burns  seemed  to 
afford  her  pleasure ; and  she  laughed  at  a 
little  anecdote  we  told  of  him,  which  she  had 
never  before  heard. 

“ Having  prolonged  our  intrusion  to  the 
limits  of  courtesy,  and  conversed  on  various 
topics,  we  took  leave  of  the  venerable  lady, 
highly  gratified  by  the  interview.” 

Page  394,  Note  146. — A seal  with  these 
fanciful  bearings  was  actually  cut  for  the 
poet,  and  used  by  him  for  the  remainder  of 
his  life.  Its  impression  is  represented  under 
a profile  of  the  poet,  in  Mr.  Cunningham’s 
edition  of  Burns,  vol.  viii.,  p.  168. 

Page  394,  Note  147. — The  poet  here 
alludes  to  David  Allan,  painter,  usually 
called  the  Scottish  Hogarth.  He  was  born 
at  Alloa,  in  1744,  and  educated  through  the 
kindness  of  some  generous  ladies.  His 
serious  paintings  are  not  much  admired;  but 
he  had  a happy  knack  at  hitting  off  Scottish 
rustic  figures.  At  his  death  in  1796,  he  left 
a series  of  drawings  illustrative  of  Burns’s 
Works. 

Page  395,  Note  148. — An  old  song, 
commencing  with  the  two  following  stanzas : 
*Here  awa,  there  awa,  here  awa  Willie, 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  here  awa  hame ; 
Lang  have  I sought  thee,  dear  have  I bought 
thee. 

Now  1 hae  gotten  my  Willie  again. 

Through  the  lang  muir  I have  followed  my 
Willie, 

Through  the  lang  muir  I have  followed 
him  hame. 

Whatever  betide  us,  nought  shall  divide  us. 
Love  now  rewards  all  my  sorrow  and  paih.” 
Page  395,  Note  149. — In  Dr.  Currie’s 
edition  of  Burns’s  works,  there  precede  two 
additional  letters  before  this  one ; but  as 
these  consist  absolutely  and  entirely  of 
transcripts  of  the  two  songs  “Oh  open  the 
Door  to  Me,  O ! ” and  “ Jessie,"  respectively, 
it  will  suffice  simply  to  refer  the  reader  to 
those  songs,  as  they  will  be  found  amongst 
the  poems;  and  to  add,  that  they  were 
written  for,  and  first  published,  in  Mr. 
Thomson’s  collection. 

Page  396,  Note  150.—“  Wandering 
Willie,”  as  altered  by  Mr.  Erskine  and  Mr. 
Thomson. 

* Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  haud  awa  hame  j 


Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ain  only  dearie. 

Tell  me  thou  bring’st  my  Willie  the  samet 

Winter  winds  blew  loud  and  caul’  at  our 
parting. 

Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my  ee. 
Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my 
Willie, 

As  simmer  to  nature,  so  Willie  to  me. 

Rest  ye  wild  storms  in  the  care  o’  ytuf 
slumbers. 

How  your  dread  howling  a lover  alarms ! 
Blow  soft  ye  breezes  ! roll  gently  ye  billows  !. 

And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my 
arms.” 

Page  396,  Note  151. — The  next  corn, 
munication  of  Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson, 
(namely,  that  which  intervenes  between  let- 
ters No.  262  and  263,)  marked  No.  XVIIL 
in  Currie’s  publication  of  their  correspond* 
ence,  consisted  merely  of  the  songs,  “ The 
Soldier’s  Return,”  and  “ Meg  o’  the  Mill,” 
respectively,  to  be  found  in  the  accompanying 
edition  of  Burns’s  Poetical  Works. 

Page  396,  Note  152. — “ Burns  here  calls 
himself  the  ‘Voice  of  Coila,’  in  imitation 
of  Ossian,  who  denominates  himself  the 
‘ Voice  of  Cona/  ‘ Sae  merry  as  we  a’  hae 
been 1 ’ and  “ Good  night,  and  joy  be  wi* 
you  a’ ! * are  the  names  of  two  Scottish 
tunes.” — Currie. 

Page  396,  Note  153. — “ Several  of  tha 
alterations  seem  to  be  of  little  importance  in 
themselves,  and  were  adopted,  it  may  be 
presumed,  for  the  sake  of  suiting  the  words 
better  to  the  music.  The  Homeric  epithet 
for  the  sea,  dark-heaving,  suggested  by  Mr. 
Erskine,  is  in  itself  more  beautiful,  as  well, 
perhaps,  as  more  sublime,  than,  wide-roaring , 
which  he  has  retained ; but,  as  it  is  only 
applicable  to  a placid  state  of  the  sea,  or,  at 
most,  to  the  swell  left  on  its  surface  after 
the  storm  is  over,  it  gives  a picture  of  that 
element  not  so  well  adapted  to  the  ideas  of 
eternal  separation,  which  the  fair  mourner  is 
supposed  to  deprecate.  From  the  original 
song  of  * Here  awa,  Willie,’  Burns  has  bor- 
rowed nothing  but  the  second  line  and  pari 
of  the  first.  The  superior  excellence  of  this, 
beautiful  poem  will,  it  is  hoped,  justify 
the  different  editions  of  it  which  we  hav« 
given.” — Currie. 

Page  397,  Note  154. — This  was  subse- 
quently effected  to  the  mutual  satisfaction 
both  of  Burns  and  of  Mr.  Thomson,  and 
will  be  gathered  from  the  poems  in  question, 
as  printed  in  the  foregoing  part  of  thii 
volume. 

Page  397,  Note  155. — “ Mr.  Thomson  ft 


46* 


632 


NOTES  TO  THB 


appears,  did  not  approve  of  this  song,  even 
m its  altered  state.  It  does  not  appear  in 
the  correspondence ; but  it  is  probably  one 
to  be  found  in  his  manuscripts,  beginning 

Yestreen  I got  a pint  of  wine 
A place  where  body  saw  na. 

Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  of  mine. 

The  gowden  locks  of  Anna. 

It  is  highly  characteristic  of  our  bard,  but 
the  strain  of  sentiment  does  not  correspond 
with  the  air  to  which  he  proposes  it  should 
be  allied.” — Currie. 

Page  397,  Note  156. — Alluding  to  the 
time  when  he  held  the  farm  of  Ellisland,  as 
tenant  to  Air.  Miller. 

Page  397,  Note  157. — This  gentleman 
most  obligingly  favoured  the  editor  with  a 
perfect  copy  of  the  original  letter,  and 
allowed  him  to  lay  it  before  the  public.  It 
is  partly  printed  in  Dr.  Currie’s  edition. — - 
Chambers. 

“ it  will  be  necessary  to  state,  that  in  con- 
sequence of  the  poet’s  freedom  of  remark  on 
public  measures,  maliciously  mi sr presented 
to  the  Board  of  Excise,  he  was  lepresented 
as  actually  dismissed  from  his  oilice.  This 
report  induced  Mr.  Erskine  to  propose  a 
subscription  in  his  favour,  which  was  refused 
by  the  poet  with  that  elevation  of  sentiment 
that  peculiarly  characterised  his  mind,  and 
which  is  so  happily  displayed  in  this  letter. 
See  letter  to  R.  Graham  of  Fintrv,  December 
1792,  written  by  Burns,  with  even  more 
than  his  accustomed  pathos  and  eloquence, 
in  further  explanation.” — Cromek.  Mr. 

Erskine,  of  Mar,  at  all  times  of  his  life  a 
noted  Whig,  became  Earl  of  Mar,  in  1824, 
in  consequence  of  the  reversal  of  his  grand- 
father’s attainder.  He  died  August  20, 
1825,  aged  eighty-four. 

Page  399,  Note  158. — “The  original 
letter  from  Mr.  Thomson  contains  many 
observations  on  the  Scottish  songs,  and  on 
the  manner  of  adapting  the  words  to  the 
r usic,  which,  at  his  desire,  are  suppressed. 
The  subsequent  letter  of  Mr.  Burns  refers  to 
several  of  these  observations.” — Currie. 

Page  399,  Note  159. — “The  reader  has 
already  seen  that  Burns  did  not  finally  adopt 
all  of  Mr.  Erskine’s  alterations.” — Currie. 

Pag  400,  Note  160. — “ The  song  to  the 
tune  of  ‘ Bonnie  Dundee  * is  that  named 
•Jessie.’  The  ballad  of  the  ‘Mill,  Mill  O!' 
is  that  beginning,  ‘ When  wild  war’s  deadly 
blasts  are  blawn.’  ” — Currie. 

Page  400,  Note  161. — Lugs,  a Scottish  | 
popular  term  for  ears. 

Page  400,  Note  162. — The  song  here  I 
Mentis  tied,  is  that  published  in  Number  xviii  ! 


of  the  Scot's  Musics  \ Museum  and  of  whicfe 
the  first  line  runs  thus 

Oh  ken  ye  what  Meg  O'  the  Mill  has 

gotten. 

“This  song,”  says  Mr.  Thomson,  in  an 
original  note,  “ is  surely  Mr.  Burns’s  o vn 
writing,  though  he  does  not  generally  praise 
his  own  songs  so  much.” 

Page  400,  Note  163. — The  air  here 
mentioned,  is  that  for  which  he  wrote  the 
ballad  of  Bonnie  Jean. 

Page  400,  Note  164. — The  original 
version  of  the  song  enclosed  with  this  letter, 
differed  somewhat  materially  from  the 
present  version  in  the  text. 

Page  402,  Note  165. — “ The  lines  wore 
the  third  and  fourth : — 

Wi'  mony  a sweet  babe  fatherless. 

And  mony  a widow  mourning. 

As  our  poet  had  maintained  a long  silence, 
and  the  first  number  of  Mr.  Thomson’s 
musical  work  was  in  the  press,  this  gentleman 
ventured,  by  Mr.  Erskine’s  advice,  to  sub- 
stitute for  them  in  that  publication, 

‘ And  eyes  again  with  pleasure  beam’d 

That  had  been  bleared  with  mourning.' 

Though  better  suited  to  the  music,  these 
lines  are  inferior  to  the  original.  This  is 
the  only  alteration  adopted  by  Mr.  Thomson, 
which  Burns  did  not  approve,  or  at  least 
assent  to.” — Currie. 

Page  403,  Note  166. — A remittance  of 
five  pounds. 

Page404,  Note  167. — Katherine  Ruther- 
ford, of  Fernilee,  in  the  county  of  Selkirk, 
who  married  Mr.  Patrick  Cockburn.— She 
died  full  of  years  in  1794. 

Page  406,  Note  168. — “Gloamin' — twi- 
light, probably  from  glooming.  A beautiful 
poetic  word,  which  ought  to  be  adopted  in 
England.  A gloamin’-shot,  a twilight  inter- 
view.”— Currie. 

Page  406,  Note  169. — The  poet  inserts 
the  song  of  “ Dainty  Davie,”  which  it  seems 
to  have  been  the  purpose  of  this  letter  to 
communicate.  Burns  had  previously  com- 
municated, for  Johnson’s  Museum,  a song 
nearly  the  same,  the  stanzas  of  which  conclude 
with  the  awkward  expression,  “The  gardener 
wi’  his  paidle,”  and  to  which  he  makes 
allusion  in  the  brief  prose  text  of  this  epistle. 

Page  406,  Note  170. — This  Miss  Craik 
was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Craik  of  Arbigland, 
in  the  Stewartry  of  Kircudbright. 

Page  407,  Note  171. — The  dowager 
lady  Glencairn,  widow  of  William,  thirteentli 
Earl  of  Glencairn,  and,  consequently,  oothef 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS, 


dS3 


of  James,  the  fourteenth  Earl,  and  Burns’s 
best  patron. 

Page  407,  Note  172. — Lady  Harriet 
Don  was  the  daughter  of  the  Dowager 
Countess  of  Glencairn,  and  sister  to  James, 
fourteenth  Earl  of  Glencairn.  The  little 
cngel  to  whom  Burns  alludes,  was  the 
Dowager  Countess’s  grandson,  then  a child, 
and  afterwards  better  known  for  his  urbanity 
and  accomplishments,  as  Sir  Alexander  Don, 
of  Newton  Don. 

Page  410,  Note  173.—  ' 'Mr.  Thomson’s 
list  of  songs  for  his  publication.  In  his 
remarks  the  bard  proceeds  in  order,  and 
goes  through  the  whole;  but  on  many  of 
them  he  merely  signifies  his  approbation. 
All  his  remarks  of  any  importance  are  pre- 
sented to  the  reader.” — Currie. 

Page  410,  Note  174 — “This  alteration 
Mr.  Thomson  has  adopted  (or  at  least 
intended  to  adopt),  instead  of  the  last  stanza 
of  the  original  song,  wffiich  is  objectionable 
in  point  of  delicacy.” — Currie. 

Page  411,  Note  175. — It  is  very  sur- 
prising that  Burns  should  have  thought  it 
necessary  to  substitute  new  verses  for  the 
old  song  to  this  air,  which  is  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  effusions  of  genuine  natural 
sentiment  in  the  whole  range  of  Scottish 
lyrical  poetry.  Its  merit  is  now  fully  appre- 
ciated, while  Burns’s  substituted  song  is  never 
sung. 

Page  411,  Note  176. — The  song  to 
which  Burns  here  alludes,  is  one  of  which  he 
afterwards  sent  a perfected  copy,  and  which 
was  published  in  Mr.  Thomson’s  collection. 
The  first  line  runs  thus  : — 

Where  are  the  joys  I hae  met  in  the 
morning  ? 

This  song,  however,  was  by  no  means  so 
successful  as  the  majority  of  his  compositions, 
and  the  original  words,  to  the  same  tune  for 
which  he  had  intended  to  adapt  them,  have 
outlived  his  newer  version,  and  still  continue 
to  retain  their  former  popularity  and  prefer- 
ence. Indeed,  they  are  actually  more  spirited, 
and  possess  more  essentially  poetical  spirit, 
ihan  the  lines  supplied  by  Burns. 

Page  412,  Note  177. — “Mr. Thomson 
has  very  properly  adopted  this  song  (if  it 
may  be  so  called)  as  the  bard  presented  it  to 
him.  lie  has  attached  it  to  the  air  of 
* Lewie  Gordon,’  and,  perhaps,  among  the 
existing  airs  he  could  not  find  a better ; but 
the  poetry  is  suited  to  a much  higher  strain 
of  music,  and  may  employ  the  genius  of  some 
Scottish  Handel,  if  any  such  should  in  future 
arise.  The  reader  will  have  observed,  that 
Burna  adopted  the  alterations  proposed  by 


his  friend  and  correspondent  in  former  in- 
stances, with  great  readiness ; perhaps, 
indeed,  on  all  indifferent  occasions.  In  the 
present  instance,  however,  he  rejected  them, 
though  repeatedly  urged,  with  determined 
resolution.  With  every  respect  for  the 
judgment  of  Mr.  Thomsen  and  his  friends, 
we  may  be  satisfied  that  he  did  so.  He, 
who  in  preparing  for  an  engagement,  at- 
tempts to  withdraw  his  imagination  from 
images  of  death,  will  probably  have  but 
imperfect  success,  and  is  not  fitted  to  stand 
in  the  ranks  of  battle,  where  the  liberties  of 
a kingdom  are  at  issue.  Of  such  men  the 
conquerors  of  Bannockburn  were  not  com- 
posed. Bruce’s  troops  were  inured  to  war, 
and  familiar  with  all  its  sufferings  and 
dangers.  On  the  eve  of  that  memorable 
day,  their  spirits  were,  without  doubt,  wound 
up  to  a pitch  of  enthusiasm  suited  to  the 
occasion  : a pitch  of  enthusiasm,  at  whicW 
danger  becomes  attractive,  and  the  mo9| 
terrific  forms  of  death  are  no  longer  terrible. 
Such  a strain  of  sentiment  this  heroic  ‘ wel- 
come ’ may  be  supposed  well  calculated  to 
elevate — to  raise  their  hearts  high  above 
fear,  and  to  nerve  their  arms  to  the  utmost 
pitch  of  mortal  exertion.  These  observations 
might  be  illustrated  and  supported  by  a 
reference  to  the  martial  poetry  of  all  na- 
tions, from  the  spirit-stirring  strains  of 
Tyrtaeus,  to  the  war-song  of  General  Wolfe, 
Mr.  Thomson’s  observation,  that  * Welcome 
to  your  gory  bed,’  is  a discouraging  address, 
seems  not  sufficiently  considered.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  it  may  be  admitted,  that  the  term 
gory  is  somewhat  objectionable,  not  on  ac- 
count of  its  presenting  a frightful,  but  a dis- 
agreeable image  to  the  mind.  But  a great 
poet,  uttering  his  conceptions  on  an  interest- 
ing occasion,  seeks  always  to  present  a 
picture  that  is  vivid,  and  is  uniformly  disposed 
to  sacrifice  the  delicacies  of  taste  on  the  altar 
of  the  imagination.  And  it  is  the  privilege 
of  superior  genius,  by  producing  a new 
association,  to  elevate  expressions  that  were 
originally  low,  and  thus  to  triumph  over  the 
deficiencies  of  language.  In  how  many 
instances  might  this  be  exemplified  from  tha 
wrorks  of  our  immortal  Shakespeare : — 

‘Who  would  fardels  bear. 

To  groan  and  sweat  under  a w^eary  life — - 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a bare  bodkin 

It  were  easy  to  enlarge,  but  to  suggest  such 
reflections  is  probably  sufficient.” — Currie. 

Page  413,  Note  178. — Burns  here 
alludes  to  the  melancholy  death  of  the 
Honourable  A Erskine,  respecting  which 


NOTES  TO  THE 


m 

Thomson  had  wr/tten  the  poet  a most  feeling 
letter.  Thomson,  from  a mistaken  sense  of 
delicacy,  withheld  this  letter,  when  it  subse- 
quently fell  into  his  hands. 

Page  413,  Note  179— This  Mr.  Gavin 
Turnbull  had,  in  1788,  published  a volume 
of  poems,  entitled  Poetical  Essays.  The 
work  was  published  at  Glasgow,  and  enjoyed 
Even  very  little  of  its  ephemeral  admiration. 
It  soon  sunk  into  oblivion.  The  pieces  which 
Burns  himself  quotes  at  full  length  in  this 
letter,  are  really  very  inadequate  to  the  bril- 
liant eulogy  with  which  he  accompanies 
them.  And  it  wo/dd  seem  as  if  his  prejudice 
in  favour  of  an  old  acquaintance  had  blinded 
his  better  judgment  and  taste ; for  he  was 
Very  rarely  guilty  of  such  misprisions. 

Page  414,  Note  180. — In  Dr.  Currie’s 
edition  is  inserted  a letter  from  Burns  to 
Thomson  immediately  following  this,  and 
before  the  next  which  I have  adopted  of  the 
letters  of  Mr.  Thomson.  As  the  letter,  No. 
49,  in  Dr.  Currie’s  edition,  however,  con- 
sisted merely  of  transcripts  of  the  songs 
♦Wilt  thou  be  my  Dearie,  O!”  and  "Husband, 
husband,  cease  your  strife,”  both  of  which 
are  inserted  amongst  the  poems,  I did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  re-insert  them  in  the 
form  of  a letter.  The  two  songs  in  question, 
however,  are  thus  identified  as  having  been 
written  especially  for  Mr.  Thomson’s  col- 
lection. 

Page  415,  Note  181. — Burns  here 
alludes  to  the  well-worn  Scottish  bank  notes. 

Page  415,  Note  182. — A present,  con- 
sisting of  the  edition  of  his  own  poems,  as 
ublished  in  1793,  which  were  despatched 
y Burns  with  this  letter. 

Page  415,  Note  183. — It  has  been  sup- 
posed that  this  letter  was  addressed  to 
Captain  Robertson,  of  Lude. 

Page  415,  Note  184. — Bruce’s  address 
to  his  troops  before  the  Battle  of  Ban- 
nockburn : — 

Scot’s  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled. 

Page  416,  Note  185. — "The  lady  to 
whom  the  bard  has  so  happily  and  justly 
applied  the  quotation  in  this  letter,  paid  the 
debt  of  nature  a few  months  ago.  The 
graces  of  her  person  were  only  equalled  by 
the  singular  endowments  of  her  mind ; and 
her  poetical  talents  rendered  her  an  interesting 
friend  to  Burns,  in  a part  of  the  world  where 
he  was,  in  a great  measure,  excluded  from 
the  sweet  intercourse  of  literary  society.” — 
Gilbert  Burns,  1820. 

Page  416,  Note  186. — Bruce’s  address 
to  his  troops  before  the  Battle  of  Ban- 
nockburn : — 


Scot’s  wha  hae  wx  Wallace  bled. 

Page  416,  Note  i8  7. — The  same  an 
stated  in  the  foregoing  Note,  number  186. 

Page  418,  Note  188. — This  gentleman 
held  the  office  of  Distributor  of  Stamps  at 
Dumfries.  Burns,  who  at  first  lived  in  thf 
floor  above  his  office,  formed  an  intimacy 
with  him,  which  lasted  till  the  death  of  the 
poet.  Mr.  Syme  was  an  agreeable  table 
companion,  and  possessed  considerable  wit, 
the  effusions  of  which  were  sometimes  mis- . 
taken  for  Burns’s.  He  died  at  his  house  of 
Ryedale,  near  Dumfries,  November  24,  1831, 
in  his  seventy-seventh  year. 

Page  418,  Note  189. — Burns  here 
alludes  to  the  song,  of  which  the  first  line 
runs  thus : — 

Oh  wat  ye  what’s  in  yon  town. 

And  which  was  composed  in  honour  of  Mrs. 
Oswald,  of  Auchincruive. 

Page  421,  Note  190. — Mr.  David  Mac- 
culloch  is  no  longer  living.  One  of  his 
sisters,  subsequently  to  the  date  of  this 
letter,  married  Mr.  Thomas  Scott,  brother 
to  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Page  422,  Note  191. — Dr.  Currie  objects 
to  the  expression  " ruffian  feeling.”  He  sug- 
gests that  the  word  "ruder”  would  have 
possessed  more  euphony,  and  been  more  in 
keeping  with  the  tenderness  of  the  piece. 

I do  not  exactly  agree  in  his  criticism,  nor 
do  I think  that  the  expression  in  the  text  is 
too  “ rugged  an  epithet  ” for  the  sense  which 
Burns  evidently  intended  to  convey.  It  is 
one  of  the  essential  beauties  of  the  poetry  of 
Burns,  that  he  seems  almost  invariably  to 
have  hit,  as  if  by  intuition,  upon  the  most 
apt,  appropriate,  and  positive  expression 
whereby  to  convey  the  particular  sentiment 
which  he  sought  to  communicate.  He  rarely 
says  too  much,  and  as  rarely  too  little : a 
merit  which  has  not  been  attributable  to 
many  of  our  most  polished  poets,  and  of 
which  Shakepeare  is  the  only  pure  examp !• 
in  English  literature. 

Page  423,  Note  192. — "This  Virgilian 
order  of  the  poet  should,  I think,  be  dis- 
obeyed with  respect  to  the  song  in  question, 
the  second  stanza  excepted.” — Note  by 
Mr.  Thomson. 

“Doctors  differ.  The  objection  to  the  second 
stanza  does  not  strike  the  editor.” — Currie. 

Page  425,  Note  193. — Our  bard  had 
before  received  the  same  advice,  and  so  far 
took  it  into  consideration,  as  to  have  cast 
about  for  a subject. 

Page  426,  Note  19 1. — This,  as  well  as 
other  poems  to  which  he  alludes  in  this 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS.  63$ 


fetter,  had  previously  been  published  by  Mr. 

Johnson  in  the  Scots  Musical  Mu: earn,  and 
Mr.  Thomson,  suspecting  the  authorship, 
had  inquired  of  Burns  if  they  were  his  com- 
position. 

Page  426,  Not*  195. — The  name  of  a 
mountain  in  the  north. 

Page  426,  Note  196. — “The  reader  will 
be  curious  to  see  this  poem,  so  highly  praised 
by  Burns.  He  it  is  : — 

' Keen  blaws  the  wind  o'er  Donnocht-Head, 
The  snaw  drives  snelly  through  the  dale. 
The  gaberlunzie  tirls  my  sneck, 

And,  shivering,  tells  his  waefu’  tale. 

" Cauld  is  the  night,  oh,  let  me  in. 

And  dinna  let  your  minstrel  fa*. 

And  dinna  let  his  winding-sheet 
Be  naething  but  a wreath  o’  snaw. 

* Full  ninety  winters  hae  I seen. 

And  pip’d  where  gor-cocks  whirring  flew, 
And  mony  a day  I’ve  danc’d,  I ween. 

To  lilts  which  from  my  drone  I blew." 

My  Eppie  wak’d,  and  soon  she  cried, 

“ Get  up  guidman,  and  let  him  in ; 

For  weel  ye  ken  the  winter  night 
Was  short  when  he  began  his  din.** 

My  Eppie’s  voice,  oh  wow  it’s  'sweet, 

Even  though  she  bans  and  scaulds  a wee ; 
But  when  it’s  tun’d  to  sorrow’s  tale. 

Oh,  haith,  it’s  doubly  dear  to  me ! 

" Come  in,  auld  carl,  i’ll  steer  my  fire. 

I’ll  make  it  bleeze  a bonny  flame ; 

Your  bluid  is  thin,  ye’ve  tint  the  gate. 

Ye  should  na  stray  sae  far  frae  hame" 

*Nae  hame  have  I,”  the  minstrel  said. 

Sad  party-strife  o’erturned  my  ha’ ; 

And,  weeping  at  the  eve  of  life, 

I wander  through  a wreath  o’  sna*.M  9 

“ This  affecting  poem  is  apparently  incom- 
plete. The  author  need  not  be  ashamed  to 
own  himself.  It  is  worthy  of  Burns,  or  of 
Macneill.” — Currie.  [It  was  written  by  a 
gentleman  of  Newcastle,  named  Pickering.] 
Page  426,  Note  197. — Mr.  Putson,  who 
had  published  a collection  of  Scottish  songs 
in  London. 

Page  427,  Note  198. — “Variation: — 

Now  to  the  streaming  fountain. 

Or  up  the  heathy  mountain,  [stray; 
The  hart,  hind,  and  roe,  freely,  wildly-wanton 
In  twining  hazel  bowers 
His  lay  the  linnet  pours; 

The  lav’rock  to  the  sky 
Ascends  wi’  sangs  o’  joy,  [day. 

While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the 

When  frae  my  Chloris  parted. 

Sad,  cheerless,  broken-hearted. 


The  night’s  gloomy  shades,  cloudy,  dark, 

o’ercast  my  sky. 

But  when  she  charms  my  sight, 

Jn  pride  of  beauty’s  light ; 

When  through  my  very  heart 
Her  beaming  glories  dart ; 

’Tis  then,  ’tis  then  1 wake  to  life  and  joy !" 

— Currie. 

Page  428,  Note  199. — Burns  here  alludes 
to  Mrs.  Whelpdale,  whose  maiden  name,  Jean 
Lorimer,  is  more  familiar  to  our  readers. 

Page  428,  Note  200. — Mr.  Thomson 
must  have  completely  misunderstood  the 
character  of  this  old  song  It  is  a most 
romantic  one,  clothed  in  the  most  poetical 
language. 

Page  428,  Note  201. — “See  the  song, 
in  its  first  and  best  dress.  Our  bard 
remarks  upon  it: — ‘I  could  easily  throw 
this  into  an  English  mould;  but,  to  my 
taste,  in  the  simple  and  the  tender  of  the 
pastoral  song,  a sprinkling  of  the  old  Scottish 
lias  an  inimitable  effect.’  ” — Currie. 

Page  431, Note  202. — “In  a conversation 
with  his  friend  Mr.  Perry  (the  proprietor  of 
The  Morning  Chronicle ),  Mr.  Miller  re- 
presented to  that  gentleman  the  insufficiency 
of  Burns’s  salary  to  answer  the  imperious 
demands  of  a numerous  family.  In  their 
sympathy  for  his  misfortunes,  and  in  their 
regret  that  his  talents  were  nearly  lost  to 
the  world  of  letters,  these  gentlemen  agreed 
on  the  plan  of  settling  him  in  London.  To 
accomplish  this  most  desirable  object,  Mr. 
Perry,  very  spiritedly,  made  the  poet  a hand- 
some offer  of  an  annual  stipend  for  the 
exercise  of  his  talents  in  his  newspaper. 
Burns’s  reasons  for  refusing  this  offer  are 
stated  in  the  present  letter.” — Cromek. 

Page  432,  Note  203. — In  Burns’s  next 
communication  to  Mr.  Thomson,  marked 
No.  LXIX,  in  Currie’s  series  of  their  cor- 
respondence, he  merely  transcribes  the 
compound  song,  inserted  in  his  Poetical 
Works,  under  the  title  of  “ Oh  lassie, 
art  thou  sleeping  yet?”  and  adds,  “I  do 
not  know  whether  it  will  do.” 

Page  433,  Note  204. — Dr.  Currie  wm 
born  in  t.b<»  neighbourhood  of  Ecclefechan, 
ana  witn  tne  characteristic  prejudice  in 
favour  of  his  native  village,  he  states,  that 
Burns  must  have  been  exceedingly  tipsy  to 
have  so  maligned  the  place. 

Page  433,  Note  205. — At  the  head  of 
this  letter.  Burns  had  inserted  a copy  of  the 
song,  entitled  an  “Address  to*  the  Wood- 
lark,” to  which  he  alludes  in  the  first  two 
lines. 

Page  434,  Note  206. — Two  verses  of 
1 tliis  song  have  been  given  to  the  public 


m 


NOTES  TO  THE 


And  now  your  bank  s and  bonnie  braes 
But  waken  sad  remembrance  smart ; 

The  very  shades  I held  most  dear 

Now  strike  fresh  anguish  to  my  heart: 
Deserted  bower  ! where  are  they  now — 

Ah  ! where  the  garlands  that  I wove 
With  faithful  care,  each  morn  to  deck 
The  altars  of  ungrateful  love  ? 

The  flowers  of  spring,  how  gay  they  bloomed 
' When  last  with  him  I wandered  here! 

The  flowers  of  spring  are  passed  away 
For  wintry  horrors  dark  and  drear. 

Yon  osier’d  stream,  by  whose  lone  banks 
My  songs  have  lulled  him  oft  to  rest, 

I a now  in  icy  fetters  locked — 

Cold  as  my  false  love’s  frozen  breast. 

Page  434,  Note  207. — Mr.  Heron  is 
sometimes,  indeed  frequently,  spoken  of  as 
Mr.  Heron  of  Kerroughtree.  His  proper 
designation,  however,  was  Heron  of  Heron. 

Page  434,  Note  208. — These  ballads, 
which  related  to  Mr.  Heron’s  contest  for  the 
representation  of  the  Stewartry  of  Kirkcud- 
bright, will  be  found  amongst  the  poems  in 
the  former  portion  of  this  work. 

Page  435,  Note  209. — Burns  here 
alludes  to  the  hues  which  open  as  follow  : — 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favour. 

And  which  had  been  composed  especially  for 
Miss  Fontenelle.  The  lines  will  be  found  at 
length  amongst  the  poems. 

Page  435,  Note  210. — The  pieces  to 
which  this  letter  referred,  formed  the  intro- 
duction to  the  letter  itself,  Bums  having 
transcribed  them  at  length.  They  were 
those  which  respectively  begin  “ How  cruel 
are  the  parents,”  and  “ Mark  yonder  pomp 
of  costly  fashion.” 

Page  437,  Note  211. — The  song  to 
which  Burns  here  alludes,  and  a copy  of 
which  headed  the  letter,  was  that  of  which 
the  initiatory  line  runs  thus : — 

Forlorn  my  love,  no  comfort  near. 

Page  437,  Note  212. — The  lines  to  which 
Burns  here  refers,  and  which  he  had  tran- 
scribed at  the  head  of  his  letter,  are  those 
which  commence  respectively  as  follows : — 

Last  May,  a braw  woer. 

And; 

Why,  why  tell  thy  lover. 

Page  438,  Note  213. — This  gentleman 
has  since  resided  at  Glasgow  in  retirement : 
1838. 

Page  439,  Note  214. — "This  letter  owe9 
Hs  origin  to  the  following  circumstance : — A 


neighbour  of  the  poet’s  at  Dumfries  called 
on  him,  and  complained  that  he  had  been 
greatly  disappointed  in  the  irregular  delivery 
of  the  paper,  of  The  Morning  Chronicle 
Burns  asked,  * Why  do  not  you  write  to  tba 
editors  of  the  paper  ? * * Good  God,  Sir,  can 
I presume  to  write  to  the  learned  editors  of 
a newspaper?’  ‘Well,  if  you  are  afraid  of 
writing  to  the  editors  of  a newspaper,  I am 
not ; and,  if  you  think  proper.  I’ll  draw  up  a 
sketch  of  a letter  which  you  may  copy.’ 

Burns  tore  a leaf  from  his  Excise  book, 
and  instantly  produced  the  sketch  which  I 
have  transcribed,  and  which  is  here  printed. 
The  poor  man  thanked  him,  and  took  the 
letter  home.  However,  that  caution  which 
the  watchfulness  of  his  enemies  had  taught 
him  to  exercise,  prompted  him  to  the  pru- 
dence of  begging  a friend  to  wait  on  the 
person  for  whom  it  was  written,  and  request 
the  favour  to  have  it  returned.  This  request 
was  complied  with,  and  the  paper  never  ap- 
peared in  print.” — Cromek. 

Page  440,  Note  215. — The  novel  en- 
titled  " Edward.” 

Page  441,  Note  216. — The  request 
conveyed  in  this  letter  was  immediately  com- 
piled with. 

Page  442,  Note  217. — The  child  died 
suddenly  at  Mauchline,  and  Burns  was 
unable  to  see  her  at  the  last. 

Page  442,  Note  218. — No  subsequent 
explanation  was  received  by  Mr.  Thomson, 
of  the  name  which  should  be  substituted  for 
Chloris  in  these  poems,  and  in  the  midst  of 
this  work  which  created  such  general  inte- 
rest, it  was  arrested  by  the  last  and  fatal 
illness  of  the  poet. 

Page  443,  Note  219. — His  proposed  re- 
visal  was  prevented  by  the  untimely  death 
of  the  poet. 

Page  444,  Note  220. — “In  this  humble 
and  delicate  manner  did  poor  Burns  ask  for 
a copy  of  a work,  of  which  he  was  princi- 
pally the  founder,  and  to  which  he  had  con- 
tributed, gratuitously , not  less  than  184 
original,  altered,  and  collected  somgs ! The 
editor  has  seen  180  transcribed  by  his  own 
hand  for  the  Museum.” — Cromek. 

Page  445,  Note  221. — It  is  truly  pain- 
ful to  mention,  that  the  request  was  not 
granted. — Chambers. 

Page  445,  Note  222. — Just  before  lii* 
death,  however,  Burns  had  the  satisfaction 
of  receiving  a most  satisfactory  explanation 
of  Mrs.  Dunlop’s  silence,  and  the  warmest 
assurances,  that  if  any  thing  untoward  should 
occur  to  him,  her  friendship  should  unre- 
mittingly be  extended  to  his  widow  and 
children.  The  subsequent  history  of  hi* 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


657 


family  sufficiently  proves  how  nobly,  gene- 
rously, and  devotedly  Mrs.  Dunlop  kept  her 
promise  to  the  poor  dying  poet. 

Page  446,  Note  223. — Mr.  James  Bu?- 
ness  immediately  complied  with  the  request. 

Page  446,  Note  224. — The  song  of 
which  Burns  here  alludes,  is  that  of  which 
the  initiatory  line  runs  thus  : — 

Fairest  maid  on  Dcvop’s  banks. 

Dr.  Currie  adds  the  following  note: — 
"These  verses,  and  the  letter  enclosing 
them,  are  written  in  a character  that  marks 
the  very  feeble  state  of  Burns’s  bodily 
■trength.  Mr.  Syme  is  of  opinion  that  he 
could  not  have  been  in  any  danger  of  a jail 
at  Dumfries,  where  certainly  he  had  many 
firm  friends,  nor  under  any  such  necessity  of 
imploring  aid  from  Edinburgh.  But  about 
this  time  his  reason  began  to  be  at  times 
unsettled,  and  the  horrors  of  a jail  per- 
petually haunted  his  imagination.  He  died 
on  the  21st  of  this  month.” 

Page  446,  Note  225. — The  pecuniary 
circumstances  attending  Mr.  Thomson’s  con- 
nection with  Burns,  appear  liable,  at  the 
present  day,  to  much  misapprehension.  This 
gentleman,  whose  work  has  ultimately  met 
with  a good  sale,  seems  to  be  regarded  by 
some,  as  an  enriched  man  who  measured  a 
stinted  reward  to  a poor  one,  looking  for  a 
greater  recompense : and  several  writers 
have,  on  this  ground,  spoken  of  him  in  an 
ungracious  manner. 

When  we  go  back  to  the  time  of  the  cor- 
respondence between  the  two  men,  and  con- 
sider their  respective  circumstances,  and  the 
relation  in  which  they  came  to  stand  towards 
each  other,  the  conduct  of  Mr.  Thomson 
assumes  quite  a different  aspect.  He  and 
Burns  were  enthusiasts,  the  one  in  music, 
the  other  in  poetry ; they  were  both  of  them 
servants  of  the  government,  on  limited 
salariesjvith  rising  families.  Mr.  Thomson, 
with  lit®  prospect  of  profit,  engaged  in  the 
preparation  of  a work  which  was  designed  to 
set  forth  the  music  of  his  native  land  to 
tvery  possible  advantage,  and  of  which  the 
paper  and  print  alone  were  likely  to  exhaust 
his  very  moderate  resources.  For  literary 
aid  in  this  labour  of  love,  he  applied  to  the 
great  Scottish  poet,  who  had  already  gra- 
tuitously assisted  Johnson  in  his  Scottish 
Musical  Museum.  Mr.  Thomson  offered 
reasonable  remuneration,  but  the  poet 
scorned  the  idea  of  recompense,  and  de- 
clared he  would  write  only  because  it  gave 
him  pleasure.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Thomson, 
in  the  course  of  their  correspondence,  ven- 
tured to  send  a pecuniary  preset  t,  which, 


although  not  forning  an  adequate  recent 
pense  for  Burns’s  services,  was  still  on® 
which  such  men  might  be  apt,  at  that  period, 
to  offer  and  accept  from  each  other  This 
Burns,  with  hesitation,  accepted,  but  sternly 
forbade  any  further  remittance,  protesting, 
that  it  would  put  a period  to  tht/r  correspond- 
ence. Yet  Mr.  Thomson,  from  time  to 
time,  expressed  his  sense  of  obligation,  by 
presents  of  a different  nature,  and  these  tha 
poet  accepted.  Burns  ultimately,  on  an  emer- 
gency, requested  a renewal  of  the  former  re- 
mittance, usisg  such  terms  on  the  occasion,  as 
showed  that  his  former  scorn  of  all  pecuniary 
remuneration  was  still  a predominant  feeling 
in  his  mind.  Mr.  Thomson,  therefore,  sent  the 
very  sum  asked.,  believing,  if  he  presumed  to 
send  more,  that  he  would  run  a greater  risk 
of  offending  than  of  gratifying  the  poet,  in  the 
then  irritable  state  of  his  feelings.  In  all 
this,  we  humbly  conceive  that  no  unpreju- 
diced person  at  the  time  would  have  seea 
grounds  for  any  charge  against  Mr.  Thomson. 

It  may  further  be  remarked,  that,  at  the 
time  of  the  poet’s  death,  though  many  songs 
had  been  written,  only  six  had  been  pub- 
lished, namely,  those  in  the  first  half  volume, 
so  that  during  the  life  of  the  poet,  the 
publisher  had  realised  nothing  by  the  songs, 
and  must  have  still  been  greatly  doubtful  if 
he  should  ever  recover  what  he  had  already 
expended  on  the  work.  Before  many  more 
of  the  songs  had  appeared  in  connection 
with  his  music,  the  friends  of  the  poet’s 
family  had  resolved  to  collect  his  works  for 
publication ; upon  which,  Mr.  Thomson 
thought  it  a duty  incumbent  on  him  to  give 
up  the  manuscripts  of  the  whole  of  the  songs, 
together  with  the  poet’s  and  his  own  letters, 
to  Dr.  Currie,  that  they  might  form  part  of 
the  edition  of  Burns’s  works.  The  full 
benefit  of  them,  as  literary  compositions,  was 
thus  realised  for  the  poet's  family,  Mr. 
Thomson  only  retaining  an  exclusive  right  to 
publish  them  afterwards  in  connection  with 
the  music.  And  hence,  after  all,  the  debtor 
side  of  his  account  with  Burns  is  not  so 
great  as  it  is  apt  to  appear.  No  further 
debate  could  arise  on  this  subject,  if  it  were 
to  be  regarded  in  the  light  in  which  the 
parties  chiefly  interested  have  regarded  it. 
We  see  that  Burns  himself  manifests  no 
trace  of  a suspicion  that  hk,  correspondent 
was  a selfish  or  niggardly  man ; and  it  is 
equally  certain,  that  his  surviving  family 
always  looked  on  that  gentleman  as  one  of 
the  poet’s  and  their  own  kindest  friends. 
Here,  we  trust,  the  matter  will  at  length 
rest. 

It  is  a curious  fact,  net  hitherto  known  to 


m 


NOTES  TO  THE  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS. 


the  public,  nor  even  to  Mr.  Thomson  himself, 
that  the  five  pounds  sent  by  him  to  Burns, 
as  well  as  the  larger  sum  which  the  poet 
borrowed  about  the  same  time  from  his 
cousin,  Mr.  Burness  of  Montrose,  was  not 
made  use  of  on  the  occasion,  but  that  the 
bank  orders  for  both  sums  remained  in 
Burns’s  house  at  the  time  of  his  death.  This 
is  proved  by  the  following  document,  for 
which  we  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Alexander 
Macdonald,  of  the  General  Register  House, 
Edinburgh : — 

u The  Testament  Dative,  and  Inventory  of 
the  debts  and  sums  of  money  which  were 
justly  owing  to  umquhi'e  Robert  Burns, 
officer  of  excise  in  Dumfries,  at  the 
time  of  his  decease,  viz.  the  21st  day  of 
July  last,  faithfully  made  out  and  given 
up  by  Jean  Armour,  wfidow  of  the  said 
defunct,  and  executrix  qua  relict  decerned 
to  him  by  decreet  dative  of  the  Commis- 
sar v of  Dumfries,  dated  16th  September 
last.” 

Tnere  was  justly  owing  to  the  said  defunct, 
at  the  time  of  his  decease  aforesaid,  the 
principal  sum  of  five  pounds  sterling,  con- 
tained in  a promissory  note,  dated  the  14th 
July  last,  granted  by  Sir  William  Forbes 
and  Co.,  bankers  in  Edinburgh,  to  George 
Thomson,  payable  on  demand;  which  note 
k by  the  said  George  Thomson  indorsed, 
payable  to  the  defunct : Item,  the  principal 
ium  of  ten  pounds  sterling,  contained  in  a 
draft  dated  the  15th  July  last,  drawn  by 
Robert  Christie  upon  the  manage;  for  the 


British  Linen  Co.  in  Edinburgh,  in  favont 
of  James  Burness  or  order;  which  draft  is 
by  the  said  James  Burness  indorsed  payable 
to  the  defunct. 

“ Sum  of  the  debts  owing  to  the  defunct, 

£15  sterling. 

“ Thomas  Goldie  of  Craigmuie,  commissary 
of  the  commissariat  of  Dumfries,  specially 
constituted  for  confirmation  of  testaments 
within  the  bounds  of  the  said  commissariat 
of  Dumfries,  understanding  that,  after 
due  summoning  and  lawful  warning,  made 
by  public  form  of  edict  of  the  execu- 
tors, testamentary  spouse,  bairns,  if  any 
were,  and  intromitters  with  the  goods  and 
gear  of  the  said  umquhile  Robert  Burns, 
and  all  others  having  or  pretending  to  have 
interest  in  the  matter  underwritten,  & c.  &c„ 
I decerned  therein,  &c,.  and  in  his  Majesty  V 
name,  constitute,  ordain,  and  confirm  the 
said  Jean  Armour,  executrix  qua  relict  to 
the  defunct,  and  in  and  to  the  debt  and 
sums  of  money  above  written. 

" At  Dumfries,  6th  Oct.  1796” 

— Chambers. 

Page  447,  Note  226. — Alluding  to  aa 
offer  made  by  Mr.  Gracie,  a banker  in  Dum- 
fries, to  have  Burns  conveyed  home  in  a 
post-chaise. 

Page  447,  Note  227. — Burns’s  father- 
in-law  (the  father  of  Mrs.  Burns). 

Page  447,  Note  228. — This  letter  was 
written  only  three  days  before  the  death  of 
Robert  Burns,  and  is  the  last  of  the  written 
memorials  which  he  has  bequeathed  to  ths 
world. 


(ftonrtj, 


* I3se  eh  and  gh  hare  always  the  guttural  sound.  The  sound  of  the  Erglish  diphthong  oo,  Is  commonly  ep<  lied  cm. 
The  French  «,  a sound  which  often  occurs  in  the  Scotch  language,  is  marked  oo  or  ui.  The  a,ingenuin» 
Scottish  words,  except  when  forming  a diphthong,  or  followed  by  an  e mute  after  & single  consonant,  sound* 
generally  like  the  broad  English  a in  wall.  The  Scotch  diphthong  ae,  always,  and  ea,  very  often,  sound  liketh* 
French  « masculine.  The  Scottish  diphthong  ey  sounds  like  the  Latin  ei.” — It.  B. 


A\  Ail. 

Aback.  Away,  aloof. 

A beigh.  At  a shy  distance. 
Aboon.  Above,  up. 
Abread.  Abroad,  in  sight. 
Abreed.  In  breadth. 

Ae.  One. 

Aff.  Off. 

Afore.  Before. 

Aft.  Oft. 

Aften.  Often. 

Agley.  Off  the  right  line, 
wrong. 

Aiblins.  Perhaps. 

Ain.  Own. 

Airn.  Iron. 

Aith.  An  Oath. 

Aits.  Oats. 

Aiver.  An  old  horse. 

Aizte.  A hot  cinder. 

Alake.  Alas ! 

Alane.  Alone. 

A k wart.  Awkward. 
Amaist.  Almost. 

Amang.  Among. 

An’.  And,  if. 

Ance.  Once. 

Ane.  One,  and. 

Arent.  Over  against. 
Anither.  Another. 

Ase.  Ashes. 

Asteer.  Abroad,  stirring. 
Aught.  Possession;  as,  in 
a'  my  aught , in  all  my 
possession. 

Auld.  Old. 

Auldfarran,  or  Auld-far- 
rant.  Sagaciou*,  cunning, 
prudent- 
Ava.  At  all. 

Awa\  Away. 

Awfu’.  Awful. 

Awn.  The  beard  of  barley , 
oats,  &c 

Awnie.  Bearded. 

Ayont.  Beyond. 


Ba’.  Ball. 

Backets.  Ash  boards. 

Backlins.  Cornin’,  coming 
back,  returning. 

Bade.  Did  bid. 

Baide.  Endured,  did  stay. 

Baggie.  The  belly. 

Bamie.  Having  large  bones, 
stout. 

Bairn.  A child. 

Baimtime.  Time  of  having 
a family. 

Baith.  Both. 

Ban.  To  swear 

Bane.  Bone. 

Bang.  To  beat,  to  stride. 

Bannock.  A kind  of  thick 
cake  of  bread,  a small 
Jaanack  loaf  made  of 
oatmeal. 

Bardie.  Diioinutive  of 
bal'd* 


Barefit.  Barefooted 

Barmie.  Of,  or  like  barm. 

Batch.  A crew,  a gang. 

Batts.  Botts. 

Baudrons.  A cat. 

Bauld.  Bold. 

Baws’nt  Having  a white 
stripe  down  the  face. 

Be.  To  le  t be,  to  give  over, 
to  cease. 

Bear.  Barley. 

Beastie.  Diminutive  of 
beast. 

Beet.  To  add  fuel  to  lire. 

Belyve.  By  and  bye 

Ben.  In,  inner  room. 

Bethankit.  Grace  after 
meat. 

Beuk.  A book. 

Bicker.  A kind  of  wooden 
dish,  a short  race 

Bie,  or  Bicld  Shelter. 

Bicn.  Wealthy,  plentiful. 

Big.  To  build. 

Biggin.  Building,  a 
house. 

Biggit.  Built. 

Bill.  A bull. 

Billie.  A brother,  a young 
lellow. 

Bing.  A heap  of  grain,  po- 
tatoes, &c. 

Bilk.  Birch. 

Birkie.  A clever  fellow. 

Birring.  The  noise  of  par- 
tridges, &c.,  when  they 
spring. 

Bit.  Crisis,  nick  of  time. 

Bizz  A bustle,  to  buzz. 

Blastie.  A shrivell’d  dwarf, 
a term  o contempt. 

Bias  tit.  Blasted. 

Elate.  Bashful,  sheepish. 

Blather.  Bladder. 

Blaud  A flat  piece  of  any- 
thing, to  slap. 

Blaw.  To  blow,  to  boast. 

Bleezin’.  Blazing. 

Blellum.  Idle,  talking  fel- 
low. 

Blether.  To  talk  idly, 
nonsense. 

Bleth’rin.  Talking  idly. 

Blink.  A little  wliile,  a 
smiling  look,  to  look 
kindly,  to  shine  by  fits. 

Blinker.  A term  of  con- 
tempt. 

Blinkin’.  Smirking. 

Blue-gown.  One  of  those 
beggars  who  get  annually 
on  the  king’s  birth-day, 
a blue  cloak  or  gown, 
with  a badge. 

Bluid.  Blood. 

Blype.  A shred,  a large 
piece. 

Bock.  To  vomit,  to  gush 
intermittingly 

Booked.  Gusheo,  vomited. 

B*  xlie.  A am;}  T old  coin . 


Bonnie,  or  Bonny.  Hand- 
some, beautiful. 

Boord  A board. 

Bore.  A hole  in  the  wall. 

Boortree-  The  shrub  elder, 
planted  much  of  old  in 
hedges  of  barn-yards,  &c 

Bood.orBuid.  Behoved 

Botch.  An  angry  tumour. 

Bousing.  Drinking. 

Bow-kail.  Cabbage. 

Bowt.  Bended,  crooked. 

Brae.  A declivity,  a preci- 
pice, the  slope  or  a hill. 

Braid.  Broad. 

Braik.  A kind  of  harrow. 

Brainge.  To  run  rashly 
forward 

Bra  ng’t.  Reeled  forward. 

Brak."  Broke,  made  insol- 
vent. 

Branks.  A kind  of  wooden 
curb  for  horses. 

Brash.  A sudden  illness. 

Brats.  Coarse  clothes,  rags, 
&c. 

Brattle.  A short  race, 
hurry. 

Braw  Fine,  handsome. 

Brawlyt,  or  Braw  lie.  Very 
well,  finely,  heartily. 

Braxie.  A diseased  sheep. 

Breastie.  Diminutive  of 
breast. 

Breastit.  Did  spring  up  or 
forward. 

Breckens.  Fern. 

Breef.  An  invulnerable  or 
irresistible  spell. 

Breeks.  Breeches. 

Brewin’.  Brewing. 

Brie.  Juice,  liquid. 

Brig.  A bridge . 

Brunstane.  Brimstone. 

Brisket.  The  breast,  the 
bosom. 

Brither  A brother. 

Brock.  A badger. 

Brogue.  A hum,  a trick. 

Broo  Broth,  liquid,  w ater. 

Broose.  A race  at  country 
weddings,  who  shall  first 
reach  the  bridegroom’s 
house  on  returning  from 
church. 

Brugh.  A burgh. 

Bruilzie.  A broil,  a com- 
bustion. 

Brunt.  Did  burn,  burnt. 

Brust.  To  burst,  hurst. 

Buchan-bullers.  The  boil- 
ing of  the  sea  among  the 
rocks  on  the  coast  of> 
Buchan. 

Buirdly.  Stout  made, 
broad  built 

Bum-clock . A humming 
beetle  that  flies  in  the 
summer  evenings. 

Bummin’.  Humming  as 
bees. 


Bummle.  To  blunder. 

Bummler.  A blunderer. 

Bunker.  A window-seat. 

Burdies.  Diminutive  of 
birds. 

Bure.  Did  bear. 

Bum.  Water,  a rivulet. 

Burnewin : i.  e.  burn  tn4 

wind.  A blacksmith. 

Burnie.  Diminutive  of  bum 

Buskit.  Dressed 

Busle  A bustle,  to  bustle. 

But.  Without 

But  an’  ben.  Outer  anf 
inner  apartment. 

By  himself.  Lunatic  dis- 
tracted. 

Byke.  A bee-hive. 

Byre.  A cow-stable,  a 
shippen. 


o. 

Ca\  To  call,  to  name,  to 
drive. 

Ca’torca’d.  Called,  driven, 
calved. 

Cadger.  A carrier. 

Cadie  or  caudie  A person, 
a young  fellow,  an  errand 
boy. 

Caff  Chaff. 

Caird.  A tinker. 

Cairn.  A loose  heap  of 
stones. 

Calf- ward.  A small  enclo- 
sure for  calves. 

Callan.  A boy. 

Caller.  Fresh, sound 

Cannie . Gentle,  mild,  dex- 
terous. 

Cannilie.  Dexterously, 
gently. 

Can  tie  or  canty.  Cheerful 
merry. 

Cantrip.  A charm,  a spell. 

Cap-stane.  Cope-stone, key- 
stone 

Careerin.  Cheerfully. 

Carl.  An  old  man. 

Carlin.  A stout  old  woman 

Cartes.  Cards 

Castock.  The  stalk  of  a 
cabbage. 

Caudron.  A cauldron. 

Cauk  and  keel.  Chalk  and 
red  clay. 

Cauld.  Cold. 

Caup.  A wooden  drinking 

vessel. 

Chanter.  A part  of  a bag- 
pipe. 

Chap.  A person,  a fellow, 
a blow. 

Chaup.  A stroke,  a blow. 

Cheekit.  Cheeked. 

Cheep.  A chirp,  to  chirp. 

Chiel  or  Cheel.  A young 
fellow. 

Cliimla  or  Chimlie.  A fliw 
grate,  fire-place 

Chimla-lug.  The  fLre-sidas 


47 


540 


GLOSSARY. 


Cluttering.  Shivering, 

trembling. 

Clinkin’.  Choline-. 

Chow.  To  chew  ; cheek  for 
cKoio , side  by  side. 

Chuilie.  Fat-laced 

Clachan.  A small  village 
about  a church,  a hamlet 

Claise,  or  elaes.  Clothes. 

Claith.  Cloth. 

Claithing.  Clothing 

Claivers.  Nonsense,  not 
speaking  sense. 

Clap.  Clapper  of  a mill. 

Clarkit.  Wrote. 

Clash.  An  idle  tale,  the 
story  of  the  day. 

Clatter.  To  tell  little  idle 
stories,  an  idle  story. 

Claueht.  Snatched  at,  laid 
hold  of. 

Claut.  To  clean,  to  scrape. 

Clauted.  Scraped. 

Claw.  To  scratch. 

Cleed.  To  clothe. 

Cleekit  Having  caught. 

Clinkin’.  Jerking, clinking. 

CUnkumboll.  Who  rings 
the  church  bell. 

Clips.  Shears. 

Ciishmaclaver.  Idle  con- 
versation.' 

Cloak.  To  hatch,  a beetle. 

Cloakin’  Hatching. 

Cloot.  The  hoof  of  a cow 
sheep,  &c. 

Clootie.  An  old  name  for 
the  devil. 

Clour.  A bump  or  swelling 
after  a blow. 

Coaxin’.  Wheedling. 

Doble.  A fishing  boat. 

Coft.  Bought. 

Cog.  A wooden  dish. 

Coggie.  Diminutive  of  cog. 

Coil.v.  From  Kyle,  a dis- 
trict of  Ayrshire,  so  called 
saith  tradition,  from  Coil, 
or  Coilus,  a Pictish  mo- 
narch. 

Collie.  A general  and 
sometimes  a particular 
name  for  country  curs. 

Commaun.  Command. 

Cood  The  cud. 

Coof.  A blockhead,  a ninny. 

Cookit.  Appeared  and  dis- 
appeared by  tits. 

Coost.  Did  cast 

Coot,  or  Kuit.  The  ancle. 

Cootie.  A wooden  kitchen 
dish;  also  those  fowls 
whose  legs  are  clad  with 
feathers  are  said  to  be 
cootie. 

Corbies.  A species  of  the 
crow. 

Core.  Corps,  party,  clan. 

Corn’t.  Fed  with  oats. 

Cotter.  The  inhabitant  of 
a eot-house,  or  cottage. 

Couthie  Kind,  loving. 

Cowe.  To  terrify,  to  keep 
under,  to  1 »p ; a fright,  a 
branch  of  furze,  broom, 
&e. 

Cowp,  To  barter,  to  tumble 
over,  a gang. 

Cowpit.  Tumbled. 

Cowrin’.  Cowering. 

Co  vi  te.  A colt. 

Cozie.  Snug. 

Cozily.  Snugly. 

Crabbit.  Crabbed,  fretful. 

Crack.  Conversation,  to 
converse. 

Crackin’.  Conversing. 

Craft,  or  O.oft.  A field 
near  a house;  in  fid  hus- 


Cralks.  Crie3  or  calls  in- 1 Descrive.  To  describe. 

cessantly,  a bird.  Dight.  To  wipe,  to  clean 

Crambo-clink,  or  crambo-  com  from  chaff, 
jingle.  Rhymes,  doggerel ' Dight.  Cleaned  from  chaff, 
verses.  j Dinna.  Do  not. 


Crank.  The  noise  of  an  un- 
greased wheel. 

Crankous.  Fretful, captious. 

Cranreuch.  The  hoar  frost. 

Crap.  A crop,  to  crop- 

Craw.  A crow  of  a cock,  a 
rook. 

Creel.  A basket.  To  have 
one’s  wits  in  a creel,  to 
be  crazed,  to  be  fasci- 
nated. 

Crceshie.  Greasy. 

Crood,  or  croud.  To  coo  as 
a dove. 


Ding.  To  worst,  to  push. 

Dirl.  A slight  tremulous 
stroke  or  pain. 

Disjaskit.  Jaded,  worn  out 
with  fatigue. 

Dizzen,  or  Diz’n.  A dozen. 

Doited.  Stupified,  hebe- 
tated. 

Dolt.  Stupified,  crazed. 

Donsie.  Unlucky. 

Dool.  Sorrow ; to  sing 
dool,  to  lament,  to  mourn. 

Dorty.  Saucy,  nice. 

Douce,  or  Douse.  Sober, 


Croon.  A hollow  and'  wise,  prudent., 
continued  moan;  to  make!  Doucely.  Soberly,  pru- 
a noise  like  the  continued  I dently. 
roar  of  a bull ; to  hum  aiDought.  Was  or  were  able, 
tune.  Doure.  Stout,  durable. 

Crooning.  Humming.  stubborn,  sullen. 

Crouchie.  Crook-backed.  |Dow.  Am  or  are  able, can. 
Crouse.  Cheerml,  coura-jDowff.  Pithless,  wanting 
geous.  I force. 

Crously.  Cheerfully,  cou-  Dowie.  Worn  with  grief, 
rageously.  I fatigue,  &c.,  half  asleep. 

Crowdie.  A composition  of  Downa.  Am  or  are  not 
oatmeal  and  boiled  water,  able,  cannot, 
sometimes  from  the  broth  Drap.  A drop,  to  drop, 
of  beef,  mutton,  &c.  j Drap  ping.  Dropping. 

Crowdie-time.  Breakfast-  . Dreep.  To  ooze,  to  drop. 

time.  Dreigh.  Tedious,  long 

Crowlin.  Crawling.  | about  it. 

Crummock.  A cow  with; Dribble  Drizzling. 

crooked  horns.  Drift.  A drove. 

Crump.  Hard  and  brittle,  I Droddum.  The  breech. 

spoken  of  bread  i Droop.  Rumped,  that 

Crunt.  A blow  on  the  head  [ droops  at  the  crupper. 

with  a cudsrel.  Drouth.  Thirst,  drought. 

Cuif.  A blockhead,  a ninny.  I Drucken.  Drunken. 

Cummock.  A short  staff ; Drumly.  Muddy. 

with  a crooked  head.  jDrummoek.  Meal  and 

Curchie.  A curtsey.  water  mixed,  raw. 

Curler.  A player  at  a game  | Drunt.  Pet,  sour  humour, 
on  the  ice,  practised  in  I Dub.  A small  pond. 
Scotland,  called  curling.  jDuds.  Rags,  clothes. 
Curlie.  Curled,  whose  hair  jDuddie.  Bagged. 

falls  naturally  in  ringlets. ! Dung.  Worsted,  pushed. 
Curling.  A well-known  driven, 
game  on  ice.  i Dush.  To  push  as  a ram,  &c. 


Dusht.  Pushed  by  a ram, 
ox,  <£c. 

E. 

Ee.  The  eye. 

Een.  The  eyes. 

E’enin’.  Evening. 

Eerie.  Frighted,  dreading 
spirits. 

Eild.  Old  age. 

Elbuck.  The  elbow. 

Daffin.  Merriment,  foolish- ; Eldritch.  Ghastly,  friglit- 
ness.  i fnl. 

Daft.  Merry,  giddy,  foolish  ! En’.  End. 

Daimen.  Rare,  now  and  Enbruoh.  Edinburgh. 
then;  daimen  icker,  an  Eneugh  Enough, 
ear  of  corn  now  and  then.  Especial.  Especially. 


Ciirmurring.  Murmuring, 
a slight  rumbling  noise. 
Curpin.  The  crupper. 
Cushat.  The  dove,  or  wood- 

pigeon. 

Cutty.  Short,  a spoon 
broken  in  the  middle,  a 
short  pipe. 


Daddie.  A father. 


Dainty.  Pleasant,  good- 
humoured,  agreeable. 

Dales.  Plain®  ''ol,ey3. 

Darklins.  Darkling. 

Daud.  To  thrash,  to  abuse. 

Daur.  To  dare. 

Daurt.  Dared. 

Dawd.  A large  piece. 

Daurg,  or  Daurk.  A day’s 
labour. 

Dautit,  or  Dautet.  Fon- 
dled, caressed. 

Dearies.  Diminutive  of 
dears. 

Dearthfu’.  Dear. 

Deave.  To  deaien. 

Dcil-ma-care.  No  matter 
fgr  all  that ! 


Ettle.  To  try,  attempt 
Eydent.  Diligent. 

F. 

Ea\  Fall,  lot,  to  fall. 
Faddom’t.  Fathomed. 

Fae.  A foe. 

Faem.  Foam. 

Faiket.  Unknown. 

Fairin.  A fairing,  r present. 
Fallow.  Fellow. 

Fand.  Did  find. 

Fail.  A cake  of  bread. 
Fash.  Trouble,  care,  to 
trouble,  to  eare  for. 

Fasht.  Troubled. 
Fasten-e’en.  Fasten’? Even. 
Fauld.  A fold,  to  fold. 
Pau&la#.  Folding. 


IFaut  Fault. 

Fawsont.  Decen .,  sserals^ 

Feal.  A field,  smooth. 

'Fearfuh  FiightfaJ. 

Fear’S:.  Frighted. 

Feat.  Neat,  spruce. 

Feeht.  To  fight. 

Fechtin.  Fighting 

Feck.  Many,  plentf 

Feckfu’.  Large,  brawn* 
stout. 

Feckless.  Puny.  weak, 
silly. 

Feg.  Fig. 

Feid.  Feud,  enmity. 

Fell.  Keen,  biting;  the 
flesh  immediately  under 
the  skin,  a field  pretty 
level,  on  the  side  oi  top 
of  a hill. 

Fend.  To  live  comfortably. 

Ferlie,  or  Ferley . Tc  won- 
aer ; a wonder,  a term  ot 
contempt. 

Fetch.  To  pull  by  fits. 

Fetch’t.  Pulled  intermit- 
tently. 

Fidge.  To  fidget. 

Fient.  Fiend , a pretty  oath. 

Fier.  Sound,  healthy;  a 
brother,  a friend. 

Fit.  A foot. 

Fisle.  To  make  a rustling 
noise,  to  fidget,  tc  bustle. 

Fitue-lan.  The  nearer 
horse  of  the  hindmost 
pair  in  the  plough. 

Fizz.  To  make  a hissing 
noise,  like  fermentation. 

Flainen.  Flannel. 

Fleech  To  supplicate  in  a 
flattering  manner. 

Fleechin.  Supplicating. 

Fleesh.  A fleece. 

Fleg  A kick,  a random 
blow. 

Fletherin.  Flattering. 

Flether.  To  decoy  by  fair 
words. 

Fley.  To  scare,  to  frighten. 

Flitch er.  To  flutter,  as 

young  nestlings,  when 
their  dam  approaahes. 

Flinders.  Shreds,  broken 
pieces 

Flingin-tree.  A piece  of 
timber  hung  by  way 
partition  between  tws 
horses  in  a stable,  a flai# 

Flisk.  To  fret  at  the  yoke 

F iskit.  Fretted. 

Flitter.  To  vibrate  like  th* 
wings  of  small  birds. 

Flittering.  Fluttering,  vi- 
brating. 

FI  unky . A servant  in  livery 

Foord.  A ford. 

Forbears.  Forefathers. 

Forbye.  Besides. 

Forfaim.  Distressed,  wor 
out,  jaded. 

Forfough  t en.  Fatigued. 

Forgatl  •.  To  meet, 
encounter  with. 

Forgie.  To  forgive. 

Forjaskit.  Jaded,  worn 
out  with  fatigue. 

Fou’.  Full,  drunk. 

Foughten.  Troubled,  har- 
rassed. 

Fouth.  Plenty,  enough,  of 
more  than  enousk. 

Fo  w . A bushel,  &c.,  also  % 
pitch-fork. 

Frae.  From. 

Fraeth.  Froth. 

Frien’.  Friend. 

Fu’.  Full. 

Fud.  Tim  scut,  qf  tail  ot 
the  hare,  coney',  &c. 


GLOSSARY, 


541 


Fuff.  To  blow  intermit- 
tent/. 

Mt.  Did  blow. 

Fnnnie.  Full  of  merriment 

Fur.  A furrow. 

Furm.  A form,  a bench. 

Fyke.  Trifling  cares;  to 
piddle,  to  be  in  a fuss 
about  trouble. 

Fyle.  To  soil,  to  dirty. 

Fyl’t.  Soiled,  dirtied. 

O. 

Clab.  The  mouth,  to  speak 
boldly,  or  pertly. 

Gae.  To  go;  gaed,  went; 
gaen  organe,gone ; gaun, 
going. 

Gaet,  Gait,  or  Gate.  "Way, 
manner,  read. 

Gang.  To  go,  to  walk. 

Gar.  To  make,  to  force  to. 

Gar’t.  Forced  to. 

Garten.  A garter. 

Gash.  Wise,  sagacious, 
taikative,  to  converse. 

Gashin’.  Conversing. 

Gaucy.  Jolly , large. 

Gear.  Riches,  goods  of  any 
kind. 

Geek.  To  toss  the  head  in 
wantonness  or  scorn. 

Ged.  A pike. 

Gentles.  Great  folks. 

Geordie.  A guinea. 

Get.  A child,  a young  one. 

Ghaist.  A ghost. 

Gie.  To  give;  gied,  gave; 
gien,  given. 

Giftie.  Diminutive  of  gift. 

Gillie.  Diminutive  of  gill. 

Gilpey.  A half-grown , half- 1 
informed  boy  or  gill,  a 
romping  lad,  a hoyden. 

Gimmer.  An  ewe  from  one 
to  two  years  old. 

Gin.  If,  against. 

Gipsey.  A young  girl. 

Girn.  To  grin,  to  twist  the 
features  in  rage,  agony, 
convulsion,  &c. 

Girning.  Grinning. 

Gizz.  A periwig. 

Glaikit.  Inattentive,  fool- 
ish. 

glaive.  A sword. 

fiawky.  Half-witted, fool- 
ish, romping. 

Ulaizie.  Glittering,  smooth 
like  a glass. 

Gleg.  Sharp,  ready. 

Gley.  A squint,  to  squint ; 
a-gley,  off  at  a side, 
wrong. 

Glib-gabbet.  That  speaks 
smoothly  and  readily. 

Glint.  To  peep. 

Glinted.  Peeped. 

Glintin’.  Peeping. 

Gloamin’.  The  twilight. 

Glowr.  To  stare,  to  look ; 
a stare,  a look. 

Glowred.  Looked,  stared. 

Goavan.  Looking  in  a 
stupid  manner. 

Gowan.  The  wild  daisy. 

Gowd.  Gold. 

Gowff.  Tne  game  of  golf ; 
to  strike  as  the  bat  does 
the  ball  at  golf. 

Gowff*d.  Struck. 

Gowk.  A cuckoo,  a term 
of  contempt. 

Gowl.  To  howl. 

Grane,  or  Grain.  A gro&r , 
to  groan 

Grain’d.  Groaned.. 

Graining.  Groaning. 

Graip.  A pronged  instru- 
ment ‘or  cleaning  stables. 


Graith.  Acc  outrements, 
furniture,  dress. 

Grannie.  Grandmother. 

Grape.  To  grope. 

Grapit.  Groped. 

Great.  Intimate,  familiar. 

Gree.  To  agree,  to  bear 
the  gree,  to  1 3 decidedly 
victor. 

Gree’t,  Agreed. 

Greet.  To  sh^d.  tears,  to 
weep. 

Greetin’.  Crying , weeping. 

Greusome.  Loathesomely, 
grim. 

Grippet.  Caught,  seized. 

throat.  To  get  the  whistle 
of  one’s  groat,  to  play  a 
losing  game. 

Grozet.  Gooseberry. 

Grumph.  A grunt,  to  grunt. 

Grumphie.  A sow. 

Grun’.  Ground 

Grunstane  A grindstone 

Gruntle.  The  phiz,  a grunt- 
ing noise. 

Grushie.  Thick,  of  thriving 
growth. 

Gude.  The  Supreme  Being; 
good. 

Guid-mornin’.  Good-mor- 
row. 

Guid-e’cn.  Good-evening. 

Guftlman  and  Guidwife. 
The  master  and  mistress 
of  the  house ; young  guid- 
man,  a man  newly  mar- 
ried. 

Gully,  or  Gullie.  A large 

knife. 

Guidfather,  Guidmother. 
Father-in-law  and  mo- 
ther-in-law. 

Gusty.  Tasteful. 

H. 

Ha*.  Hall. 

Ha’-bible  The  great  bible 
that  lies  in  the  hall. 

Hae.  To  have. 

Haen.  Had,  participle  of 
have. 

Haet,  fient  haet.  A petty 
oath  of  negation, nothing. 

Haffet.  The  temple,  the 
side  of  the  head 

Haftiins.  Nearly  half, 
partly. 

Hag.  A scaur  or  gulf  in 
mosses  and  moors. 

Haggis.  A kind  of  minced 
pudding  boiled  in  the 
stomach  of  a cow  or 
sheep. 

Hain.  To  spare,  to  save. 

Hain’d.  Spared. 

Hairst.  Harvest. 

Haith.  A petty  oath. 

Haivers.  Nonsense,  speak- 
ing without  thought 

Hal’,orHald.  An  "abiding 
place. 

Hale.  Whole,  tight, 
healthy. 

Hame.  Home. 

Hallan.  A partition  wall 
in  a cottage  near  the 
doorway. 

Hallow-e’en.  The  eve  of 
All  Saints  Day,  or  All 
Hallows. 

Hamely.  Homely,  affable. 

Han’  or  Haun*.  Hand. 

Hap.  An  outer  garment, 
mantle,  . plaid,  &c.;  to 
wrap,  to  cover,  to  hap. 

Happer.  Hopper. 

Happing.  Hopping. 

Hap;  step,  an’  loup.  1 op, 
skip,  and  jump. 


Harkit.  Hearkened. 

Ham.  Very  coarse  linen. 

Hash.  Afellowthatneither 
knows  how  to  dress  nor 
act  with  propriety. 

Hastit.  Hastened. 

Haud.  To  hold. 

Haughs.  Low-lying  rich 
lands,  valleys. 

Haurl  To  drag,  to  peel. 

Haurlin*.  Feeling. 

Haverel.  A half-witted 
person,  half-witted. 

Havins.  Good  manners, 
decorum,  good  sense. 

Hawkie.  A cow,  properly 
one  with  a white  face. 

Heapit.  Heaped. 

Healsome.  Healthful, 
wholesome. 

Hearse.  Hoarse. 

Hear’t.  Hear  it. 

Heather.  Heath. 

Hech ! Oh ! strange. 

Heclit.  Promised  to  fore- 
tell something  that  is  to 
be  got  or  given ; foretold ; 
the  thing  foretold. 

Heeze.  To  elevate,  to  raise. 

Herd.  To  tend  flocks,  one 
who  tends  flocks. 

H errin.  A herrin  g. 

Herry  To  plunder,  most 
properly  to  plunder  birds’ 
nests. 

Herryment.  Plundering, 
devastation. 

Hersel.  Herself. 

Het.  Hot. 

Heugli.  A crag,  a coal-pit. 

Hilch.  A hobble,  to  halt. 

Hilchin’.  Halting. 

Himsel’.  Himself. 

King.  To  hang. 

Hirple.  To  walk  lamely, 
to  creep. 

Hirsel.  A herd  of  cattle,  or 
flock  of  sheep. 

Histie  Dry,  chapt,  barren. 

Hitcht.  A loop,  a knot. 

Hizzie.  Hussy,  a young 
girl. 

Hoddin.  The  motion  of  a 
sage  countryman,  riding 
on  a carthorse. 

Hog-score.  A kind  of  dis- 
tance line,  in  curling, 
drawn  across  the  rink. 

Hog-shouther.  A kind  of 
horse-play,  by  jostling 
with  the  shoulder ; to 
jostle. 

Hool.  Outer-skin  or  case, 
a nut- shell,  peas  swade. 

Hoolie.  Slowly,  leisurely ; 
take  leisure,  stop. 

1 Hoord.  A hoard ; to  hoard. 

Iioordit.  Hoarded. 

Horn.  A spoon  made  of 
horn. 

Hornie.  One  of  the  many 
names  of  the  devil. 

Host,  or  hoast.  To  cough. 

Hostin’.  Coughing. 

Hotch’d.  Turned  topsy- 
turvy, blended,  mixed. 

Houghmagandie.  Some- 
thing improper. 

Huulet.  An  owl. 

Housie.  Diminutive  ©f 
house. 

Hove.  To  heave,  to  swell. 

Mov’d.  Heav’d,  swelled. 

Howdie.  A midwife. 

Howe.  Hollow,  a hollow 
or  dell. 

Hovvebaekit.  Sunk  in  the 
back,  spoken  of  a horse, 
&c. 

Howk.  To  dig. 


[ Tic  Irkit.  Digged. 
|Howkin\  Digging. 
i Hoy.  To  urge. 

Hoy’t.  Urged. 

Hoyse.  To  pull  upward*. 
Hoyte.  To  amble  crazily. 
Hughoc.  Diminutive  of 
Hugh. 

Hureheon.  A hedgehog. 
Hurdies.  The  loins,  the 
crupper. 


L 


I*.  In. 

Icker.  Ar  ear  of  corn* 
Ier-oe.  A great- gr  and* 
child. 

Ilk,  or  Ilka.  Each,  every. 
Ill-willie.  Ill-natured,  rna- 
licious , niggardly. 

Ingine  Genius,  iiigenuity* 
Ingle.  Fire,  fire-place 
I’se.  I shall  or  will. 

Ither.  Other,  one  another* 


J. 

! Jad.  Jade ; also  a familiar 
term  among  country  iolks 
for  a giddy  young  girl. 

Jauk.  To  dally,  to  trifle. 

Jaukin’.  Trifling,  dallying. 

Jaup.  A jerk  of  water  ; to 
jerk  as  agitated  water. 

Jaupit.  Soiled  with  spark* 
of  mud. 

Jaw.  Coarse  raillery,  to 
pour  out,  to  shut,  to  jerk 
as  water. 

Jillet.  A jilt,  a giddy 
girl. 

Jimp.  To  jump,  slender  in 
the  waist,  handsome. 

Jink.  To  dodge,  to  turn  a 
corner,  a sudden  turning, 
a corner. 

Jinker.  That  turns  quickly, 
a gay  sprightly  girl,  a 
wag. 

Jinkin’.  Dodging. 

Jirk.  A jerk 

Jocteleg.  A kind  of  knife. 

Jouk.  To  stoop,  to  bow  the 
head. 

Jow.  To  jow;  a verb 
which  includes  both  the 
swinging  motion  and 
pealing  sound  of  a larg.i 

Jumlie.  Muddy. 

J undie.  To  jus  tie. 


Kail.  Colewort,  a kind  o£ 
broth. 

Kail-runt.  The  stem  of 
colew  ort. 

Kain.  Fowls,  &c.,  paid  ce 
rent  by  a farmer. 

Kebbuck.  A cheese. 

Keek.  A peep,  to  peep. 

Kelpies.  A sort  of  mis- 
chievous spirits,  said  to 
haunt  fords  and  ferries  at 
night,  especially  ia 
storms. 

Ken.  To  know;  kend,  or 
ken’t,  knew. 

Kennin.  A small  matter. 

Ket.  Matted,  hairy,  a 
fleece  of  w ool. 

Kiaugh.  Car king,  anxiety. 

Kilt.  To  truss  up  the  clothes. 

Kin.  Kindred. 

Kimmer.  A young  grrl,  a 


Kin’.  Kind. 

King’s -hood.  A certai* 
part  of  the  entrails  of  aa 
animal. 


643 


GLOSSARY. 


Kintrt..  Cotintrv. 

K irn . 1 he  harvest  supper, 
a churn. 

Rirsen.  To  christen  or 
baptise. 

Kist.  Chest. 

Kitchen.  Sauc  e ; any  thin." 
that  eats  with  bread,  to 
serve  for  soup,  gravy,  &c. 

Kittle.  To  tickle,  ticklish. 

Kittlin’.  A young  cat. 

Knaggie.  Like  knags,  cr 
points  of  rocks. 

Knappin’-hammer’.  A ham- 
mer for  breaking  stones. 

Knowe.  A small  round 
hillock. 

Kuittle.  To  cuddle. 

Kuittlin’.  Cuddling. 

Kye  Cows. 

Kyle.  A district  in  Ayr- 
shire. 

Kyie.  The  belly 

Kythe.  To  become  -rident, 
to  show  one’s  self. 


j-j. 

Laddie.  Diminutive  of  lad. 

Laggen.  The  angle  between 
the  side  and  bottom  of  a 
wooden  dish. 

Laigh.  Low. 

Lairing.  Wading,  and  sink- 
ing in  snow,  mud,  &c. 

Laitn.  Loath. 

Laithfu’.  Bashful, sheepish. 

Lallans.  Lowland  dialect. 

Lambie.  Diminutive  of 
lamb. 

Lampit.  A kind  of  shell- 
fish. 

Lan’.  Land,  estate. 

Lane.  Lone,  my  lane,  thy 
lane,  &c  , myself  alone. 

Lanely.  Lonely. 

Lang.  Long;  to  think  lang, 
to  long,  to  weary. 

Lap.  Did  leap. 

Lave.  The  rest,  the  re- 
mainder, the  others. 

Laverock.  The  lark. 

Lawlan’.  Lowland. 

Lea’e.  To  leave. 

Leal.  Loyal,  true,  faithful. 

Lear.  Learning. 

Lee-lang.  Live- long. 

Leeze  me.  A phrase  of 
congratulatory  endear- 
ment; I am  happy  in 
thee,  or  proud  of  thee 

Leister.  A three-pronged 
dart  for  striking  fish. 

Leugh.  Did  laugh. 

Leuk.  A look , to  look. 

Lift.  Sky. 

Lightly.  Sneeringly,  to 
sneer  at. 

Lilt.  A ballad,  a tune,  to 
sing. 

Limmer.  A kept  mistress, 
a strumpet. 

Li  m ' t.  Li  mped , hobbled. 

Link.  To  trip  along. 

Linkin'.  Tripping. 

Linn.  A Avaterfall. 

Lint.  Flax  ; lint  i the  bell, 
flax  in  the  llower. 

X3in  twhite,  Lin  tie.  Alinnet. 

Loan.  The  place  of  milk- 
ing. 

Loof.  The  palm  of  the 
hand. 

Loot.  Did  let. 

Looves.  The  plural  of  loof. 

Loun . A fellow , a w aggish 
iad. 

Lowe.  A flame. 

Low  in’.  Flaming, 

Lo  wrie.  Abi\»viation  of 

Lawrence. 


Lowse.  To  loose. 

Lows’d.  Loosed. 

Lug.  The  ear,  a handle. 

Lugget.  Having  a handle. 

Luggie.  A small  wooden 
dish  with  a handle. 

Lmn.  The  chimney. 

Lunch.  A large  piece  of 
cheese,  flesh, etc. 

Lunt  A column  of  smoke ; 
to  smoke. 

Luntin’.  Smoking. 

Lyart.  Of  a mixed  colour, 
grey. 


Mae.  More. 

Mair.  More. 

Maist.  Most,  almost. 

Maistly.  Mostly. 

Mak.  To  make. 

Slakin’.  Making. 

Mallie.  Molly. 

Mang.  Among. 

Manse.  The  parsonage 
house,  where  the  minister 
li\es. 

Manteele.  A mantle. 

Mark,  marks.  This,  and 
se  v eral  o ther  n ouns , wh  ich 
in  English  require  an  s to 
form  the  plural,  are  in 
Scotch  like  the  words 
sheep , dee t , the  same  in 
both  numbers. 

Mar’s  year.  The  year  1715, 
in  which  the  rebellion 
broke  out  under  the  Earl 
of  Mar. 

Mash!  urn,  meslin.  Mixed 
corn. 

Mask.  To  mash,  to  infuse 
as  tea. 

Maskin’-pat.  A tea-pot. 

Maukin.  A hare. 

Maun.  Must. 

Mavis.  The  thrush. 

Ma  w.  To  mow. 

Mavvin’.  Mowing. 

Meere.  A mare. 

Mcider.  Corn,  or  grain  of 
any  kind,  sent  to  the  mill 
to  be  ground. 

Mell.  To  mingle;  also  a 
mallet. 

Melancholious.  Mournful. 

Melvie.  To  soil  with  meal. 

Men’.  To  mend. 

Mense.  Good  manners, 
decorum ; something  that 
looks  respectable. 

Menseless.  Ill-bred,  rude, 
impudent. 

Merle.  The  blackbird. 

Messin.  A small  dog. 

Midden.  A dunghill. 

Midden-hole.  A gutter  at 
the  bottom  of  a dunghill. 

Mim.  Prim,  affectedly 
meek. 

Min’.  Mind,  remembrance. 

Mind’t.  Mind  it,  resolved, 
intending. 

Minnie.  Mother,  dam. 

Misca’.  To  abuse,  to  call 
names. 

Misca’d.  Abused. 

M islea  r’d . Mischievous,  un 
mannerly. 

Mistcuk.  Mistook. 

Mither.  Mother. 

Mixtie-maxtie.  Confusedly 
mixed. 

Moistify.  To  moisten. 

Mony,  or  Monie.  Many. 

Moop.  To  nibble  as  a sheep. 

Moop  aud  Mell.  To  eat  and 
consort  together. 

Moorlan’.  Of  or  belonging 
to  moors. 


Morn.  The  next  day,  to- 
morrow. 

Mou.  The  mouth. 

Moudiwort.  A mole. 

Mousie.  Diminutive  of 

mouse. 

Muckle,  or  Mickle.  Great, 
big,  much. 

Musie.  Diminutive  of 

muse. 

Muslin-kail.  Broth  com- 
posed simply  of  water, 
shelled  barley  and  greens. 

Mutchkin.  An  English 
pint. 

Mysel’.  Myself. 

N. 

Na’.  No,  not,  nor. 

Nae.  No,  not  any. 

Naething,  or  Naithing. 
Nothing. 

Naig.  A nag,  a horse. 

Nane.  None. 

Nappy.  Brisk-ale,  to  be 
tipsy. 

Negleckit.  Neglected. 

Neebor.  A neighbour. 

Neuk.  Nook. 

Niest.  Next. 

Nieve.  The  fist. 

Nievefu’.  Handful. 

Niffer.  An  exchange;  to 
exchange ; to  barter. 

Nigger.  A negro. 

Nine-tailed-cat.  A hang- 
man’s whip. 

Nit.  A nut. 

Norland.  Of  or  belonging 
to  the  North. 

Notic’t.  Noticed. 

Nowte.  Black  cattle. 

O. 

O’.  Of. 

Ony,  or  Onie.  Any. 

Or.  Is  often  used  for  ere, 
before. 

O’t  Of  it. 

Oor>  .Shivering, drooping. 

Ourser.  or  Oursels.  Our- 
selves. 

Outlers.  Cattle  not  housed. 

Owre.  Ovre,  too. 

Owre-hip.  A way  of  fetch- 
ing a blow  with  the 
hammer  over  the  arm. 

P. 

Pack.  Intimate,  familar. 

Painch.  Paunch. 

Paitrick.  A partridge. 

Pang.  To  cram. 

Parritch.  Oatmeal  pud- 
ding. a well-known 
Scotch  dish. 

Pat.  Did  put,  a pot. 

Pattle,orPettle.  A plough- 
staff. 

Paughty.  Proud, haughty. 

Pauky.  Cunning,  sly 

F'ay’t.  Paid,  beat. 

reeh.  To  fetch  the  breath 
short,  as  in  an  asthma. 

Pechan.  The  crop,  the 
stomach. 

Peelin’.  Peeling. 

Pet.  A domesticated  lamb. 

Fettle.  To  cherish;  a 
ploughstaff. 

Pliraise.  Pair  speeches, 
flattery,  to  flatter. 

Fh raisin’.  Flattery. 

Pickle.  A small  quantity. 

Pine.  Pain,  uneasiness. 

Pit.  To  put. 

Plaead.  A public  proclama- 
tion, to  publish  publicly. 

Plaoklcss.  Penniless,  with- 
out money. 


P!ack.  An  old  Scoich  coin, 
the  third  part  of  a Scotch 
penny,  12  of  which  make 
an  English  penny. 

Plaitie.  Diminutive  of 
plate. 

Flewf  or  pleugh.  A plough. 

Plislae.  A trick. 

Poind.  To  seize  cattle  or 
take  goods  by  legal  exe- 
cution. 

Poortith.  Poverty. 

Pou.  To  pull. 

Pouk.  To  pluck.  i 

Poussie.  A hare,  or  cat;  sjj 
demure  old  woman. 

Pout.  A poult,  a chick. 

Pou’t.  Did  pull. 

Pouthery.  Like  powder. 

Pow.  The  head,  the  skull. 

Pownie.  A pony,  a little 
horse. 

Powther,  or  pouther.  Pow- 
der. 

Preen.  A pin. 

Prent.  Printing. 

Prie.  To  taste. 

Prie’d.  Tasted. 

Prief.  Proof. 

Prig.  To  cheapen,  to  dis- 
pute. 

Priggin’.  Cheapening. 

Primsie.  Demure,  precise. 

Propone.  To  lay  down,  to 
propose. 

Provoses.  Provosts. 

Fund.  Pound,  pounds. 

Pyle.  A pyle  o’  caff,  a 
single  grain  of  chaff. 

a. 

Quat.  To  quit. 

Quak.  To  quake. 

Quey.  A cow  from  one  to 
two  years  old ; a heifer. 


n. 

Bagweed.  Herb  ragwort. 

Raible.  To  rattle  nonsense. 

Bair.  To  roar. 

Raize.  To  madden,  to  in- 
flame. 

Bam-feezl’d.  Fatigued, 
overspread. 

Ram-stam.  Thoughtless, 
forward. 

Raploch.  Properly  a coarse 
cloth,  but  used  as  an  ad- 
jective for  coarse. 

Rarely.  Excellently,  very 
well. 

Rash.  A rush  ; rash-buss, 
a bush  of  rushes. 

Ratton.  A rat. 

Raucle.  Rash,  stout,  fear- 
less. 

Raught.  Reached. 

Raw.  A row 

Rax.  To  stretch. 

Ream.  Cream ; to  cream. 

Reaming’.  Brimful,  froth- 
ing. 

Reave.  Rove. 

Reek.  To  heed. 

Rede.  Counsel , go  counsoL 

Bed- wat-shod.  Walking 

in  blood  over  the  shoe- 
tops. 

Red-wud.  Stark  mad. 

Bee.  Half  tipsy,  in  high 
spirits. 

Reek.  Smoke. 

Keekin’.  Smoking. 

Beekit.  Smoked,  smoky. 

Beisle.  A rousing. 

Bemead.  Remedy. 

Requite.  Requited. 

Rest.  To  stand  restive. 

Restit.  Stood  res  tiv* 
stunted,  withered. 


GLOSSARY 


541 


Restricted.  Restricted. 

Riot  Reef,  plenty. 

Rig.  A ridge. 

Rin.  To  run,  to  melt ; rin- 
nin’,  running. 

Rink.  The  course  of  the 
stones,  a term  in  curling 
on  ice. 

Rip  A handful  of  un- 
thrashed corn. 

Riskit.  Made  a noise  like 
the  tearing  of  roots. 

Rockin’.  An  evening 
meeting,  one  of  the  ob- 
jects of  which  is  spinning 
with  the  rock  or  distaff. 

Rood.  Stands  likewise  for 
the  plural  roods. 

Roon.  A shred. 

itoose.  To  praise,  to  com- 
mend. 

Roopit.  Hoarse,  as  with  a 
cold. 

Roun’.  Round,  in  the  cir- 
cle of  the  neighbourhood. 

Row.  To  roll,  to  wrap. 

Row’t.  Rolled,  wrapped. 

Rowte.  To  low,  to  bellow. 

Rowth.  Plenty. 

Rowtin.  Lowing. 

Rozet.  Rosin. 

Rung.  A cudgel. 

Runt.  The  stem  of  a cole- 
wort  or  cabbage. 

Runkled.  Wrinkled. 


Sae.  So. 

Sait.  Soft. 

S»ir  To  serve,  a sore. 

Sandy,  or  Sairlie.  Sorely. 

Sair’t.  Served. 

Sark.  A shirt. 

Sarkit.  Provided  in  shirts. 

Saugh.  The  willow. 

Saul.  Soul. 

Saumont.  Salmon. 

Sauut.  A saint. 

Saut.  Salt. 

Saw.  To  sow. 

Sawin’.  Sowing. 

Sax.  Six. 

Scar.  To  scare,  a scare. 

Scaud.  To  Scald. 

Scauld.  To  scold. 

Scaur.  Apt  to  be  scared. 

Scawl.  A scold. 

Scone.  A thin  cake  of  bread. 

Scraich.  To  scream,  as  a 
hen,  partridge,  &c. 

Screed.  To  tear,  a rent. 

Scrieve.  To  ghde  swiftly 
along. 

Scriven.  Gleesomely, 

swiftly. 

Scrimp.  To  scant. 

Seri  in  pet.  Did  scant, 

scanty. 

Scunner.  A loathing,  to 
loathe. 

Seizin’.  Seizing. 

Scl.  Self;  a body’s  self, 
one’s  self  alone. 

Sell’t.  Did  seU. 

Sen’.  To  send. 

lervan.’  Servant. 

Settlin’.  Settling,  to  get  a 
settlin’,  to  be  frighted 
into  quietness. 

Shaird.  A shred,  a shaird. 

Shangan.  A stick  cleft  at 
one  end  for  putting  the 
tail  of  a dojy,  &c.  into  by 
way  of  mischief,  or  to 
frighten  him  away. 

Shave  r.  A humorous  w ag, 
a barber. 

Shaw.  To  show,  a small 
wood  in  a hollow  placo. 

Sfcesa.  Bright,  shining, 


Sheep  shank.  To  think  j Son sle.  Having  sweet, en- 


one’s  self  nae  sheep-shank 
to  be  conceited. 


gaging  looks ; lucky, 
jolly. 


Sherra-muir.  The  battle  of 'Boom.  To  swim. 

Sheriff- Moor,  fought  in  Sooth.  Truth,  a pretty  oath. 


the  Rebellion  of  1715. 

Sheugh.  A ditch,  a trench, 
a sluice. 

Shill.  Shrill. 

Shog.  A shock,  a push  off 
at  one  side. 

Shool.  A shovel. 

Shoon.  Shoes. 

Shore.  To  offer,  to  threaten. 

Shor’d.  Offered. 

Shouther.  The  shoulder. 

Sic.  Such. 

Sicker.  Sure,  steady. 

Sidelins.  Sidelong,  slanting 

Siller.  Silver,  money. 

Simmer.  Summer. 

Sin’.  Since. 

Skaith.  To  damage,  to  in- 
jure, injury. 

Skellum.  A worthless  fel- 
low. 

Skelp.  To  strike,  to  slap; 
to  walk  with  a smart 
tripping  step;  a smart 
stroke. 

Skelpi-limmer.  A wild  girl, 
a term  in  female  scolding 

Skelpin’.  Stepping,  walk- 
ing. 

Skeigh.  Proud,  nice,  high- 
mettled. 

Skirling.  Shrieking,  cry- 
ing. 

Skirl.  To  shriek,  to  cry 

shrilly. 

Skirl’t.  Shrieked. 

Sklent.  Slant,  to  run 
aslant,  to  deviate  from 
truth. 

Sklented.  Ran,  or  hit,  in 
an  oblique  direction. 

Skriegh.  A scream,  to 
scream. 

Slae.  Sloe. 

Slade.  Did  slide. 

Slap.  A gate,  a breach  in 
a fence. 

Slaw.  Slow. 

Sl'ee.  sly ; sleest,  slyest. 

Sleekit.  Sleek,  sly. 

Sliddery  Slippery. 

Slype.  To  fall  over,  as  a 
wet  furrow  from  the 
plough. 

Slypet.  Fell. 

Sma'.  Small. 

Smeddum.  Dust,  powder, 
mettle,  sense. 

Smiddy.  A smithy. 

Smoor.  To  smother. 

Smoor’d  Smothered. 


duals. 

Snash.  Abuse,  Billingsgate. 

Snaw.  Snow,  to  snow. 

Snaw-broo.  Melted  snow. 

Snawie.  snowy. 

Sued.  To  lop,  to  cut  off. 

Sneeshin.  Snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill.  Asnuff-box. 

Snell.  Bitter, biting. 

Snick-drawing.  Trick-con- 
triving 

Snick.  The  latchet  of  a 
door. 

Snool.  One  whose  spirit  is 
broken  with  oppressive 
slavery ; to  submit  tamely; 
to  sneak. 

Snoove.  To  go  smoothly 
and  constantly,  to  sneak. 

Snowk.  To  scent  or  snuff, 
as  a dog,  horse,  &c. 

Snowkit.  Scented,  snuffed. 


So  wens.  A dish  made  of 
oatmeal  soured,  &c., 
boiled  up  till  they  make 
an  agreeable  pudding. 

Souple.  Flexible,  swift. 

Souter.  A shoemaker. 

Sowp.  A spoonful,  a small 
quantity  of  any  thing 
liquid. 

Sow^h.  To  try  over  a tune, 
with  a low  whistle. 

Sowther.  Solder,  to  solder, 
to  cement. 

Spae.  To  prophesy,  to 
divine 

Spaul.  The  loin  bone. 

Spairge.  To  dash,  to  soil, 
as  with  mire. 

Spaviet.  Having  the  spa- 
vin. 

Speat.  A sweeping  torrent, 
after  rain  or  thaw. 

Speel.  To  climb. 

Spence.  The  parlour  in  a 
country  house. 

Spier.  To  ask,  to  inquire. 

Spier’t.  Inquired 

Splatter.  A splutter,  t( 
splutter. 

Spleughan.  A tobacco- 
pouch. 

Splore.  A frolic,  a noise, 
riot. 

Sprattle.  To  scramble. 

Spreekled.  Spotted,  speck- 
led. 

Spring.  A quick  air  in 
music,  a Scottish  reel. 

Sprit.  A tough-rooted 
plant,  something  like 
rushes. 

Sprittie.  Full  of  sprits. 

Spurtle.  The  stick  used  in 
making  oatmeal  porridge. 

Spunk.  Fire,  mettle,  wit. 

Spunkie  Mettlesome, fiery, 
will-o’-wisp,  or  ignis- 
fatuus. 

Squad.  A crew,  a party. 

Squatter.  To  flutter  in 
water,  as  a wild  duck,  &e. 

Squattle.  To  sprawl. 

Squeel.  A scream,  a screech, 
to  scream. 

Stacher.  To  stagger. 

Stack.  A rick  of  corn,  hay 
&c. 

Staggie.  Diminutive  of 
stag. 

Stan’.  To  stand;  stan’t, 
did  stand. 

Stane.  A stone. 

Stank.  Did  stink ; a pool 
of  standing  water. 

Stap.  Stop. 

Stark.  Stiff,  stout. 

Startle.  To  run  as  cattle, 
stung  by  the  gadfly. 

Staumrel.  A blockhead,, 
half-witted. 

Staw.  Did  steal,  to  surfeit. 

Steeh.  To  cram  the  belly. 

Stechin’  Cramming 

Steek.  To  shut,  a stitch. 

Steer.  To  molest,  to  stir. 

Steeve.  Firm,  compacted. 

Stell.  A still. 

Sten.  To  bound  or  rise 
hurriedly. 

Sten’t.  Reared. 

Stents.  Tribute,  dues  of 
any  kind. 

Stibble.  Stubble;  stibble- 


ho  takes  the  lead. 


47* 


Stcy.  Steep; stejest, steep- 
est. 

Srick  an’  stow.  Totally, 
altogether. 

Stilt.  A crutch;  to  limp 
to  halt 

Stimpart.  The  eighth  part 
of  a Winchester  bushel. 

St  irk.  A cow  or  buttock  a 
year  old. 

Stock  A plant  or  root  of 
colewort,  cabbage,  &c. 

Stockin’.  Stocking;  throw- 
ing the  stockin’,  when  the 
bride  and  bridegtoom  are 
put  into  bed,  and  the 
candle  out,  the  former 
throws  a stocking  at  ran- 
dom among  the  company 
and  the  person  whom  U 
strikes  is  the  next  th& 
will  be  married. 

Stook.  A shock  of  corn. 

Stooked.  Made  up  ia 
shocks. 

Stoor.  Sounding  holloa, 
strong  and  hoarse. 

Stot.  An  ox. 

Stoup,  or  Stowp.  A kind  of 
jug  or  dish  with  a handle. 

Stoure.  Dust,  more  parti- 
cularly  dust  in  motion. 

Stowlins.  By  stealth. 

Stowen.  Stolen. 

Strack.  Did  strike. 

Strae.  Straw;  to  die  a fair 
strae  death,  to  die  in  bed. 

Straik.  Did  strike. 

Straikit.  Stroked. 

Strap  pan.  Tall  and  hand- 
some. 

Straught.  Straight. 

Streek.  Stretched,  to 
stretch. 

Striddel.  To  straddle. 

Stroan.  To  spout. 

Studdie.  An  anvil. 

Stumpie.  Diminutive  of 
stump. 

Strunt.  Spirituous  liquor 
of  any  kind;  to  walk 
sturdily. 

Stuff.  Corn  or  pulse  of  any 
kind. 

Sturt.  Trouble ; to  molest. 

Sturtin.  Frighted. 

Sucker.  Sugar. 

Sud.  Should. 

Sugh.  The  continued  rush- 
ing noise  of  wind  or 
water. 

Suthron.  Southron,  an  old 
name  for  the  English 
nation. 

Swaird.  Sward.  j 

S wall’d.  Swelled. 

Swank.  Stately,  jolly. 

Swankie,  or  S wanker.  A 
tight,  strapping  young 
fellow  or  girl 

Swap.  An  exchange,  to 
barter. 

Swat.  Did  sweat. 

Swatch.  A sample. 

Swats.  Drink,  good  ale. 

Sweatin’,  .sweating. 

Sweer.  Lazy, averse;  dead- 
sweer,  extremely  averse. 

Swoor.  s wore,  did  swear. 

swinge.  To  icat,  to  whip. 

Swirlie.  Knaggy,  full  of 
knots. 

Swirl.  Acurve  an  eddying 
blast,  or  pool ; a knot  in 
wood. 

F with.  Get  away. 

S wither.  To  hesitate  in 
chcice,  an  irresoluti 
wavering  in  choice. 

Syne.,  Since,  ago,  Then. 


GLOSSARY. 


*44 


T. 

Tael  ets.  Hobnails  for  driv- 
ing into  shoes. 

Tae.  A toe;  three-tae’d, 
having  three  prongs. 

Tak.  To  take;  takin’, 
taking. 

Tangle.  A sea- weed. 

Tap.  The  top. 

Tapetless.  Heedless, foolish. 

Tarro  w.  To  murmur  at 
one’s  allowance. 

Tarrow’t.  Murmured. 

Tarry-breeks.  A sailor. 

Tauld,  or  laid.  Told. 

Taupie.  A foolish,  thought- 
less girl. 

tauted,  or  Tautie.  Matted 
together,  spoken  of  hair 
or  wool 

fawie.  That  allows  itself 
peaceably  to  be  handled, 
spoken  ofa  horse,  cow,&c. 

Teat.  A small  quantity,  a 
handful. 

Ten-hours’ -bite.  A slight 
feed  to  the  horses  w idle 
in  the  yoke  in  the  fore- 
noon. 

Tent  Adeld  pulpit,  heed, 
caution  ; to  take  heed. 

T >n  tie  Heedful  cautious. 

Tentless.  Heedless. 

Teugh.  Tough. 

Tlia'ck.  Thatch ; thack  an* 
rape,  clothing,  necess- 
aries. 

Thar.  These. 

Thairms.  Small  guts,  flddle- 
str.n-s. 

Thank  it.  Th  armed. 

Thegkher.  Together. 

Themsels.  Themselves. 

Thick.  Intimate,  amiliar. 

Thieveless.  Cod,  dry, 
spited,  spoken  of  a per- 
son’s demeanous, 

Thir.  These. 

Thirl.  To  thrill. 

Thirled.  Thrilled,  vibrated. 

Thole.  To  suffer, to  endure. 

Thowe.  A thaw,  to  thaw. 

Tiiowless.  A want  of  en- 
ergy, iingerless. 

Thrang.  Busy,  crowded. 

Th r apple.  Throat,  wind- 
pipe. 

Thraw.  To  sprain,  to  twist, 
to  contradict 

Thrawin’.  Twisting,  &c. 

Thrawn.  Sprained,  twis red, 
contradicted,  contradic- 
tion. 

Threap  To  maintain  by 
dint  of  assertion. 

Threshin’.  Thrashing. 

Th  reteen.  Thirteen. 

Thristle.  Thistle. 

Through  To  go  on  with 
to  make  out. 

Through-c  . Fcilmfek, 
confuse  aiv. 

Thud.  To'  make  a Iotm 
intermittent  noise. 

Thumpit.  Thumped. 

Thysel’.  Thyself. 

Tili't.  To  it. 

Timmer.  Timber. 

Tine.  To  lose;  tint,  lost 

tinkler.  A Tinker, 


l Tip,  A ram.  * 

Tippence.  Twopence. 

Tirl.  To  make  a slight 
noise,  to  uncover. 

Tirlin’.  Uncovering. 

Tither.  The  other. 

Tktle.  To  whisper. 

Tittlin’.  Whispering. 

Tocher.  Marriage  portion 

Tod.  A fox. 

Toddle.  To  totter  like  the 
walk  of  a child. 

Toddlin’.  Tottering. 

Toom.  Empty. 

Toop.  A ram 

Toun.  A hamlet,  a farm- 
house. 

Tout.  The  blast  of  a horn, 
or  trumpet,  to  blow  a 
horn,  &c. 

Tow.  A rope. 

Towmond  A twelvemonth. 

Towzie.  Rough,  shaggy, 

Toy.  A cap  of  an  old  fashion 
in  female  head-dress. 

Toyte.  To  totter  like  old 
age. 

Transmogrify’d.  Transmi- 
grated .metamorphosed. 

Trashtrie  Trash. 

Trickie.  Full  of  tricks. 

Trig  Spruce,  neat. 

Trimly.  Excellently. 

Trow.  To  believe. 

Trowth.  Truth,  a petty 
oath. 

Try’t.  Tried. 

Tug.  Raw  hide,  of  Which, 
in  old  times,  plough  traces 
were  frequently  made. 

Tulzie.  A quarrel;  to 
quarrel,  to  fight. 

Twa.  Two. 

Twa- three  A few 

Twad  It  would. 

Twal.  Twelve  ;twal-penny 
worth,  a small  quantity, 
a pennyworth. 

N.B.  One  penny  English 
is  12d.  Scots. 

Twin.  To  part. 

Tyke.  A dog. 

U. 

Unco.  Strange,  uncouth, 
verj  very  great,  prodigi 
ous. 

Uncos.  News. 

Unkenn’d.  Unknown. 

Unskaith’d.  Undamaged, 
unhurt. 

Upo’.  Upon. 


Vap’rin.  Vapouring. 

Vera.  Very. 

Virl.  A ferule. 

W. 

Wa\  Wall ; wa’s,  walls. 

Wabster.  A weaver. 

Wad.  Would,  to  bet,  a 
bet,  to  pledge. 

Wadna.  Would  not. 

Wae.  Woe,  sorrowful. 

Waesucks!  or  waes  me! 
Alas ! Oh , the  pity ! 

Waft.  The  cross  thread 
that  goes  from  the  shuttle 
tkn* . gh  the  web. 


Waifu’.  Wailing. 

Wair.  To  lay  out,  to  expend. 

Wale.  Choice,  to  choose. 

Wal’d,  Chose,  chosen. 

Walie.  Ample,  large,  jolly ; 
also  an  interjection  of 
distress. 

Warae.  The  belly. 

Wamefou’.  A bellyful. 

Wanchansie.  Unlucky. 

Wanrestfu’.  Resiles#. 

Walk.  Work. 

Wark-lume.  A tool  to 
work  with. 

Warle,  or  Warld.  World. 

Warlock.  A wizard. 

Warly.  Worldly,  eager  on 
amassing  wealth. 

Warran*.  A warrant,  to 
warrant. 

Warst.  Worst. 

Warstl’d,  or  Warsl’d. 
Wrestled. 

Wastrie.  Prodigality, 

Wat.  Wet;  I wat,  I wot, 
I know. 

Water-brose.  Brose  made 
of  meal  and  water  simply, 
without  the  addition  o’*' 
milk,  butter,  &c. 

Wattle  A twig,  a wand. 

Wauble.  To  swing,  to  reel. 

W aukit.  Thickened,  as 

fullers  do  cloth. 

Waukrife  Not  apt  to  sleep 

W aur.  W orse , to  worst. 

Waur’t.  Worsted. 

Wean,  or  Weanie.  A child. 

Wearie,  or  Weary.  Many 
a weary  body.  Many  a 
different  person. 

Weason.  Weasand. 

Wee  Little;  wee  things, 
little  ones;  wee  bit,  a 
small  matter. 

Weel.  Well;  weelfare, wel- 
fare. 

Weet.  Rain,  wetness. 

W'e’se.  We  shall. 

Wha.  Who. 

Whaizle.  To  wheeze. 

Whalpit.  Whelped. 

Whang.  A leathern  string, 
a piece  of  cheese,  bread, 
&c ; to  give  the  strap- 
pado. 

Whare.  Where;  whare’er, 
wherever. 

Wheep.  To  fly  nimbly,  to 
jerk;  penny-wheep,  small 
beer. 

Whase.  Whose. 

Whatreck.  Nevertheless. 

Whid.  The  motion  of  a 
hare,  running  hut  not 
frighted;  a lie; 

Whiddin’.  Running  as  a 
hare  or  coney. 

Whigmaleeries.  Whims, 
fancies,  crochets. 

Whingin’.  Crying,  com- 
plaining, fretting. 

Whirligigums.  Useless  or- 
naments, trifling  appen- 

Whissle.  A whistle,  to 
whistle. 

Whisht.  Silence;  to  hold 
one’s  whisht,  to  be  silent. 

Whisk.  To  sweep,  to  lush. 


Whislrit.  Lashed. 

Whitter.  A hearty  draught 
of  liquor. 

Whun-stane.  A whinstone. 

Whyles.  Whiles,  some- 
times. 

Wi’.  With. 

Wick . To  strike  a stone  Ifl 
an  oblique  direction,  a 
term  in  curling. 

Wiel.  A small  whirlpool. 

Wifie.  A diminutive  or 
endearing  t<  rm  for  wife. 

Wimple.  To  meander. 

Wimpl’t.  Meandered. 

Wimplin’.  Waving,  mean- 
denng. 

Win’.  To  wind,  to  winnow. 

Win’.  Wind;  w’r's,  winds. 

Win’t.  Winded,  as  a bob- 
bin of  yam. 

Winna.  Will  not. 

Winnock.  A window. 

Winsome.  Hearty, vauntie 
pay. 

Win  tie.  A staggering  mo- 
tion ; to  stagger,  to  reel. 

Winze.  An  oath. 

Wiss.  To  wish. 

Witlioutten.  Without. 

Wizen’d.  Hide-bound, 
dried,  shrunk. 

Wonner.  A wonder,  a con- 
temptuous appellation. 

Woo’.  Wool. 

"Woo.  To  court,  to  make 
love  to. 

Woodie.  A rope,  more  pro- 
perly one  made  of  with# 
or  willows. 

Wooer-bab.  The  garter 
knotted  below  the  knee 
with  a couple  of  loops. 

Wordy.  Worthy. 

Worset.  Worsted. 

Wrack.  To  teaze,  to  vex. 

Wraith.  An  apparition 
exactly  like  a living  per- 
son, whose  appearance  is 
said  to  forhode  the  per- 
son’s approacning  death. 

Wrang.  Wrong,  to  wrong 

Wreath.  A drifted  heap  oi 
snow. 

Wud.  Mad,  distracted. 

Wumble.  A wimble. 

W yliecoat.  A flannel  vest. 

Wyte.  Blame,  to  blame. 

T. 

Ye.  This  pronoun  is  fre- 
quently used  for  thou. 

Yearns.  Longs  much. 

Yearlings.  Bom  in  the 
same  year,  coevals. 

Year.  Is  used  both  for 
singular  and  plural  year#. 

Yell.  Barren,  that  gives  no 
milk. 

Y erk . To  lash , to  j erk. 

Yerkit.  Jerked,  lashed. 

Yestreen.  Yesternight. 

Yill.  Ale. 

Yird.  Earth. 

Yokin.  Yokin,  abouk 

Yont.  Beyond. 

Yourse.’.  Yourself. 

Yowe.  An  ewe. 

Yowde  Diminutive  of  ynll® 

Yule.  Christmas. 


IppraMr. 


liters  nf  Ctarinta  la  $tnm 


NO.  I. 

PCotnparc  with  Letters  Nos.  83  and  84,  pp. 

301  and  302.] 

FOR  MR.  ROBERT  BURNS, 

CARE  OF  MR.  CRUIKSHANK. 

2,  St.  James's  Square, 

December  8th,  1787. 

This  is  truly  a great  source  of  vexation 
and  discouragement.  It  seems  really  as  if 
some  malignant  foredoom  had  determined 
that  we  should  not  meet,  and  that  none  of 
our  little  arrangements  should  be  consum- 
mated. But  if  1 lament  the  disappointment* 
which  once  more  prevents  us  from  enjoying 
that  delicate  “ converse  of  soul,”  or  “ feast  of 
reason,”  which  I have  promised  myself  in 
your  society,  how  much  more  keenly  do  I 
feel  for  its  cause ! 

What  a profusion  of  sentiments,  and  such 
like,  has  this  accident  not  marred ! perhaps 
even  choked  in  the  earliest  incipient  develop- 
ment ! 

When  you  flatter  me  with  the  idea  of  being 
a favourite  of  yours,  you  little  know  “ how 
subtle  is  the  unction.”  I have  longed  and 
longed  that  Miss  Nimmo,  who  was  blessed 
with  your  acquaintance,  would  have  imparted 

* As  will  be  noticed  in  the  foregoing  Notes 
to  the  Correspondence,  in  respect  of  the  lirst 
two  letters  of  Burns  to  Clarinda,  the  poet  had 
been  engaged  to  take  tea  with  Mrs.  M‘Lehose 
on  the  6th  (Thursday).  She  had  then  deferred 
the  entertainment  of  the  poet  until  this  day, 
Saturday  the  8t.h,  when  an  accident,  causing 
eevisre  injury  to  his  laid  him  up. 


ft  small  share  of  that  blessing  to  me,  hp 
making  us  known  to  each  other.  But  whea 
you  were  informed  that  I was  a poetess,  you 
were  mislead  by  the  pleasant  irony  of  our 
mutual  and  gentle  friend.  That  I am 
passionately  fond,  nay,  even  “abandoned” 
(save  the  word !)  to  poetry,  is  true ; that  I 
have,  from  time  to  time,  done  something  in 
the  way  of  rhyme  is  true  enough;  but  that  I 
have  ever  written  poetry,  I fear,  is  no  “true 
bill.” 

How  exquisite  are  the  lines*  which  you 
send  me ; not  only  for  the  delicate  nature  of 
the  flattery,  to  which  every  woman  is  a little 
alive,  but  as  poetry.  Do  not  think  that  I am 
weak  enough  to  be  spoiled  by  such  adulation. 
It  is  a poet’s  adulation,  and,  as  you  yourself 
observe,  “ Fiction  is  the  native  region  of 
poetry.”  I doubt  even,  if  ten  years  earlier  in 
life,  I should  have  suffered  myself  to  be 
“ befooled"  by  even  such  beautiful,  simple, 
and  musical  praise  as  yours. 

But  now  for  my  own  poetical  Aspirations, 
or  for  my  own  claim  to  poetical  Aspiration. 
Look  over  the  following;  I look  to  your 
candour,  not  your  compliments.  You  will 
admit  that  they  possess  anything  in  verse 
except  the  spirit  of  poetry. 

[Here  follow  the  t(Lines  to  a Blackbird ''f] 

Do  not  forget  to  let  me  hear  of  you  or 
from  you,  or  both,  as  often  as  convenient; 

* Alluding  to  some  verses  enclosed  in  Burns’i 
note,  to  which  this  was  a reply. 

t These  lines,  modified  by  Burns,  and  with 
the  addition  of  four  lines  of  his  own,  appeared 
in  the  i Scots  Musical  Museum* 


G48 


LETTERS  OF  CLARINDA 


for  you  know  the  rigid  forms  of  the  world 
32 ow  keep  us  apart,  otherwise  than  by  this 
"sort  of  converse.  But  we  must  and  shall 
meet,  and  till  then  be  of  good  cheer.  I 
console  myself  in  my  disappointment  by  the 
thought  of  what  gratification  is  in  store  for 
me,  and  with  the  sensation,  that  this  pleasure 
is  daily  accumulating  intensity.  Adieu. 

A.  M. 


NO.  II. 

FOR  MR.  ROBERT  BURNS. 

2 St.  James  Square, 

Dec.  1 6th,  1787. 

I had  no  idea  till  last  night  that  Miss 
Ninimo  was  so  nearly  concerned  in  your 
accident.  She  is  now  laying  to  her  own 
charge  a share  of  the  cause  of  it. 

You  are  well  attended. — I know  of  no 
better  surgeon  and  worthier  man  than  Mr. 
Wood;  and  the  knowledge. that  you  are 
under  his  care,  if  you  will  but  have  patience, 
and  follow  his  directions,  reassures  me  con- 
siderably. 

What  letters  you  write ! Do  you  think 
you  are  addressing  a love-lorn  foolish  girl  of 
sixteen?  Have  you  any  idea  your  corres- 
pondent is  a married  woman,  and  a widow 
only  in  temporary  separation — a widow  of 
the  heart  rather  than  of  the  law  ? 

You  are  not  likely  to  play  Jacob  over 
again,  and  serve  your  seven  years,  and  your 
seven  years  again,  in  expectation  of  this 
shadow  of  future  happiness,  nor  do  you 
know  yourself;  at  least,  I think  not.  But 
do  let  me  entreat  you  not  to  fatigue  yourself 
with  too  much  writing,  or  to  work  yourself 
up  with  excitement.  I can  rely  upon  daily 
intelligence  of  you  through  Miss  Nimmo; 
and  I would  not  have  you  do  anything  to 
retard  your  recovery.  For  heaven’s  sake,  be 
calm,  and  patient,  and  quiet,  and  we  shall 
soon  have  the  pleasure  of  your  society  again. 

A.  M. 


NO.  III. 

[Compare  with  Letter  No.  85,  p.  302.] 
Dec.  20th,  1787. 

I know  you  too  well ; at  least  I think  so, 
to  suspect  you  of  really  transgressing  the 
unvarying  boundary  of  true  decorum,  much 


more  t.he  limits  of  honour.  I have,  if  t mis- 
take Lot,  thoroughly  read  your  character  in 
your  imperishable  poems.  I have  perceived 
an  impetuous  generosity  and  high-minded- 
ness, which  are  apt  to  overlook  the  ordinary 
regulations,  observed  or  feigned  by  sordid 
souls,  and  in  their  own  native  purity 
to  be  heedless  of  the  interpretations  of 
the  world.  But  those  interpretations — those 
constructions ! Do  they  not  require  some 
more  guarded  consideration?  Were  I your 
judge,  alas ! I do  not  think  even  your 
“ handsome  troop  of  follies”  would  meet 
with  much  reproof ; for  “ undisciplined”  as 
they  be,  they  are  as  much  a part  of  what  I 
am  obliged  to  admire  in  your  character,  as  is 
that  indomitable  independence  which  dis- 
tinguishes you  itself. 

I am  much  joyed  to  hear  that  you  are  so 
greatly  improving  with  respect  of  your 
wound — but  as  to  calling  you  a " stupid 
fellow,”  I do  not  think  either  you  or  I would 
have  much  consciousness  of  attaching 
meaning  to  the  expression.  I have  proposed 
to  myself  a more  pastoral  name  for  you, 
although  it  be  not  much  in  keeping  with 
the  shrillness  of  the  EttricJc  Pipe.  What 
say  you  to  Sylvander?  I feel  somewhat  less 
restraint  when  I subscribe  myself 

Clarinda.* 


WO.  IT. 

[Reply  to  Letter  No.  85,  pp.  302,  303.] 
Dec.  2 1st,  1787. 

I have  just  received  your  long  and  too 
pleasing  letter,  and  seize  a few  moments  to 
write  some  acknowledgments  before  I leave 
town,  which  will  be  to-morrow  morning.  I 
am  at  a loss  where  to  begin  ? Is  it  to  you  or 
to  Dr.  Gregory,  that  I should  first  reply  ? 
What  will  become  of  the  severer  discipline 
to  which  I must  subject  my  natural  foibles 
and  vanities  ? 

I should  be  devoid  of  that  strong  sense  of 
gratitude  for  good  which  characterises  all 
innocent  hearts,  did  I acknowledge  or  feel 
my  sell  unhappy.  No,  no  1 Sylvander,  that 
is  not  the  word.  I am  not  unhappy  / The 
trials  and  misfortunes  which  T have  under- 
gone, and  at  which,  I fain  would  shudder, 

* This  is  the  first  letter  which  had  been 
signed  in  the  assumed  name  of  Clarinda , and 
it  has  been  omitted  and  described  as  wanting 

in  all  the  previous  editions  of  this  Correspond* 
ence. 


TO  BURNS. 


549 


tven  now,  in  the  retrospective  glance  at  them, 
6re  of  the  past.  But  I have  done  no  wrong ; 
I am  conscious  of  no  misdoing;  I am  innocent; 
and  therefore,  I am  not  unhappy.  I believe 
even  those  misfortunes  to  which  you  recal 
sny  memory  with  lamentation,  have  much 
contributed  to  chasten  those  keen  sensibili- 
ties of  which  I am  made  up,  and  to  make  me 
as  capable  of  the  real  enjoyments  of  life  as  I 
now  am.  I have  sought  Religion,  nor  have 
I sought  it  in  vain.  And  could  you  but 
catch  a glimpse  of  her  in  the  benign,  seemly 
garb  and  aspect  in  which  she  has  answered 
to  my  appeals  of  sorrow,  you  would  fain  see 
in  her  the  real, ultimate,  and  only  comforter! 

Cn  my  return  here,  which  I expect  will 
take  place  towards  the  middle  of  next  week, 
that  is,  after  Christmas  day,  I will  reply  to 
your  letter  more  categorically ; but  do  not 
speak  of  our  correspondence,  for  innocent  as 
I am,  and  conscious  as  I am  of  that  inno- 
cence, you  know  how  censorious  are  those 
whose  vulgar  minds  are  incapable  of  a similar 
communion. — Farewell  1 may  God  bless  you 
and  keep  you.  Clabinda. 


no.  v. 

[ Compare  with  the  last,  if.  No.  4.] 

January  1st,  1798. 

This  shall  be,  at  all  events,  a partial 
fulfilment  of  the  promise  by  which  I bound 
myself  in  my  last,  to  treat  of  your  letter  a 
little  more  at  length,  and  more  categorically. 
In  the  first  place,  however,  let  me  tell  you 
that  I have  been  paying  a visit  to  a country 
friend  of  mine,  who  runs  complete  riot  in  her 
praise  and  admiration  of  you,  and  whose 
personal  endowments  and  charms  would 
li  ake  her  a truly  worthy  Clarinda  to  such  a 
Sylvander.  You  have  once  met  this  fair 
admirer  of  yours  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Bruce, 
and  I must  take  some  occasion,  sooner 
or  later,  of  making  you  personally  acquainted, 
as  1 am  sure  the  admiration  will  be  reciprocal. 
Before  I proceed  to  your  letter,  let  me  wish 
you  all  the  kindest,  best,  and  most  humane 
of  wishes  on  this  first  dat  of  a new  year,  in 
which,  with  the  help  or  heaven,  may  you 
number  your  days  by  enjoyment,  and  the 
accession  of  a year  by  wisdom.  Now  for 
your  epistle,  respecting  which,  let  me  first 
thank  you  for  the  touching  lines  which  you 
enclose.* 

* Lines  addressed  to  Clarinda , as  they  are 
now  inserted  amongst  the  Poetical  Works,  in 
fche  former  part  of  this  volume. 


That  I)r.  Gregory  should  have  found  mine 
wanting,  in  many  respects,  s not  to  be  won- 
dered at.  The  faults  I had  observed  myself ; 
but  they  were  part  of  the  verses,  and  I,  as 
incapable  of  amending,  as  I had  been 
incapable  of  suppressing  the  expression  of  a 
particular  sentiment.  All  my  grammatical 
knowledge  is  merely  that  which  is  acquired 
by  the  habits  of  conversation,  writing,  or 
reading.  I was  never  taught. 

I think  I may  rightly  interpret  your  senti- 
ment that  “ there  is  no  corresponding  with 
an  agreeable  woman  without  a mixture  of 
the  tender  passion.”  How  little  do  the 
majority  of  the  children  of  the  world  feel  or 
appreciate  the  sentiments  of  love  and  friend- 
ship ! How  coarsely  and  constantly  do  they 
not  misapply  the  one,  and  desecrate  the 
other ! 

That  a gentle  sentiment  should  be  inevi- 
tably commingled  in  the  communion  between 
the  sexes,  where*  delicacy  of  sentiment, 
extreme,  nay  exquisite  sensibility  and  lofty 
consciousness  of  innocence  preside,  is  natural 
and  intelligible.  It  is  the  more  essentially 
entitled,  in  this  case,  to  the  pure  appellation 
of  love,  that  it  is  free  from  all  the  gross 
pursuits  of  selfish  gratification;  that  it  is 
devoted  solely  to  the  elevated  purpose  of 
conveying  real  happiness  to  its  object;  in 
fact,  that  it  is  honest  and  unpolluted.  In 
such  a manner,  why  should  not  an  intercourse 
of  sympathy  and  intelligence  exist  between 
those  of  different  sexes?  I would  frankly 
avow  that  I think  it  might,  and  does  in 
perfect  innocence ; and  I do  not  feel  that  I 
should  be  bound  to  discard  even  the  term 
which  implies  the  utmost  tenderness. 

Nor  should  we  reject  the  conditions  sup- 
plied by  circumstance.  It  is  from  circum- 
stance, really,  that  the  purest  philosophy 
(I  mean  the  wisdom  of  life)  is  to  be  acquired. 
Had  you  reflected  on  this, — had  you  subjected 
my  career  to  the  test  of  comparison  with 
circumstance, — had  you  formed  a j ust  estimate 
of  my  character,  after  this  moralizing 
fashion,  you  would  not  have  deplored  that 
any  "malignant  demon  should  have  been 
permitted  to  dash  my  cup  of  life  and  sorrow.* 
On  the  contrary,  the  all-wise  Disposer  of  the 
world,  estimating  the  peculiar  bent  of  that 
supremacy  of  passion  (corrigible  for  good,  or 
capable  of  running  wild  for  evil),  has  sub- 
jected it  to  the  schooling,  tempering,  and 
subduing  which  were  requisite.  Thus,  by 
calling  religion  to  our  aid  in  the  considera- 
tion of  ourselves,  our  lives,  our  fortune,  or 
our  misfortune,  may  we  distinguish  in  each 
sorrow  a chastening  and  gentle  provision  for 
mors  enduring  happiness  than  is  to  hi 


m 


LETTERS  OF  CLARIXBA 


gathered  from  the  sunny  held  of  a perishable 
prosperity ! 

Wherefore  do  I tenderly  believe  in  the 
* unknown  state  of  being,”  in  which,  as  you 
&ay,  we  shall  one  day  meet  for  endless  com- 
munion of  unalloyed  affection!  Consider: 
should  we  attain  it,  except  it  were  through 
the  trials  of  which  you  complain?  But  to 
what  unlimited  extent  of  gravity  am  I not 
tending?  Shall  I not  thus  surfeit  you  of 
my  sentiments?  Will  you  not  condemn 
our  correspondence  to  an  untimely  ^ and 
abrupt  cessation,  on  account  of  the  tedium 
with  which  I oppress  you?  But  you  should 
not : I feel,  and  must  express  all  I feel. 
I know  no  reserve;  and  in  that  true  and 
heartfelt  interest  for  your  happiness,  I cannot 
help  preaching  a doctrine  which,  I believe, 
may  compass  it,  though  it  be  tardily.  It  is 
your  fault  to  dash  at  the  first  impulse  of 
a generous,  but  tumultuous  passion,  “ into 
mid  stream.”  You  would  forestall  events, 
or  deprecate  the  turn  of  affairs,  from  which 
you  are  to  derive  all  the  good  which  is  in 
store  for  you. 

I am  still  engaged  in  reading  those  poems 
in  which  your  character  is  so  indelibly  writ, 
and  which  wib  inevitably  perpetuate  the 
record  of  your  foibles,  as  well  as  of  your 
loftier  qualities.  Do  favour  me  with  any 
scraps  you  can  spare.  Perhaps,  also,  from 
time  to  time,  you  will  allow  me  the  freedom 
of  expressing  the  ideas  which  they  suggest, 
the  merits  which  I observe,  or  even  the  faults 
which  I may  distinguish.  How  much  am  I 
not  pleased,  that  Dr.  Gregory,  whose  reputa- 
tion for  virtue,  as  well  as  for  genius,  is  so 
generally  acknowledged,  should  be  numbered 
amongst  your  trusty  friends.  If  for  this 
alone,  I should  like  to  be  acquainted  with 
him ; for  there  must  be  a je  ne  sgais  quoi  that 
is  kindred  in  us,  for  the  acceptation  and 
discernment  of  your  character,  to  have  been 
eommon  to  us  both. 

I look  upon  him  as  a warm  friend  of  mine, 
also,  although  we  are  not  even  acquainted. 
There  is  some  unseen  link  between  us.  But 
1 weary  you,  and  must  wish  you  good  bye. 

Clarinda. 


NO.  VI. 

[Reply  to  a Letter  from  Burns,  t chick  is 
wanting.'] 

Friday,  January  Ath,  1788. 

Melancholy  is  really  one  of  the  first 
Of  incentives  to  the  record  of  our  sentiments 


in  verse,  and  the  universal  gaiety  of  the 
season  recoils  upon  me  with  a sense  of  deso- 
tion,  and  makes  me  insuparably  melancholy. 
It  is  the  season  of  household  enjoyments  cf 
home  happiness,  and  you  know  1 have  none. 
What,  wonder,  then,  if,  on  receiving  you* 
lines,  I should  venture  upon  a reply  “in 
kind  ?”  I cannot  resist  the  impulse,  how- 
ever inadequate  be  my  capacity.  Look  to  it. 
Here  are  my  lines. 

[The  lines  opening,  “ TqlJc  not  of  Love!  it 
gives  me  Pain,”  were  here  inserted.] 

I have  not,  for  some  time,  heard  how  your 
recovery  proceeds.  Miss  Nimmo,  even,  has 
not  been  my  companion  of  late  ; and,  I 
should,  therefore,  like  to  hear  an  account  of 
progress  directly  from  yourself.  Does  it  not 
strike  you  as  very  quaint  and  droll,  that  we 
two,  who  have  only  met  once  in  person, 
should  be  carrying  on  so  persistent  an  inter 
course  by  means  of  pen  and  ink  ? If  yout 
could  possibly  venture  as  far  as  this,  in  some 
conveyance,  I should  be  happy  to  receive  you 
to-morrow  evening,  as  I ought  to  have  done 
nearly  a month  ago.  If  you  can  oome,  do 
not  omit  to  take  every  care  of  yourself. 

Clarinda* 


NO.  VII. 

[Reply  to  No.  86,  pp.  303,  304.] 

January  6 th,  1788. 

How  was  I not  delighted,  my  dear  friend, 
with  your  letters  of  last  night ! I do  not 
know  why  so  lively  an  interest  should  be 
excited  in  one’s  heart  or  recollection,  by  the 
description  of  an  early  love-scene,  if  it  be 
not,  that  all  of  us  have  felt  the  rapture  of 
such  meetings  once,  and  only  once,  in  our 
lives.  The  indelible  impression  which  such 
an  incident  makes  upon  the  mind,  is,  I appre- 
hend,  the  result  of  the  singularity  of  the 
feelings  which  accompany  it,  and  which 
never  recur.  I do  not  know  whether  q 
greater  degree  of  interest  is  not  created  in 
ine  by  the  fact^hat  you  instal  me  as  your 
confidant,  and  unreservedly  lay  bare  your 
foibles  and  follies  to  me.  This  complete 
confidence  adds  much  charm  to  your  letters. 
I cannot  resist  the  fuluess  of  feeling — of 
sympathy — which  it  arouses.  I can  recal 
similar  recollections  of  my  own.  Nor  do  I 
believe  that,  in  all  the  lofty  sentiment,  re* 
fined  delicacy,  and  keener  discernment  of 
maturer  years,  there  is  anything  which  caa 


TO  BUBNS. 


551 


equal  the  rapture  of  an  early — a first  and 
rural  love-interview. 

But  to  reason  on  other  matters : — Why 
are  you  so  bitter  an  adversary  of  Calvinism? 
Your  avowal  confirms  the  dread  which  had 
been  awakened  by  some  of  your  satirical 
poems.  Wherefore,  my  dear  Sylvander,  will 
you  impugn  these  doctrines  which  are  so  dear 
to  me  ? You  should  not  charge  a creed  with 
the  failings,  nay,  even  the  knaveries  of  its 
professed  ministers.  Where  will  you  find  a 
sect  which  numbers  no  hypocrites?  Calvin- 
ism is  amongst  my  strongest  and  dearest 
convictions,  and  stands  confirmed  in  my  con- 
science by  the  best  examples — that  of  an  an- 
gelic mother,  whom  I lost  when  quite  young, 
and  that  of  the  only  true  and  devoted  friend 
whom  1 have  since  possessed.  It  was  not  the 
creed  which  I was  taught  in  infancy,  and, 
therefore,  does  not  consist  in  the  attachment 
of  prejudice. 

My  father  was  attached  to  Arminianism ; 
and  I myself  continued  in  the  profession  in- 
culcated by  my  education,  until  the  friend  to 
whom  I allude,  forced  conviction  upon  me ; 
and  if  I may  record  a more  peaceful  and  con- 
fident state  of  mind  and  hope,  since  the 
period  of  this  conviction  (which  I certainly 
can  do),  may  I not  infer,  that  the  true 
mission  of  religion,  that  of  inspiring  forti- 
tude, long  suffering,  confidence,  hope,  resig- 
nation, and  complete  peace  of  mind,  has 
been  fulfilled  by  this  means?  You  little 
think,  Sylvander,  how  deeply,  how  seriously 
our  lives,  our  thoughts,  our  deeds — every- 
thing— is  affected  by  a thorough  religious 
conviction ! It  is  a sad  reflection  for  me, 
who  hold  your  well-being  so  dear,  to  think 
that  the  misdoing  of  men  should  have  so 
warped  that  brilliant  understanding  with 
which  God  has  gifted  you,  as  to  have  driven 
you  almost  from  the  capability  of  patiently 
entertaining  thoughts  of  this  kind.  Would 
to  heaven,  I could  prevail  with  you  in  this  ! 
Would,  that  you  should  seriously  try  the 
merits  of  such  objections  as  occur  to  you ! 
Yet,  may  I not  flatter  myself,  that  my  Syl- 
vander is  not  without  esteem  for  my  ordi- 
nary judgment.  No  event  would  exercise  so 
much  influence  for  my  gratification,  as  the 
knowledge,  the  assurance,  that  you  would 
entertain  the  question.  Do  not  be  wearied 
with  my  reflections ; do  not  allow  yourself 
to  give  way  to  the  first  impulse  of  ridicule. 
And  when  you  are  seriously  inclined,  and 
can  reason  with  me  calmly,  and  leisurely, 
turn  your  attention  to  this  letter. 

***** 

ITow  is  it  with  the  aspect  of  your  apart- 
tmits  ? Dt  your  windows  look  out  on  the 


square,  or  on  the  close?  If  on  the  square, 
I shall  have,  at  least,  the  small  gratification 
.of  exchanging  glances  of  recognition  with 
you  to-morrow  afternoon,  or  the  day  after, 

as  I shall  be  in  that  neighbourhood. 

Beware  of  wedlock,  unless  you  can  meet  with 
a mate  equally  ardent  in  love  with  yourself. 
You  say  you  fear  the  improbability  of  your 
meeting  with  such  a companion ; do  not, 
therefore,  be  precipitate,  lest  after  “ marriage 
in  haste,  you  repent  at  leisure.”  I have 
many  things  to  say,  which  I would  fain 
write ; but  it  is  an  endless  affair  to  write  the 
long  stories  which  might  be  uttered  in  a 
short  half-hour  of  sweet  companionship.  So, 
till  we  meet,  let  me  defer  some  of  these 
burthens  which  I would  gladly  have  lifted 
from  me.  Adieu.  Write  soon. 

Clabinda. 


NO.  Till. 

January ,*  17S8. 

I have  been  equally  disappointed  with 
yourself.  I had,  as  you  know,  promised 
myself  “a  glance  of  recognition,”  which 
should  be  mutual  from  the  window  of  your 
prison.  The  weather  has  been  very  unfa- 
vourable ; and  I have  been  obliged  to  remain 
in-doors  ; in  addition  to  which,  my  youngest 
child  is  very  ailing.  So  much  so,  that  for  the 
last  fchree  or  four  nights,  I have  had  little 
time  for  rest.  The  “ bottle  ” has  evidently 
not  impaired  your  intellect,  or  your  feelings, 
but  I should  think  your  companions  had  not 
been  exactly  to  your  taste ; and  I take  it  as 
a most  unpremeditated  compliment,  that 
you  should  turn  from  those  ill  assorted 
beings,  to  our  mutual  intercourse,  to  pour 
out  the  fulness  of  your  heart.  How  often 
do  I not  feel,  that  there  are  few  of  fellow- 
feeling  with  my  own  intense  sensibility,  and 
that  the  majority,  consequently,  misinterpret 
the  warmth  and  unrestrained  overflowings  of 
my  heart ! My  poor  child  is  fretful  again,  and 
is  evidently  suffering,  and  I really  do  believe, 
I cannot  be  anything  else  but  a good  and 
tender  mother.  What  should  you  think  of 
a mean-spirited  woman  who  should  be  sur-. 
prised  at  my  attachment  to  children,  whom 
I owe  to  an  unnatural  husband  ? Such  was, 
however,  the  actual  exclamation  of  an  ac- 
quaintance yesterday.  I could  not  restrain 
the  bitterness  of  my  reply  to  a suggestion, 
which  was  unfeeling  as  regards  me,  as  it  was 


48 


Probably  about  the  9 th,  10th,  or  11th, 


662 


LETTERS  OF  CLARINDA 


unnatural  towards  the  poor  helpless  innocent 
children.  Do  I not  feel  that  I owe  them  a 
double  share  of  parental  love  ? 

Besides  this,  their  father’s  misdoing  is 
their  misfortune ; and  this  misfortune  alone, 
apart  from  the  tender  ties  to  which  it  relates, 
would  constitute  a bond  of  attachment. 
With  what  a keen  relish  and  sense  of  grati- 
fication do  I not  read  Fielding’s  Amelia. 
You  have,  doubtless,  read  it,  and  have,  like 
me,  admired,  nay,  felt  the  domestic  tender- 
ness, which  could  only  have  been  portrayed 
by  one  who  deeply  felt  it.  Can  you  not  ad- 
mire a Booth  in  his  ardent,  but  thoughtless 
attachment,  before  a cold,  calculating  hus- 
band, whose  artificial  virtues  are  as  repulsive 
as  the  reckless  vices  of  the  other.  It  is  so 
like  you!  I could  love  and  forgive  him,  but 
should  shrink  with  abhorrence  from  the 
other. 

Of  your  religious  reflections,  anon.  I am 
not  in  a controversial  mood  at  this  moment, 
and  do  not  like  to  give  away  a vantage  in  a 
matter  of  such  consequence.  I have  been 
rambling  away  on  any  subject  which  came 
uppermost,  for  lack  of  intelligence  to  convey. 
Who  in  the  world  is  she  of  whom  you  rave 
with  such  frenzied  passion,  and  of  whom  you 
would  not  have  me  “ guess?”  Can  it  be 
your  Jean?  If  so,  the  indelible  nature  of 
an  attachment  which  has  so  constantly 
outlived  the  first  gratification  of  mere  desire, 
is  an  undeniable  evidence  of  real,  pure  devo- 
tion. It  does  you  honour,  as  it  will  con- 
tribute, one  day  or  other,  to  your  happiness. 
I receive  your  “ good  wishes,”  and  you  well 
know,  that  mine  as  constantly  attend  you. 
And  if  there  be  a guardianship  whereby  one 
spirit  is  suffered  to  exercise  its  never-failing 
agency  in  defence  of  au  other,  Sylvander,  my 
aoul  is  watching  over  you  this  night. 

Clarinda. 


no.  IX, 

January*  1788. 

The  morning  opens  auspiciously.  This  is 
the  first  bright  day  which  we  have  seen  this 
week;  and  it  is  the  first  morning  also,  on 
which  my  poor  child  awakes  refreshed  by 
calm  and  uninterrupted  sleep  of  some  hours* 
duration.  I think,  at  last,  I may  promise 
myself  the  fulfilment  of  the  expe  tation 

1 * This  letter  was  evidently  written  on  the 
day  following  after  that  in  which  the  orego- 
Ing  (No.  8)  was  penned.  Both  of  these  letters 
were  probably  sent  by  the  same  carrier. 


which  both  of  us  have  entertained  for  several 
days,  of  a silent  interview  between  your 
window  and  the  square.  This  is  the  third 
time  I announce  thfl  intended  visit.  Bruce 
did  not  despair  at  the  seventh.  We  seem  to 
be  peculiarly  unlucky  in  our  appointments. 
The  first,  second,  and  third,  in  which  I pro- 
mised myself  the  pleasure  of  your  company, 
were  equally  frustrated  by  trivial,  or  grave 
circumstances.  Perhaps,  however,  this  was 
a dispensation  which  should  lead  to  a more 
unreserved  communion  of  our  most  secret 
thoughts  and  feelings,  than  would  have 
resulted  from  the  formalities  of  society.  I 
fancy  we  have  become  more  thoroughly  and 
mutually  acquainted,  than  we  otherwise 
should  have  done ; and,  I trust,  we  have  both 
of  us  profited  in  consequence.  Be  of  good 
cheer,  Sylvander  ! Clarinda  will  not  ever 
continue  to  be  one  of  those  will-o’-the- 
wisps — those  visionary  beings  which  are 
doomed  to  elude  the  realization ; and,  if  the 
strange  destiny  which  presides  over  our 
meeting,  be  at  last  propitious,  this  afternoon, 
at  two,  I will  be  revealed,  as  I am — your 
own 

Clarinda 


no.  x. 

How  was  it  I could  not  discover  you,  even 
in  the  loftiest  regions  of  the  square  ? Twice 
did  I return,  to  make  the  search  in  vain,  upon 
some  pretext  which  satisfied  me  sufficiently 
to  warrant  the  inquiring  gaze.  It  was  not 
that  I did  not  survey  the  topmost  stories. 
Can  you  not  give  me  a more  definite  idea  of 
the  whereabouts  to  search  ? Something 
seemed  to  say  to  me,  that  you  did  not 
descry  me  either.  I am  grateful  for  your 
kind  and  tender  inquiries  respecting  my  boy. 
No  very  decided  change  has  taken  place,  nor 
can  we  expect  it  yet.  It  will  be  a long  affair, 
even  if  he  recover.  And  patience  is  a 
virtue,  which,  in  this  case,  must  necessarily 
be  practised. 

Of  the  conversion  of  which  you  speax, 
Sylvander,  I should  like  to  hear  more.  How 
has  it  been  effected  ? And  how  have  I partici- 
pated in  its  agency  ? If  it  be  a real  conver- 
sion, or  a conversion  from  some  of  those  haram 
scarum  vagaries  which  render  the  unbridled 
son  of  fancy  the  sport  of  his  own  whim ; — the 
latter  even  were  something ; but  if  it  be 
conversion  on  subjects  of  yet  higher  conse- 
quence, how  shall  I glory  to  have  effected  it  I 

But  why  the  wild  frenzy  of  passion  with 
which  you'assail  me?  It  boats  little  to  love* 


TO  BURNS, 


£53 


hnprecatJDis  at  ties,  ar.d  laws,  and  fashions. 
For  what  if  they  were  not?  Think  you 
’twould  be  conducive  to  the  substantial  hap- 
piness of  Clarinda?  I am  at  a loss  to 
understand  you.  But,  perhaps,  also,  ’twere 
better  that  you  should  preserve  the  veil  of 
mystery  which  it  may  not  be  fit  to  raise  from 
your  rhapsody.  Are  you  not  satisfied  with 
the  unity,  the  integrity  of  a friendship,  than 
which,  nothing  can  be  more  earnest,  pure, 
devoted,  and  immutable  ? 

Dissolve  the  ties  of  which  you  complain, 
and  what  do  either  of  us  gain  ? Some  ro- 
mantic dream  of  Utopia;  but  little  or  no 
reality.  What  have  either  of  us  to  depend 
upon  ? 

Why  do  you  not  number  Miss  Nimmo  in 
the  same  category  as  Miss  Chalmers  ? How 
flattered  ought  I not  to  be,  to  be  thus  asso- 
ciated and  to  be  compared  with  that  incom- 
parably admirable  woman  ! I do  not  think, 
however,  you  have  a more  firm  and  true 
well-wisher  on  earth  than  Miss  Nimmo,  who 
seems  to  tremble  for  every  mis-step  which 
your  impetuous  temperament  urges  you  to 
take.  I wonder  now  if  I could  possibly 
refrain  from  writing  to  you,  and  from  laying 
bare  my  actual  sentiments;  for  I write  some 
records  of  feelings,  prompted  by  the  thought 
of  you,  which  never  leave  my  hands.  And, 
even  now,  I would  send  you  some  lines  which 
were  suggested  by  observing  you  mixed  up 
with  society  which  was  not  likely  to  con- 
tribute any  good  impressions,  had  1 but  your 
promise  not  to  be  annoyed  for  my  freedom. 

I sadly  fear  our  correspondence  will  dwin- 
dle away  after  you  leave  town,  and  when 
new  objects  have  distracted  your  attention ; 
and  therefore,  in  somewhat  jealous  enjoy- 
ment of  my  present  gratification,  I write  on 
more  profusely.  Nevertheless,  and  although 
I feel  that  your  marriage  would  be  fatal  to 
our  intercourse,  I really  should  be  happy  to 
see  you  well  matched ; for  I am  well  assured 
that  you  can  never  rest  satisfied  or  happy, 
without  some  permanent  object  of  attach- 
ment. I propose  to  abandon  myself  in  my 
next  epistle  to  one  of  my  rambling  preachings, 
and  to  discuss  religion  with  you  again,  having 
much  to  observe  in  relation  to  the  sentiments 
expressed  in  your  recent  letter ; but  I shall 
try  to  keep  myself  from  worrying  you  for 
some  days  to  come.  I am  off  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  with  my  poor  boy,  to  Leith,  and 
should  then  have  been  overjoyed  of  your 
company,  had  you  been  capable  of  joining  us. 
You  are  a great  glutton  in  reading ; does  it 
happen  that  Sancho’s  Letters  have  fallen  in 
your  way  ? If  not,  by  all  means  obtain  a 
copy.  Wbat  a beautiful  piece  is  the  epitaph 


which  you  enclose  me ; but  it  suggests  a 
melancholy  train  of  thoughts,  and  the  fore- 
dwelling on  the  loss  of  those  to  whom  we 
are  best  attached,  only  serves  to  shed  a 
gloom  over  our  existence,  without  being  pro- 
ductive of  an  equivalent  of  good  results  upon 
our  character.  Oh  that  I had  only  half  you! 
power  of  expression,  and  a little  of  that 
brilliancy  and  vividness  which  you  possess ! 
What  could  I not  express  1 Claeinda. 


KO.  XI. 

January  12  th,  1783. 

Ah  ! Sylvan der,  at  last  have  you  seen  ma 
divested  of  those  imaginary  perfections 
wrought  up  in  your  own  fancy,  and  in  my 
own  fulness  of  failing.  Doubtless,  have  yovi 
"weighed,  and  found  me  wanting.”  And  It 
would  fain  confess  that,  notwithstanding  the 
very  pressing  desire  which  I had  to  enjoy 
your  society,  I had,  at  the  same  time,  a dread 
lest  it  should  destroy  the  spell  which  attached 
you  to  me.  As  for  myself,  I do  not  ever 
remember  to  have  enjoyed  such  transcen- 
dental gratification.  Nor  do  I believe, 
Sylvander,  that  such  enjoyment  is  reserved 
for  many  amongst  human  kind,  nor  for  the 
few  who  are  capable  of  it,  very  frequently. 
Why  is  it,  then,  that  I have  not  slept  ? 1 

inquire  of  my  conscience,  whether  I have 
done  wrong,  and  that  conscience  acquits  me 
No  limit  of  propriety  or  virtue  have  I trans 
gressed.  Still  have  1 some  indomitable 
dread,  lest  in  the  eye  of  the  Deity,  the  fine 
distinctions  of  my  reasoning  be  susceptible 
of  revealing  something  which  might  lead  to 
displeasure.  The  idea  that  a friend,  to  whom 
I am  much  indebted,  should  not  be  prepared 
to  concur  in  the  propriety  of  my  conduct, 
and  the  dread  that  you  yourself,  Sylvander, 
may  have  grown  to  think  less  well  of  me— 
all  these  things  continue  to  agitate  my 
thoughts. 

Enough  of  myself.  Can  you  tell  on  the 
ground  of  what  predestined  privilege  those 
of  birth  and  rank,  that  is  of  genealogical 
distinction,  who  possess  no  other  merit, 
assume  so  much?  I cannot  admit  any 
reverence  for  rank  or  lineage  in  itself.  I can 
even  admire  personal  beauty,  to  the  extent 
of  giving  it  some  degree  of  precedence ; I 
can  yield  admiration  and  superiority  to 
genius  or  to  virtue ; but  to  mere  high  birt’i 
— no  ! And  * how  is  it  that,  among3t  my 

acquaintance,  I only,  with  the  exception  <2 


LETTERS  OF  CLARINDA 


654 

Mary/  entertain  this  seemingly  heterodox 
notion.  I must  relate  you  an  anecdote,  to 
which  all  this  is  a-propos.  On  Sunday  last, 
between  church  hours,  I spent  my  time  with 
an  acquaintance,  upon  whom,  also,  a sister 
of  my  Lord  Napier  happened  to  call  at  the 
same  time.  I knew  the  lady  well  by  sight, 
but  was  so  disgusted  with  her  obtrusive 
manner,  her  impertinent  interruptions,  and 
her  coarseness,  and,  at  the  same  time,  with 
the  despicable  adulation  which  the  lady  of 
the  house  offered  her,  that  I was  even  more 
reserved  towards  her  than  I otherwise  should 
have  been..  At  all  events,  I should  not  have 
been  inclined  to  bestow  any  particular  mark 
of  attention  upon  her;  and,  as  it  was,  she 
repelled  even  the  ordinary  courtesy  with 
which,  with  others , I should  naturally  have 
treated  her. 

By  the  way,  I was  just  now  mentioning 
Mary ; I think  of  spending  a day  with  her 
soon,  if  I feel  a little  more  fit  for  society ; 
I daily  grow  to  like  her  better,  and  the 
undisguised  admiration  which  she  expresses 
when  your  name  is  mentioned,  is  an  addi- 
tional link  of  attachment  between  us. 
Wherefore  do  you  vainly  trust  to  pillar  your 
religion  in  a good  life?  What  you  call 
“ religion  of  the  bosom,”  is,  in  my  estimation, 
also  the  only  religion.  But  pardon  me, 
Sylvander,  if  I intimate  that  yours,  according 
to  your  own  showing,  is  more  a religion  of 
the  head  than  a “ religion  of  the  bosom.” 
What  avails  your  imagined  good  life,  unless 
you  place  your  full  reliance  for  its  acceptation 
upon  the  redemption,  effected  at  a terrible 
sacrifice,  by  the  Son  of  God.  The  best  of 
men  commits  innumerable  sins ; the  best  of 
lives,  in  the  eyes  of  a Being  all  pure,  all 
innocent,  must  be  polluted  by  countless 
stains;  and  do  you  vainly  hope  that  you, 
with  an  excess  of  passion  and  sensibility, 
will  be  capable  of  effecting  what  the  sternest 
philosophers  have  failed  to  do  ? I want  to 
impress  upon  you  the  religion  of  the  Gospel, 
which  is  the  only  real  "‘religion  of  the 
bosom.”  On  all  points  of  general  morality 
we  are,  doubtless,  agreed.  But  how  can  we 
be  otherwise  ? these  will  not  bear  two  inter- 
pretations. But  look  to  it,  search  through 
the  philosophy  of  the  ancients,  with  ail  its 
classical  beauty,  with  all  its  refinement,  with 
all  its  subtlety,  and  with  as  perfect  a moral 
code  as  any  other  extant,  and  tell  me,  if  it  be 
not  barren  and  unsatisfactory  at  best  ? Do 
you  really,  Sylvander,  discern  the  celestial 
consolation  in  the  lives  and  deaths  of  Socrates 

* Miss  Peacock,  who  subsequently  married 
Mr  James  Gray,  of  the  High  School,  Edin- 
burgh. 


or  Cato?  No,  no!  some  important  bond 
was  wanting,  and  that  was  only  supplied  in 
the  revelation  of  Christianity.  But  I must 
leave  the  subject  now!  I will  take  it  up 
again  from  time  to  time.  But  now  I am 
weary,  and  have  wearied  you.  Farewell. 

Clarinda. 


NO.  XII. 

[Reply  to  Letter  No.  87,  pp.  304,  305.J 
January  17  th,  1788. 

I am  not  a little  surprised  at  your  warm 
defence  of  Miss  Napier;  and  I understand 
she  has  merits  such  as  you  describe.  Most 
persons  are  pleased  with  her,  and,  perhaps, 
she  was  to  be  excused  for  not  attributing  as 
much  importance  to  Clarinda,  as  her  own 
friends  would  have  done.  Yet  there  is  a 
general  evidence  of  good  breeding  which  she 
certainly  failed  to  exhibit  on  this  occasion. 
Her  face  is  not  ill-looking,  but  her  figure 
and  carriage  are  awkward. 

As  to  your  Epigram  on  Elphinstone,  it  is 
exquisite  and  well  merited  ; — a more  arrant 
pedant  one  seldom  meets  with.  Can  I have 
the  pleasure  of  your  company  this  evening, 
or,  if  you  like  it  better,  to-morrow  evening, 
either  at  tea  or  about  eight  o’clock.  I should 
much  like  to  see  you ; but  I should  prefer 
your  coming  on  foot,  even  if  you  should  be 
obliged  to  order  a chair  to  take  you  back, 
for  you  well  know  what  a quiet,  humble  set 
of  people  we  are  about  here,  and  how  great 
a disturbance  is  likely  to  be  created,  by  the 
appearance  of  equipages  in  a quarter  such 
as  ours. 

You  have  a magical  influence  over  me; 
you  seem  to  possess  every  secret  clue  to  my 
most  secret  inclinations,  thoughts,  or 
impulses ; and  if  it  be  possible  for  letters  to 
utter  all  one’s  most  tender  and  unspeakable 
sentiments,  they  are  yours.  But  whence, 
then,  can  be  the  charm  which  you  attach  to 
mine?  Do  you  really,  truly  take  pleasure 
in  these  wretched  scrawls,  or  is  it  merely 
a self-deception,  of  some  peculiar  partiality, 
which  you  do  not  attempt  to  control,  which 
deceives  you  into  a belief  of  gratification  ? 
Wherefore  do  you  doubt  the  “lasting  im- 
pression ” which  you  have  made  ? You  who 
possess  the  unreserved  access  to  my  innermost 
thoughts. 

Do  not  forget  to  write  me  word  when  you 
will  come  and  spend  the  evening  with  me; 
and  on  that  occasion,  whenever  if  be,  b* 


TO  BURNS. 


555 


careful  how  you  tamper  with  the  lock  of 
tecrets  which  you  have  ah  your  command,  in 
your  Clarinda. 


NO.  XIII. 

{Reply  to  Letters  Nos.  89  and  90.  pp,  305,* 
306.] 

Thursday,  January,  1783. 

I CANNOT  help  shuddering,  when  I find 
myself,  for  au  instant,  suffering  the  least  in- 
fraction of  the  strictest  rules  of  propriety. 
I shrink  from  myself  at  the  thought  of  pos- 
sible transgressions. 

For  these  reasons,  I am  depressed  and 
uneasy  to-day ; everything  about  me  appears 
gloomy,  and  sad,  and  reproachful.  I feel  a 
sort  of  dark  and  ill-defined  remorse  for  what 
transpired  last  night,  and  I would  conjure 
you  not  to  suffer  me  in  future — not  to  expose 
me  to  the  temptation  of  doing  ought  that 
may  not  preserve  the  dignity  and  delicacy  of 
our  intercourse.  Otherwise,  we  shall  destroy 
the  most  irrefragable  bond  of  union,  which 
should  have  perpetuated  our  intercourse.  Yet 
we  shall  have  to  part  one  of  these  days,  and, 
painful  as  that  parting  would  be  of  itself, 
how  much  more  so,  would  it  not  be  made, 
did  any  intervening  follies  tend  to  depreciate 
the  mutual  esteem,  and  thus  to  damp  the 
more  distant  colloquy  which  we  should  other- 
wise maintain.  How  I dread,  Sylvander,  to 
be  lowered  in  your  estimation!  And  how 
my  heart  recoils  from  any  act  or  thought 
which  I dare  not  entertain  in  the  abstraction 
of  my  daily  devotion ! 

I have  told  you  how  wretched  love  has 
made  me,  and  is  doomed  to  make  me.  Let 
me  then  abstain  from  indulging  in  the 
fatal  passion  to  which  the  ardent  tempera- 
ment which  I possess,  so  peculiarly  exposes 
me. 

I can  picture  to  myself  the  delight  of 
reading  your  letters,  when  the  bitter  parting 
is  once  well  over,  and  distance  between  us 
has  mellowed  down  the  excessive  ardour  of 
passion,  which  now  impels  me  at  times  to  do, 
or  own  that  which  may  degrade  me  in  your 
estimation. 

Oh,  why  do  I not  hear  from  you  to-day  ? 
Why  do  I receive  no  more  of  those  sponta- 
neous outpourings  of  a soul  which,  in  its 

* Probably  Thursday,  January  24th.  This 
date  has  actually  been  assigned  to  a letter 
written  by  Clarinda  to  Burns,  of  which  the 
purport  is  very  analogous. 


elevation,  seems  to  waft  us  nearer  to  the 
sublime  expanse  of  eternity  and  immortality? 
I dare  not  trust  myself  to  see  you  on  Satur- 
day,  unless  the  flutter  of  my  feelings  ha 
lowered  to  the  compass  of  my  own  control ; 
arid  then,  I believe,  an  interview,  maintained 
with  proper  reserve,  that  is,  in  preserving 
the  strictest  rules  of  conduct  which  I have 
from  the  first  prescribed  for  us,  would  muck 
conduce  to  restore  my  disturbed  peace  d 
mind.  Farewell.  Clarinda. 


no.  XIV. 

Tuesday  Evening,  January  29th,  1788. 

My  very  Dear  Sylvander — If  my  ap. 
preciation  of  your  sincerity  of  interest  in  the 
real  welfare  of  your  Clarinda  had  needed  any 
confirmation  from  you,  your  noble  conduct, 
in  our  interview  of  Saturday  night,  would 
have  satisfied  the  most  tender  scruples.  And 
if  we  did  allow  ourselves  to  infringe  some  of 
those  stem  barriers  which  retain  the  corres- 
pondence between  ardent  persons  of  different 
sexes  within  the  sphere  of  arctic  frigidity, 
I do  not  feel  myself  conscious  of  wrong- 
doing, and  the  retrospect  calls  no  blush  to 
my  cheek,  nor  disquiet  to  my  heart.  But  we 
must  assert  a redoubled  caution  and  obser- 
vation on  our  very  thoughts,  lest  we  admit 
the  least  ascendancy  of  temptation  over  the 
purest  dictates  of  virtue.  Oh,  if  there  be 
spirits — which  we  would  fain  believe  in  for 
our  consolation — whose  kindly  office  is  to 
preserve  us  from  the  first  insidious  advent  of 
evil,  may  they  guard,  watch,  and  protest 
each  of  us ! 

Sylvander,  I have  no  power  to  reserve  my 
feelings  towards  those  whose  sympathies  are- 
so  wound  up  with  mine.  Must  I then  con- 
fess the  love  which  I have  so  long  struggled 
to  suppress  ? Yes ! and  should  not  this 
awaken  me  more  keenly  to  a sense  of 
danger?  Yet  can  you  tell  me,  Sylvander, 
why  this  confession  should  in  my  heart  bo 
associated  with  an  idea  of  wrong  ? 

Is  it  not  that  I feel  myself  irrevocably 
bound  to  another,  who  has  forfeited  all  claim 
to  the  love  which  is  thus  left  desolate  ? 

I will  not  complain  of  my  doom.  No! 
nor  will  I pain  my  Sylvander,  by  dwelling 
upon  a condition  which  neither  he  nor  I can 
dissolve. 

But  I have  unbosomed  myself  to  my  best 
of  advisers  and  pastors,  Mr.  Kemp  * to 

* The  Minister  of  Toltook  Church,  Edin- 


burgh. 

48* 


m 


LETTERS  OF  CLARINDA 


whom  I am  in  the  habit  of  communicating 
my  perplexities,  and  I feel  as  if  a load  had 
been  lifted  from  my  oppressed  and  bursting 
heart. 

Ah ! Sylvander,  if  you  and  Mr.  Kemp 
were  known  to  each  other,  would  not  a 
reciprocal  esteem  spring  up  between  you. 
You  could  not  help  admiring  his  sterling 
piety,  his  judgment,  and  his  benevolence,  as 
well  as  his  talents  ; whilst  he  would  be 
enchanted  with  that  fresh  and  glowing 
imagination,  that  exquisite  sensibility,  and 
that  intuitive  benevolence  of  character, 
which  distinguish  you  above  all  the  weak- 
nesses which  sometimes  betray  themselves 
in  your  conduct. 

I do  not  know  why  it  is  so,  but  I cannot 
help  feeling  some  secret  satisfaction  that 
your  Excise  project  has  not  succeeded.  I do 
not  mean  to  intimate  that  I would  rather 
see  you  pursuing  your  present  indefinite 
career,  than  firmly  settled  in  some  desirable, 
profitable,  and  competent  occupation.  But, 
Sylvander,  if  you  have  a weakness  above 
any  other,  which  is  likely  to  lead  you  to 
mischief,  if  not  to  ruin,  it  is  a love  of  con- 
viviality, which,  in  the  capital,  might  seduce 
you  from  the  direct  career  of  honour  and 
respectability,  and  I shudder  at  the  thought 
of  your  being  despised  by  the  worldlings  of 
a town,  in  which  wits  and  scholars,  noblemen, 
and  burgesses,  have  all  bowed  down  and 
worshipped  you.  I should  burst  with 
anguish  at  the  triumph  of  malicious  envy 
over  your  fall.  If  I have  two  things  at 
heart  more  earnestly  than  any  others  in  this 
world,  they  are  to  impress  you  with  my  own 
ideas  and  fervour  in  religion,  and  to  see  you 
provided  with  some  calling  which  should 
occupy  your  time  and  talents  in  such  a 
manner,  as  to  maintain  you  honourably  in  the 
highest  social  'position  which  the  supremacy  of 
your  genius  has  atchieved. 

I fear  that,  in  being  revealed  to  those  to 
whom  you  have  vaunted  the  “ divinity  ” of 
Clarinda,”  she  falls  sadly  from  the  misty 
elevation  of  her  glory.  You  forget,  my  dear 
Sylvander,  that  all  do  not  see  with  your 
eyes,  hear  with  your  ears,  or  feel  with  your 
sensibilities ; and,  therefore,  amongst  others  I 
dread  the  judgment  of  Mr.  Ainslie  on  my 
account.  I really  fancy  he  must  have  smiled 
in  pity  for  what  he  may  have  looked  upon  as 
your  hallucination. 

I dread  the  visit  of  Mr.  — — to  morrow. 
He  is  evidently  uneasy  for  me,  and  ventures 
only  upon  those  oblique  inuendoes  which  are 
intended  to  elicit  an  explanation  from  me. 

I cannot  conceal  from  you,  nevertheless,  that 
your  society  is  all  in  all  to  me;  but  had  we  i 


not  better — or  rather  had  I not  better — exer* 
cise  a little  self-denial?  Do  you  thxnk  it 
prudent,  now  the  jealous  vigilance  of  somt 
of  these  Argus-eyed,  and  suspicious  people 
of  the  world  is  awakened,  to  attract  more 
marked  attention  ? Will  you,  under  these 
circumstances  come  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
or  had  we  not  better  meet  more  rarely? 
No ! I have  not  resolution  to  force  the 
separation.  Come  unless  I warn  you  be- 
tween this  and  then,  and  may  the  spirits 
I have  invoked  preserve  the  innocence  of 
your  Clarinda. 


NO.  XT. 

February,  1788. 

Oh  ! were  T free — free  to  dispose  of  those 
fond  ties  which  bind  us  in  mysterious  sym- 
pathies, how  should  I not  reply  to  your 
charming  letter!  I only  dread  myself  when 
I think  how  nearly  I may  be  prompted  by 
feelings,  which,  I believe,  in  themselves  to  be 
innocent,  to  do,  or  even  to  think,  that,  which 
the  calmer^  reflections  would  pronounce  as 
verging  on  guilt. 

What  boots  it  that  we  have  congenial 
communion?  for  all  which  should  consecrate 
that  communion  is  due  to  another  from  me, 
although  his  claim  be  founded  rather  upon 
conventionality  than  upon  merit.  If  I bring 
myself  to  reflect  more  impartially  on  my  re- 
lations, I cannot  conceal  from  myself  the 
serious  consideration  that,  however  he  may 
have  forfeited,  by  wrong,  all  those  tender 
ties  by  which  we  are  bound,  although  hit 
acts  shall  not  have  been  in  keeping  with  his 
most  sacred  promises,  such  dereliction  on 
his  part  can  never  dissolve  the  bond  by  which 
we  are  united,  or  exonerate  me,  should  I be 
tempted  to  return  a wrong  for  wrong.  No, 
no ! The  most  elevated  sentiments  of  regard, 
sympathy,  appreciation,  nay,  even  attach- 
ment, as  far  as  they  fail  to  infringe  the 
promises  by  which  I am  bound,  are  mine  to 
bestow,  and  you  have  possessed  them,  and  do 
possess  them ; but  so  much  as  verges  into 
more  tender  and  less  qualifiable  affection  is 
an  unclaimed  overflow  of  feeling — it  is  true 
— but  unclaimed  as  it  is,  it  belongs  to  the 
Giver  of  life,  and  to  him  it  must  be  devoted 
as  a free-will  offering.  I give  you  my  best 
and  indelible  friendship;  but,  Sylvander,  you 
must  not  dare  to  ask  for  more,  lest  by 
tempting  me  to  entertain  a thought  which 
conscience,  cannot  calmly  confirm,  you  sacri» 
fice  the  substantial  happiness  of  life  t$ 


TO  BURNS. 


657 


the  frantic  dream  of  bliss  which  shall  illu- 
mine an  instant  alone. 

Why  are  you  not  satisfied  ? Why  should 
not  the  elicitation  of  such  a declaration  from 
me,  be  sufficient  to  gratify  your  most  ardent 
wishes  ? 

I know,  and  feel  too  well,  too  keenly,  that 
the  union  which  has  fettered  me,  is  one 
which  was  as  unworthy  of  my  heart,  as  it 
was  incapable  of  satisfying  the  redundancy 
of  eager  sensibilities  of  which  I am  made  up ; 
that  your  heart  was  capable  of  having  ful- 
filled the  most  ample  conceptions  of  mortal 
happiness  for  me ; that  no  two  souls  were 
ever  so  matched  for  the  most  complete 
identity  of  thoughts,  feelings,  hopes,  fears, 
and  affections;  and  that  as  we  are  hopelessly 
separated  by  a barrier  which  neither  of  us 
should  dare  to  transgress,  I,  at  least,  can 
never  be  happy  in  this  world,  although  by 
subduing  the  swelling  passions  which  some- 
times threaten  to  rise  in  rebellion  against 
my  better  feelings,  I may  retain  a partial 
peace  of  mind,  which  otherwise  I should  for 
ever  forfeit. 

How  strangely  have  our  sensibilities  been 
coincident ! I have  been  pondering  over 
your  own  account  of  yourself,  that  is,  of 
your  early  years,  as  you  ingenuously  revealed 
it  to  Dr.  Moore.  Amongst  all  your  early 
predilections,  whether  in  art,  literature,  or 
thfc  admiration  of  nature,  there  is  barely 
one  which  was  not  also  mine ! I have  loved 
the  same  poems;  I have  culled  the  same 
flowers;  and  seen  the  same  incomparable 
symmetry  in  the  landscape  or  the  firmament. 

Yet  withal,  you  see,  Sylvander,  there  is  an 
over-ruling  doom,  an  everlasting  predestina- 
tion, which  has  forbidden  more  than  the 
recognition  of  these  sympathies  of  soul — and 
we  must  be  separated. 

You  will  leave  the  capital,  and  retire  into 
the  homely  retreat  of  a peasant  once  more, 
whence  I can  only  hear  of  you  by  letter, 
whither  my  heart  will  follow  you,  but  where, 
probably,  new  ties  will  encircle  themselves 
about  you,  and  engross  the  little  share  which 
I possessed  in  your  recollection.  Possibly  I 
shall  not  hear  from  you ; and  the  next  time 
we  meet — the  next  time! — it  will  be  for  eternal 
jommunion,  where  none  can  part  us,  and  no 
sinister  power  will  be  present  to  impede  the 
interchange  of  sympathies  which  must  draw 
u*  together. 

How  I dread  the  day  of  parting  which  is 
drawing  near ! I feel  as  if  it  would  be  the 
Vist  on  earth — as  if  we  should  not  meet  again 
in  this  world ; and  I shudder  at  it.  Could 
you  not  creep  stealthily  away,  and  spare  me 
that  moment  of  anguish ? Yet  no!  I could 


I not  bear  to  think  that  you  had  shunned  me. 
You  will  not  forget  me.  There  will  surely 
be  something  in  the  daily  aspect  of  every- 
thing about  you,  which  will  remind  you  ol 
Clarinda ! 

Oh  God!  is  to-morrow — to-morrow  that 
last  day  on  which  we  shall  meet. — You  will 
come— r-you  will  not  desert  me  without  one 
last  meeting.  Early  in  the  day  I will  do  as 
you  wish,  and  will  give  Miers*  a sitting. 
Remember  this  shall  be  the  bond  of  eternal 
friendship  between  us — yes  friendship  : — do 
not  think,  breathe,  or  utter,  a more  tender 
attachment.  I do  not  feel  that  I should  be 
attended  in  sitting  for  the  portrait.  I should 
have  been  glad  of  Mary’s  company,  because 
she  understands  me  thoroughly ; but  she  is 
in  the  country;  and  the  only  other  person 
whom  I could  ask  to  accompany  me  is  Miss 
Nimmo;  and  in  this  matter  there  is  a je  ne 
sgais  quoi  which  forbids  me. 

How  could  you  rend  me  with  that  parting 
song ! It  is  too  much.  ' Even  you  could 
scarcely  have  equalled  the  touching  appeal 
more  than  once.  I burst  into  tears.  Can 
you  doubt  that  I will  be  your  friend  to 
eternity  ? Ah ! that  “ I may  reca Would 
it  were  not  so  ! And  yet  why  ? Should  I 
not  have  lived  without  having  felt  tha 
divinest  sympathies  of  humanity,  and  would 
not  the  deepest  spring  of  feeling  have  been 
unsounded. 

Oh ! Sylvander,  how  deeply  do  I regret 
that  I had  not  known  you,  before  you  pro- 
claimed yourself  the  adversary  of  our  creed 
in  the  biting  satires  with  which  you  have 
assailed  it.  If  the  lines  on  Religion  which 
you  nvv  send  me  in  that  dear  letter  had 
been  or  earlier  production,  I should  have 
been  yet  doubly  happy  in  you.  Would  I not 
have  implored  eternal  silence  and  forgetful- 
ness for  the  “ Twa  Herds,”  and  the  “ Holy 
Fair.”  I had  rather  admire  you  for  goodness 
than  for  wit ; and  your  genius  might  accom? 
plish  as  much  for  true  religion  as  a thousand 
preachers,  even  as  it  may  deal  a fatal  blow  if 
levelled  against  it. 

I wish  you  would  come  and  hear  Mr. 
Kemp’s  preaching,  on  Sunday  next;  and  I 
am  convinced  that  with  all  the  rhetorical 
skill  and  flowery  diction  of  Mr.  Gould,  whom 
you  so  warmly  admire,  and  whom  I have 
heard,  you  could  not  fail  to  admit  that  Mr. 
Kemp’s  elocution,  though  more  simple,  is 
more  impressive ; that  it  carries  with  it  a 
stronger  impression  of  earnest  conviction; 
and  that  whereas  Mr.  Gould  addresses  him- 

* Mr.  Miers  was  the  miniature  painter  at 
Edinburgh,  by  whom  Burns  wished  tc  hav<* 
Mrs.  McLehose’s  portrait  executed. 


$58 


LETTERS  OF  CLARIKDA 


self  to  the  mind,  Mr.  Kemp  speaks  to  the 
heart,  and  in  a language  toe  which  the 
heart  can  readily  interpret. 

You  know  how  earnestly  I have  striven 
for  your  conversion  to  more  serious  thoughts 
on  religion ; you  know  how  I have  endea- 
voured to  wean  you  from  the  indefinite 
reliance  on  a vague  and  unsatisfactory 
philosophy,  which  coldly  sneers  at  the  more 
earnest  zeal  of  religious  fervour.  I have 
done  something  ; but  how  feeble  a preacher 
am  I ! And  T feel  that  you  could  not  hear 
Mr.  Kemp,  without  gaining  in  peace  what 
you  would  inevitably  obtain  in  conviction. 
Let  me  entreat  you  to  hear  him. 

Sylvander,  I do  not  know  why  it  is  I can 
unburden  myself  to  you  with  a degree  of 
freedom  which  my  heart  shrinks  from  ex- 
tending to  any  other  living.  Let  me  ask 
your  advice.  You  well  know  who  it  is 
alone  who  really  possesses  any  community 
of  thought  and  sympathy  with  me.  You 
must  have  discovered  that  no  degree  of  kind- 
ness without  this  thorough  interchange  of 
mysterious  sympathy  would  win  me  beyond 
a grateful  — very  grateful — but  reserved 
respect.  Well,  some  time  since,  when,  as 
you  have  heard,  I came  to  Edinburgh  friend- 
less and  uuknown,  one  warm,  faithful,  earnest 
friend  attached  himself  to  my  cause,  aided 
and  defended  me.  I need  not  tell  you  who 
this  was  : suffice  it  that  such  was  the  case.  I 
was  not  slow  to  observe,  guarded  and  reserved 
as  was  his  respectful  attention,  that  with  him 
a warmer,  closer,  and  more  secret  attachment 
was  growing  and  being  nourished  within 
him.  I do  not  think  he  knew  or  was  willing 
to  know  this  for  some  length  of  time ; but  I 
believe  he  is  no  longer  a stranger  to  his  own 
feelings.  At  one  time  I do  not  hesitate  to 
own  that  the  tender,  delicate  attentions 
which  I received  at  his  hands,  combined 
with  an  overflow  of  grateful  regard  for  his 
generous  and  profitless  aid,  had,  in  some 
degree,  conveyed  a degree  of  tenderness  to 
my  own  regard  for  him.  But  withal,  there 
was  no  deep  interchange  of  sympathies,  and 
one  (you  well  know  who),  meanwhile,  had 
quickly  weaned  me  from  this  momentary 
surrender,  by  enforcing  an  absolute  and  irre- 
sistable  surrender  to  his  own  mysterious 
power  and  control  over  all  my  most  secret 
impulses.  But  with  my  sturdy  friend  it 
was  otherwise ; — his  secret  passion  continued 
to  grow,  and  to  this  day  feeds  upon  pros- 
pective hopes,  which  cannot,  alas ! ever  now 
be  realised. 

What  can  I do  r How  can  I proceed,  to 
spare  so  generous  a friend  a pang,  which, 
one  day  or  other,  I shall  be  condemned  to 


/nflict  upon  him  ? Shall  I unreservedly  own 
my  preference  for  Sylvander  ? Yet  there  is, 
perhaps,  equal  danger  to  our  mutual  peace 
of  mind  in  this.  I cannot,  nevertheless,  bear 
to  practice  a tacit  deception ; I cannot  dis- 
semble an  attachment  which  I do  not  feel, 
and  I shudder  at  the  thought  of  allowing  a 
secret  passion,  so  strong,  so  earnest,  and  so 
apparently  resistless,  to  be  fostered  until 
year3  shall  have  indomitably  confirmed  it. 

* * * * 

• * * * 

The  thought  of  that  parting,  which  is  so 
soon  to  take  place  between  us;  of  the 
distauce  which  is  to  interpose  itself,  and  of 
the  new  associations  which  will  gradually 
wean  away  your  heart  from  me — all  this  will 
return  to  my  mind.  I have  been  endeavour- 
ing to  chase  the  reflection  from  me,  but  in 
vain.  A few.  brief  hours  hence ! I cannot 
bear  it ! May  Heaven  pour  upon  you,  &3 
fully  as  it  is  implored,  the  blessing  of 

— - Clahinda. 


MO.  XVI 

Thursday , Feb.  21  st,  1788. 

My  Dear  Sylvander — Like  yourself 
Clarinda  feels  with  everyone,  and  for  every- 
one. Is  it  not  a strange,  yet  glorious, 
privilege  which  the  heart  possesses,  to 
expand  beyond  the  narrow  limits  of  our  cell 
of  clay,  to  participate  in  the  emotions  of 
other  beings  of  kindred  texture  ? It  cannot 
have  escaped  any  one  of  enlarged  capacities 
for  passion  or  intelligence,  much  less  such 
capacities  as  you  possess  for  both,  that  the 
vitality  comprised  within  the  compass  of 
one  body  is  inadequate  to  its  yearnings. 
Hence,  I imagine,  solitude — that  is,  perfect 
solitude,  is  impossible — and  society,  whether 
actual  or  imaginary,  must  be  created. 

But  there  is  a higher  vocation  for  this 
necessity  of  sympathies ; a gospel  mission, 
which  is  designed  to  contribute  to  the  well- 
being of  mankind.  Did  not  our  Saviour 
preach  that  doctrine  of  sympathies  ? 

It  is,  perhaps,  in  this  sacred  acceptation, 
that  sorrow  and  joy  are  equally  conducive  to 
the  perfection  of  some  Divine  purpose,  and 
that  there  is  a holy  pleasure,  which  I can 
barely  express,  but  most  intensely  feel,  “ to 
weep  with  those  who  weep,  and  be  glad  with 
those  who  rejoice.”  But,  wherefore  tli« 
seeming  contradiction  which,  whilst  my 
greatest  desire  is  to  distribute  blessings  to 
mankind,  seems  to  withhold  the  means  of 
contributing,  even  the  smallest  share,  to 


TO  BU33?9 


m 


to!)  blessing.,  even  if  it  do&s  not  condemn 
me  unwittingly,  and  without  design,  to 
inflict  suffering.  Why  have  I not  means  to 
place  yon  above  the  reach  of  the  contemptible 
malice,  which  springs  from  the  envy  of  those 
who  cannot  match  you,  and  glories  in  the 
alfectcd  superiorities  of  rank  and  fortune. 

If  anything  could  have  made  me  regard 
the  adventitious  vantage  of  circumstances 
with  less  esteem  than  I was  naturally  inclined 
to  do,  it  is  the  comparison  which  vulgar 
minds  would  draw  between  the  splendour  of 
wealth,  and  the  glory  of  virtuous  genius,  to 
the  disparagement  of  the  latter.  It  is  this, 
perhaps,  which  has  more  deeply  impressed 
(Goldsmith’s  immortal  lines  upon  my  mind 
of  late : — 

"In  nature’s  simplest  habits  clad. 

Nor  wealth  nor  power  had  he; 

Genius  and  worth  were  all  he  had* 

But  these  were  all  to  me.” 

They  are  ceaselessly  ringing  in  my  ears. 

I love  Miss  Chalmers  for  her  attachment 
to  you.  But  here,  again,  the  sad  contradic- 
tion, that  those  who  most  appreciate  your 
Coble  character,  and  incomparable  talent, 
itaiM  ha  te&afc  aids  is  place  yoa  in  a posi- 


tion which  should  for  ever  free  yon  fmm 
dependence  upon  the  mean-spirited  world. 

I never  before  sighed  for  the  advantages  of  f 
circumstance.  I do  not  ever  recollect  to 
have  wished  for  wealth  or  grandeur ; but  at 
this  moment,  what  would  I not  give  up  for 
the  means  of  raising  Sylvander  to  that  lofty 
position,  to  which  his  matchless  worth 
entitles  him. 

Yet  I could  almost  quarrel  with  Mary, 
for  her  ardent  admiration  of  him,  even 
whilst  I love  her  the  better  for  it.  Her 
guileless  and  unreserved  expression  of  almost 
adoration,  have  recurred  to  me  an  hundred 
times  through  a wakeful  night ; and,  although 
I well  know  that  she  herself  is  not  conscious 
of  transgressing  the  rights  which  have  been 
asserted  by  Clarinda,  I cannot  help  dreading 
such  passionate  admiration.  She  ha3  been 
gratified  to-day  with  the  appreciation  of 
Mrs.  Cockburn’s  refined  and  acknowledged 
taste,  and  the  praise  of  her  "Henry,”  by 
the  authoress  of  “ I’ve  seen  the  smiling  of 
fortune’s  beguiling,”  has  made  her  as  coirv 
pletely  happy  as  she  appeared  to  have  been 
last  night,  with  the  converse  of  my  Sylvande? 

— if  such  may  he  the  asuaiiaed  claim  of  went 

owa 


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